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Topics - CROWLEY

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1
Tanglewood / Open ANALOG BOY ➵ waking up
« on: February 01, 2020, 02:42:21 PM »
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Crowley wakes up, and he's not entirely sure where-when-why he is. He feels groggy and confused and aching and alone, and, for a second, he wonders where Aziraphale is. At the bookshop, probably, or maybe -- out there getting himself into trouble somewhere. He thinks that he should probably get up and check.
And then -- Oh, right. Aurum.
It's like a hollow ache. He abandoned Aziraphale, he can't check, and he left Aurum hanging and -- Crowley doesn't need to breathe, probably, maybe, but he breathes in and out and it hurts. He feels too light and too heavy and like the heavenly light had sunk into his very being.
He's a coward. How long had he been sleeping? Weeks, months? He can't tell, he doesn't know. Gaze unfocused, and he just wants to sleep. Sleep, and sleep, and never wake up.
He doesn't. He stares into the middle distance, heavy-light and gaze unfocused, and thinks getupgetup, get up you stupid fucking snake.
He's tired of sleeping. He'd slept a century away, once, and the look on Aziraphale's face had been terrible, and he thinks of Aurum and wants to die (but that's not new).
So he does. He groans, and forces himself to his feet. It's as hard as the last times he'd woken up. But he does, and, blearily, his gaze travels around the room, the room where he'd slept surrounded by plants and flora and, oh -- they've all wilted.
Logically, he knows that plants die and wilt and he'd left them unattended for .. just a few months, it looks like.
There's no miracles that can fix this. He regards them with a dead eye, and he's so tired. Like he's been hollowed out with a rusty scooper. His breaths are shaky.
He has a front to put on later, people to talk to. But right now, at this moment -- he squeezes his eye shut, and he wants to topple them to the ground. Maybe it'd be his natural element, that way -- soil and shattered pottery and death.
He doesn't. He's excruciatingly gentle as he drags them out and he thinks fuck, shit, he's so fucking stupid, and he's being so fucking emo right now what the fuck.
Crowley drops the pot onto the ground, and he has to blink against the first rays of sunlight he's seen in a month and he just wants to leave. He's in the public eye now, and he should be perking up and at least pretending to be the snarky asshole, but he's ... tired.
He sighs, flicks his tail. And then, with the utmost reluctance, turns his attention to the long-dead houseplant. He needs to .. get rid of it, and then he can start again. All over again. And again, and again, because as much attention as he put into them, he never thought about it. He never thought about it before he went on his ridiculous fucking naps.
He refuses to even start, at this point.
Crowley flexes stiff claws, remembers the last time he did something like this. Around winter, maybe? When he'd needed to bring them inside. He hooks his claws into the soil, and, with a contradicting sense of reluctance and .. brutality, he tears the plant out.
And so, rinse and repeat. He's not careful, doesn't care about his image, and it's not long before he's covered with dirt. It's not like it was any worse than the swamp mud, in any case.
God, fuck. He'd gone through quite a bit of effort to get these kinds of plants in this god-forbidden* wasteland, with animals and a complete lack of convenient plant shops. He doesn't know if he can bring himself to bother with going through it again, but, well -- he'll probably have to.
Fuck.
*almost quite literally,
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2
Tanglewood / Open TRAP AND RELEASE ➵ snake
« on: December 04, 2019, 12:17:19 PM »
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Crowley isn't safe.
Crowley hasn't ever been safe. This is true, and it always has been, but now more than ever. He's been ignoring it again. Still paranoid, still ignoring it. Still doubting people. Still doubting himself. He's ignoring his problems, and that's fine. That's fine. Hell's still coming from him, and they aren't gonna stop just cause he escaped once or twice. He's ignoring his problems, and it's killed him before, but that's fine.
Crowley's experienced some ... highs and lows with his injuries. Sometimes his head hurts so bad he can barely see, sometimes he's dizzy and hurting and his insides are burning. Sometimes, it stings, and his head is pounding, or maybe he's a bit out of it. He goes outside during the highs, and, for the most part, that works out fine. For the most part, he hasn't missed out on anything just cause he's feeling bad.
Today's a bit of a low. He hurts, he can't breathe, and he can't stop thinking. Eyes half-lidded, he leans against a wall, and he thinks, and he thinks. He'd been trying not to. He doesn't want to think, and he wants to continue rolling with it, but one his eyes are gone, and he's burning from the inside out.
He's had to think about it since he'd seen Kaz, at the training session. He'd thought there for a second that it was -- them, with the knife. That wasn't entirely fair, their only similarity was being a cheetah, but it was still -- ... He'd been seeing traces. Seeing things, maybe. Maybe he was just being paranoid again. Maybe he was right.
It wasn't exactly paranoia if it was true. It wasn't exactly paranoia if they really were still after him. A traitor, a liar. One of hell's finest demons, who'd never really done anything at all. He lied and lied and claimed he'd done the worst when all he'd done was glue a coin to a sidewalk.
A glimmer of gold.
A glimmer of gold.
He wonders, where did that knife get left?

He finds it. He can't quite recall what happened to it, not immediately. Was it hidden, did it get taken? Did anyone even piece together what'd happened? Didn't matter. He found it eventually. Looking at it alone burns, and he squeezes his eyes tight. White-hot, burning. Cold-hot from the inside out.
Hold it for too long and he might cease to be. A red-spotted serval, no demon left to be found. A husk, no life -- it was made for him, tailored for him. Wasn't anyone without him. Decisions. He needs it. Discorporation alone means nothing to a demon, not one who can come back so easily.
Were Crowley to die, he'd plummet straight to hell. He'd be executed immediately for his crimes. Crowley wasn't strong, or smart, and he had the unfortunate habit of discorporating on a regular basis. Never had Hell been happy about that, but he'd been a good demon, hadn't he? Spanish Inquisition, wars, some of the worst crimes in history? He'd only actually done a quarter of those things he claimed to have, of course -- M25, little, daily inconveniences.
He wasn't a good demon.
Good, bad, demon had always been a defining trait. It hadn't ever occurred to him that it didn't have to be.
This is the dilemma Crowley faces, staring down at white-hot, glimmering, burning gold.
And, very carefully, Crowley reaches for the knife, cradling it in ill-suited paws. A simple slip has him brushing against uncovered gold, and Crowley hisses through his teeth, white-hot burning, cold-hot. Don't panic. He drops it. Checks the damages.
Nothing. Not one singed fur.
A sweep of the tail. Maybe he hadn't held it long enough? He'll burn out if he's not careful, overdoes it, holds it too long, but ... carefully, gently, he presses a paw against the blade. Grits his teeth against the light, the cold burning ache of it leeching into everything that makes him him. A demon can't wield that which is holy.
And yet, when he looks at it, at his paw, there's nothing. Nothing feels missing. It hurts. It hurts.
But that's it.
He's too woozy to question it. Crowley picks up the knife, gold, glittering, heaven-sent gold, and leaves. The brush of gold feels like bursts of electricity, numbing and painful all the same.

Maybe, if Crowley were more like to run to people with his problems, he might've recruited someone to help him. Aurum, most likely, or maybe Snarl. Maybe this would have been better. Maybe the chances of this going sour would've fallen.
Crowley hasn't yet learned when to ask for help. He falls, and he falls, and he falls, and he pushes away the hands that help him. Was it fair, to ask something like that of Aurum? Hold a knife to rotted skin, ask him to protect him if they came back again.
Crowley doesn't want to be protected. He's tired of being weak, and he's tired of being scared. He's a liar, and stubborn, and .. and he'd abandoned Aziraphale. Aziraphale, who had so much faith in Heaven. Who made excuses again and again. Who liked food, and wine, and books. Who trusted easily, and got hurt because of it.
Crowley doesn't think he deserves to be protected, or liked, if he isn't doing anything in kind. If he isn't providing for someone, what does he deserve? Why does he deserve to be their friend? He's selfish, and tolerates things until he doesn't, and he doesn't talk about things, and he doesn't think about things.
It's just Crowley. Crowley and his knife, and his stupid paranoia. He knows they're there. It's just a matter of finding them before they found him.

Crowley's always been good at sleuthing. He'd rescued Aziraphale again and again and again, and it wasn't just because of miracles. Even stumbling over himself, if he wanted to find something, he'd find it eventually. Find the trail. Rotting, burned. Burning sulfur.
Hell-bound demons have a distinct smell, once you get down to it. It wasn't hard. It wasn't hard at all. Heart pounding, aching. He's scared. He's always scared. Behind the end of a knife, he feels no safer. An act, a barrier.
Despite what one may be lead to believe, Crowley wasn't made to hurt. He fell for questions, wrong place wrong time. He was a tempter, he lead them to doubt and he put a solution right in front of people. They didn't have to take it. He didn't want them to, but, well, if they did, was he at fault? For offering a choice?
Free will was a choice, but not one Crowley had ever had.

"Of course you still have it," He finds them. Of course he does. Curled lips, flattened ears. The stench of rotting in the air. They look at him, wild-eyed. Their corporation is falling apart on them, piece by piece. Strings of flesh from their shoulder, maggots feasting. They've been waiting. They've been looking. This whole time. It's not fair. It's not fair. He didn't ask for this, he never had a choice. Humans, these animals, they'd always had a choice. They chose who they wanted to be, they chose their path. Crowley had never had that. An accident. He tripped again and again and again and any mistake lead to his end.
It's not fair.
"Fuck was I ssh'posshed to do, leave it out on a platter for you?"" Crowley sneers past the handle. He can do this. He will do this. And he'll do it again and again and again if he has to. He's not a pawn. He'll take his destiny within his hands and line his own path with its ashes. The cheetah snorts, but a squeal is drawn from their mouth as Crowley advances, head tilted. Gleaming, burning gold. One wrong move, one wrong slice.
He wants to hurt them. He doesn't want to hurt anyone at all.
He wants to be left alone.
"If you think," Deep breaths, steady voice. Intimidating as anything. Crowley isn't as scary as he thinks he is, but he can play a part. Maybe he never wanted to scare anyone worth scaring to begin with. "I'll give in, get burned alive, dragged to hell," He's scared, he's scared, he's so afraid. He wants to be alone. He wants to be his own. He wants Aziraphale back, and he wants to see Aurum. He doesn't want to be here, and he's sick of pretending. "You're wrong," They're wrong, they're wrong, they're wrong. He'll prove them wrong. Grit his teeth over the knife, advance. Crowley has not ever met a demon who wasn't a coward.
Crowley isn't anyone. He's not anyone important, and he's not anyone that they'll ever remember, should they replace him without a thought. He'll make them listen. He'll make them leave. They'll forget, and Crowley will be just another somebody lost to time.
"Sssho listen here." Heart pounding, head spinning, he's barely here. He's acting on instinct, on impulse. He'll do what it takes. Whatever it takes. He's tired, he's so tired. He's so tired of being bossed around and controlled. He's so tired of being afraid, of making excuses for everything he does. For this single moment, he'll admit it -- he's him. "I'm not going back. You're not going to do anything. None of you," He'll make it happen. He'll make it happen. He will. The demon curls its lips, tries to snarl something derisive.
Crowley doesn't want to hear it. They yelp.
"You're going to forget about thiss." He demands, blunt. Inside, he's screaming, screaming, screaming. He so rarely sticks up for himself. He's so rarely fought back. Maybe he won't again. Maybe, maybe, maybe. But .. this once. "Or," Sharp grin, teeth. The gleam of a knife, hot-cold white. It's pressed against their neck, only just. Singing gold, the sent of burning fur.
Demons are cowards, in the end.
"Fine," He gasps, snarling. Pressing a paw to the sting as Crowley draws away, cold. They narrow their eyes at him. "It's not forever. It's not the end." Until they can find out a way to get to him, he means. They're cowards, they're scared. No miracles, new forms. Crowley doesn't respond. Keeps eye contact. It might be genuine, it might not be.
Crowley will be lost to history as a traitor and a liar.
And then, they're gone. Even still, Crowley can't breathe easy. He's not safe, and he never will be.
He'll take his destiny, and he'll, and he'll ...
Deep breaths. Head pounding, vision spinning. Four legs is worse than none. He doesn't want to be here. He's sick of being something else, and he's so afraid, and he's so open. Crowley stumbles, and he walks, and he trips. Farther away from here. Somewhere sunny, and warm, and secluded. Somewhere alone, or maybe not. He's not sure if he wants to be or not.
And, at last .. he trips. And, when he hits the ground, well -- needless to say, there's no serval there. A black and red snake, curled up on the grass. A knife clatters to the ground. Cold, white-hot light.
He's tired. He's so tired. But he did it, maybe. Maybe, maybe, maybe. A shaky breath, and the snake coils into itself, black gleaming scales and block goop dripping from his now-uncovered eye.
Later. Maybe everything will be alright later.

//TL;DR part 3! crowley threatened a demon and may POTENTIALLY be left alone by hell, depending on if i come up w future plots (pensive emoji). he was so worn and exhausted by the experience though that now theres just sorta,,, a snake,,, chillin. with a knife nearby. hes not Immediately placable as crowley if youre not Looking so your char is free to freak out (pensive emoji)
this is TECHNICALLY the final part. again though there is some post-arc stuff.
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3
Tanglewood / Open ALMOST HUMAN ➵ injuries
« on: November 21, 2019, 06:11:33 PM »
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Retribution was always quick, once something crossed hell's radar. Mind, it could take a while for anyone to realize. Hell wasn't quick on the uptake, mind -- too much to do, too much to keep track of. No need to keep an eye on their field agent.
Crowley has been trying not to think about it. They may be quick, but the, frankly, brutal way that Aurum had taken Hastur and Ligur out had him thinking it might take just .. a touch longer. Regardless, he was on edge. Jumping at every noise, every sudden movement. He doesn't think he'd done it in public much yet, thankfully. Crowley's not sure he could take his paranoia just being .. public knowledge.
It'd only been a few days. He wonders what they'd been doing in all that time -- was he the main focus, or not? Crowley thinks it'd be rather delightful if he was, he'd rather like to go out with a bang. Yes, chances are it'd be an undignfied death, but he'd die content that he caused a minor uproar in hell.
This, of course, implies Crowley will die. Crowley isn't sure he is, because he'd thought he was going to last time, too.
In any case. While this is the point, it's not the point.
Crowley's been doing some wandering, lately. He doesn't go far, but he doesn't want to constantly be in the thick of it, either. It's just .. hard to deal with, somehow. The point is, Crowley is wandering. He still aches, just a little. His shoulder and wing are still stiff, but he's been .. trying to deal with it, the more .. human, in a manner of speech, way.
Somehow, when it finally happens, Crowley's paranoia doesn't fail him. It just could've done .. a little better. A snap of a twig. Crowley whirls, half-expecting nothing important, and finds -- a fucking cheetah.
"Interesting choice," Crowley says, edging back. The idea that it may not be a regular, random passerby doesn't even cross his mind, and for good reason. Seriously, how much more ominous can you get? Turn around, and there's this random, edgy cheetah, trying and failing to lurk. For that matter -- they have something strapped to their side.
It was almost like they were making up for their lack of experience by making themselves big, and scary. Crowley isn't impressed, but he's afraid nonetheless.
"I was so close," The cheetah, for their part, looks affronted as they lift a paw to investigate the snap. They promptly wobble, however, and have to put it off. Crowley's ears flatten back, and he shuffles just a little farther back. He can't place who it is directly, but he knows he knows them. They're probably a fucking asshole. Like, even in terms of demons.
"So close, yet so far. Try again another day," Crowley deadpans. He's experiencing a strange mix of emotions -- a weird sort of apathy overlayed over the fucking hurricane of emotions he always seems to have to deal with. It's different, now, but Crowley wouldn't be able to tell you precisely what changed.
Crowley, knowing full well it's inadvisable, turns tail and runs. If he's lucky, the fucker will just trip. Crowley knows at least some of the territory like the back of his hand ... paw .. He's fine. It's fine. Absolutely fucking fine. He can just ... find somewhere to lie low for a bit. Just has to .. vanish.
Unfortunately, this does not happen. There's a strange moment of hesitation, and then the fucker is running after him. They don't trip, but they do catch up, and rather promptly. This is, unfortunately, fairly easy to predict -- servals were fast, but cheetahs were .. what, some two dozen kilometers faster? The serval grunts as the cheetah practically trips over him, both of them tumbling to the ground -- it just so happens that Crowley's being fucking crushed.
"Fffuck," He snarls, wriggling, digging his claws in purposefully as he tries to push himself out from under the bastard.
God dammit. He's so fucking stupid. What the hell. There was a multitude of things he could've done to prevent this, but no, he just had to keep running off, and he just had to take the least sneaky option with a fucking cheetah. A cheetah that was very bad at being a cheetah, but a cheetah nonetheless. The demon doesn't seem phased by this, just reaches for something they'd dropped. It glints gold. Its handle is covered in .. something. Presumably whatever it'd been wrapped in when it'd been strapped to the cheetah's side. A nauseating sense of dread is starting to sink in.
Fuck. Fuckfuckfuckfuck.
The demon turns. Paws very carefully and inefficiently grasped around the protected handle. Gold, goldgoldgold, wings carefully etched into the ceremonial knife. In closer view, Crowley can see the aged, rotting burn wounds covering their paws and face.
"A, Ah," Crowleys says, realizing, trying to sound like those action movie heroes he'd looked up to since they came out. He fails miserably, but he gives himself points for trying. "You're the smug one, aren't you? The one everyone hates," They'd made a hobby of stealing angelic weapons. Most of them were pretty shit, not everyone had a flaming sword, but they were certainly effective against demons in some way or another. The bastard was smug about it though -- barely shut up about it. Would make sense to employ them for what basically accounted for a fucking hit.
Fucking Greg.*
*crowley wouldn't be able to tell you if greg was ACTUALLY their name, because crowley didn't care, but that's certainly what he was called in some circles.
Shit. Fuck. This sucked -- quick and efficient, right? Less time for anybody to show up to help. Smart, but .. maybe not enough.
He needed the knife. He needed to get the knife. They'd probably hesitate to try again if he had a knife? Right?? Right???? Oh fuck.
"I'd say they're jealous, but yes," Ah, yes, bastard syndrome. Greg has mostly gotten off of him, absolutely not in position to stab him from where he is. They both know that Crowley can't run -- the serval's tail lashes, eyes flickering over the cheetah's face, reading.
Think about it. Think about it. He ran away, he was always evasive. He's always evasive. All except for his first attack on Hastur, or Ligur, who was it? Except for that, he was just responding. He thinks -- he can barely remember the whole thing. They wouldn't expect him to just go for it, would they? He's not sure.
Try anyways. What's the worst thing that could happen, he gets fucking stabbed? Crowley might've laughed at this, but it's, unfortunately, not particularly funny.
The cheetah has switched the knife to their mouth. Apparently, they'd realized that there's no strength in their paws. This is a problem, but he can work with it. Knock it out. Distract them. Break for it. Deep breaths -- he doesn't need them, but it makes it easier to focus when his mind is going at a hundred miles an hour.
He wriggles, subtly getting into position while the cheetah struggles to figure out how one stabs with their head. It kind of ruins the vibe of the whole murder, to be honest, but Crowley's not complaining. Deep breaths. Go.
He pushes off, immediately going for the shoulder -- sink his claws in, hang on. Loop his legs around the neck, hang on, don't fall, don't fall, don't fall. This is not a particularly ideal position for knife-stealing, but it's something. The cheetah, startled and infuriated, tightens their grip around the knife, trying to back up.
They can't just shake him off, or even shove him. They don't have the balance to do so. They'd wobbled just lifting a paw up. They're stumbling under the extra weight even now. Crowley might've considered grinning, but he can't.
Deep breaths. This might hurt if he slips up, it's going to hurt a lot. He can take it, it's fine, it's fine.
The metal is practically creaking under the tension of the cheetah's teeth. It's not, not really, but it would be.
Deep breaths.
Deep breaths.
They're headed for a tree. No problem. Not at all. This is fine. Absolutely fine. Crowley, with all the grace of a plummeting dog, practically falls over the cheetah's face, claws scrabbling over what knife he could reach until -- there. He barely notices the hellish** burning until he hits the ground. Don't focus on it. Don't focus on it. Please don't.
It feels sort of like the color white does. There's probably a phrase for that that he can't remember.
**heavenly?
"Smarter than you look," The cheetah says, recovering faster than Crowley did. To be fair, they hadn't gotten burned. Or fallen to the ground. Hadn't gotten his eye scratched up from broken sunglasses, either. The handle-cover on the knife is loose, but still fastened.
"How dare you accuse me of being smart," Crowley says, dazed and struggling to pull himself together. It hadn't been that smart of a plan -- spectacularly stupid, in fact, so he has no fucking idea why the guy is saying that.
"I'm going to enjoy this," They're grinning. Crowley really doesn't appreciate this, but before he can get up, there's a paw crushing him to the ground. Shit. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Where's Aurum when you need him, huh? Greg is still struggling to figure out how knives work without hands. "I haven't actually used this one yet, y'know?" They might've seemed genuine, maybe even friendly, if there weren't a certain glint in their eyes. And also the fact that they're pick up a knife.
Crowley braces himself. He's like, what, half of the guy's size? That's enough, isn't it? He just .. he just has to make a bit of a sacrifice, that's all. His breath shudders. Take it. Take it. His paws are burning, white hot. He subtly shifts his weight, subtly positions his paws.
Their face draws near. Carefully positioned at Crowley's .. eye. Was this torture, or was he going to slice through Crowley's head like fucking butter? Very, very carefully, the cheetah positions the knife. His fur is singeing, skin burning as the fur gives way. One, two, three. One, two, three.
Very carefully, Crowley does not close his eyes, meets the cheetah's eyes. One, two, three.
Crowley shoves his paws against the cheetah's upper leg. Greg gives an embarrassing squeak, concentration broken. They hadn't been focusing on their balance. They tumble sideways. Crowley doesn't even notice when their weight clips him -- it's agonizing. White-hot, in the way lava must feel. He can't see, he can't see, it's all black, but it feels white, and gold, and it's dizzying. He can't think. He can't think, it hurts.
He doesn't know if he cried out or not.
So don't think. Don't cry. Get out of there, get out of there -- he needed something. He needed something. He chokes on his own breath, stumbles to his paws. Something, something, something -- think. There's something sliding down from his cheek.
The knife. The knife -- it's hard to register, but Greg is hissing in pain, too. A flash of blood around their cheek, a spreading burn. They'd fallen on it. It's lying on the ground.
The knife. Get the knife. Don't think. He doesn't need to.
Crowley lunges for it. The demon's head whirls around, sees him moments too late. His breath comes in gasps, but he grabs it.
"Dont," He wheezes around the knife. It hurts. It hurts. He's been through it all, but it hasn't hurt like this. "Don't, don't, don't --" He's not sobbing. There's no tears, he's not sobbing. It hurts. Part of him wants to hurt Greg, or whatever the fuck their name is, too. He doesn't know what he's trying to say.
So he does. The cheetah's reflexes are slowed, half of their cheek taken out. Crowley only does it because they'll follow him. They can't. They won't. A threat. So he nicks them on the shoulder, following a line to their chest. Greg howls.
It wasn't even that deep. Crowley wheezes, and kicks them for effect. It's not strong in the least, but Greg wobbles anyways.
Crowley runs. He stumbles, for the first few steps, before righting himself -- he has to go somewhere. Where's he going? He's not safe, he's not safe, he's not safe. It hurts.
Aurum? Crowley doesn't know where Aurum is. There's a cold press of metal against his cheek, white-hot, slowly spreading. Crowley barely registers it. What happened to his eye? It got cut. It got cut, he knows, but it hurts.
To be entirely honest, the very concept of finding any of the medics barely occurs to him. Crowley had barely even met any of them in his goddamn life, and it doesn't know, when he's panicked and it hurts. Like a blight on his entirely fucking being. His immortal goddamn soul. Fuck. Fuck.
So he keeps running. He's not safe, and he might never be, but he -- needs to get home. Is it home? It's somewhere. He didn't go far. .. He's not leading the bastard there, is he? ... It's fine. It's fine. Distracted -- hurt. Could probably handle it anyways. Not Crowley specifically, but .. somebody.
He barely notices when he's almost arrived. Crowley stumbles to a halt as buildings come into sight -- and he goes no farther. How close are they? Hard to tell, but not far. He's lost momentum. He's tired. He's tired.
He drops the knife. His breath catches. It burns, he burns, he's fine. Absolutely fine. His right cheek is fucking soaking with whatever is dripping, too thick for proper blood, and it hurts. He's fine. Just needs to rest. He can just .. leave it here, right? He can walk there?
Crowley doesn't. He wheezes, half-falling into the mud as he sits down heavily. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. It's fine. He's fine. He's not fine, but he will be.



//part 2! just one more to go! (though act 3 is a bit redundant at this point shfkjsdf)
UH. BASICALLY. crowley got Actually hurt this time. hes just sorta, chillin somewhere outside the town with a goddamn Knife. his left paw is burnt, along w a bunch of his left check, and his right eye is like,, fuckdt. basically turned to Goo. the area around it is also burnt pretty badly. worth noting, no you Cant stop the eye bleeding its like this Forever now.
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4
Tanglewood / Open GET DISOWNED ➵ fight
« on: November 16, 2019, 08:55:21 PM »
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It's over.
Crowley shies away, useless heart thudding in his chest as thick black blood slides down his cheek. The sting barely catches his attention, despite the shock of it.
"Enough is enough," Hastur snarls, teeth bared. The lynx's fur is matted and covered with maggots. Crowley's lip curls. Enough -- it'd been, what, two, three months? Hardly a flicker in his immortal's life, technically, but it'd been .. nice. it'd been nice.
"I'm honestly surprised it took you this long," Crowley snarks, because he is. He'd, what, stolen some important files? Run away? That was reason enough to come come chasing after him as soon as possible, nevermind that he'd put the files back. His gaze refuses to settle on either of the duo, mind racing for a solution far too quickly for him to settle on one.
Maybe, it's because there isn't one.
Under normal circumstances, Crowley would never have been able to match up to either of them. He wasn't a particularly powerful demon, after all. Just one of many lower ranked demons. .. Mind, under normal circumstances. It's a hopeless plan. It's a terrible, horrible plan.
It's the only one he's got.
"And you'll be paying for every extra hour," Crowley isn't surprised the bastard had jumped at the chance to have a hand in his .. execution, probably. His slow, gruesome execution. He doesn't doubt that they must've dug up some dirt in his absence.
You see, the thing about lying about nearly every portion of your life to your superiors was that, even if they didn't really get to the meat of it, there was still so very much to hold against him if you looked for only a moment.
"I, uh. Hm. I see," Crowley smiles thinly, a sliver of fang slipping out of his jaws. All or nothing. All or nothing. This is it.
He doesn't want to go back.
What's a little more rebellion, in the grand scheme of things? At least then he can be dragged down to hell having fought back. For the first time in his goddamn life.
"I ... don't think I am, actually," His tail lashes. He's not thinking about Aziraphale, or the Tanglers, or, or .. anyone at all. He's not going back, because he doesn't want to, and he's sick of it. He's sick of it. He's done with it.
This is it.
Things happen very quickly. Ligur starts to say something, stepping towards him but Crowley's catapulted himself into the wolf's chest before any words can registered. Ligur yelps, losing balance and tumbling to the ground. It's his own fault -- it's not Crowley's fault that he'd probably only had this form for, what, a few hours at most?
You see. When Crowley said normal circumstances -- well. He'd been a serval for much longer than they'd been a lynx and a wolf, and he'd gone without miracles for much longer than them. This was a purely physical fight. What Crowley lacked in size and strength and ... ability, he made up for in familiarity.
Hastur is tripping over himself. Crowley scrabbles against .. whatever surface he's on, Ligur, or maybe just the ground, and sinks his teeth into the wolf's shoulder. The revolting taste of demonic blood floods his mouth.
Crowley has never been more thankful that his sense of taste is so dull.
Hastur is a fucking idiot. The lynx digs his claws around Crowley's chest, trying to yank him off, and both of them slam into the ground as he loses balance. Ligur is on his paws in a moment.
Crowley is so fucked. Crowley is so fucked. His only strategy here is to keep them separated, and he needs a second of distraction. Just one.
Crowley tears his claws down Hastur's face and, quick as a flash, is back on his paws. He feels dizzy, and afraid, and it's impossible, but he wants to get out of here. Ligur's there, and he's put too much weight into his lunge, and he stumbles. Crowley hisses regardless, feeling the dizzying dig of Ligur's teeth. He's not in a position to fight. He doesn't know how to fight, not really -- not in a humanoid form, not in his demonic form, and certainly not now. He's fucked. He's fucked. He's fucked.
Crowley, though part his shoulderblades are otherwise occupied being bitten, desperately swipes at the wolf until a lucky shot -- where? The neck? He doesn't know -- has the black wolf reeling. Crowley scrabbles back, but doesn't get a chance to reorient himself before he's back on the ground.
Again.
None of them know how to fight like this, after all -- knocking them down seemed to be the agreed upon safe option.
"You," Hastur snarls. Disoriented, Crowley worries that he's going to have maggots on him, and in his wounds, and maybe there's something wrong with Hastur's corporation, because he's practically foaming at the mouth. "Are going to regret this,"
"Ngh," He feels like a fucking marshmallow. His brain was replaced with a marshmallow. "Yeah," He agrees, miserable. He can salvage this. He can. He just -- squeeze his eyes shut, wriggle a bit, and close. A strange noise emerges from Hastur's throat as he's launched off of Crowley's form, and Crowley tries not to wince at the blossoming ache in his wings. Wings had terribly powerful muscles, after all, and it'd be .. difficult, to push Hastur off with an injured leg, wouldn't it?
Crowley catapults to his feet as quickly as he can, shying away from his superiors as he shakes out his wing. He's covered in mud, and probably a few maggots, he's not sure, it's hard to focus. It's a rather hopeless situation, he thinks. He's not exactly .. meant for this. The only reason he's made it this far is because they're all shit at fighting, and he's managed to keep them from double teaming him properly.
All in all ... not the dream scenario.

//part 1!!
tl;dr crowley told his superiors to Fuck off and is now Kind Of Cornered. powerplay is, in fact, allowed on them, feel free to chase them off!
anyways crowleys pretty much fine, just pretty disoriented from panic and also falling to the ground like 5 times cause theyre all idiots
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5
Tanglewood / Open cold months ➵ bringing plants in
« on: November 12, 2019, 03:51:07 PM »
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Crowley was more of an .. indoor plants type of person. There hadn't exactly been space for outdoor plants when he'd been living in a London flat, and Crowley wouldn't have felt up for it even so. They didn't deserve such luxury. ... As was now, though ... well. He had the space, didn't he? A probably irradiated space, but space nonetheless. Crowley was always open to trying new things. So .. he had, and had been very thankful his gardening activities had been so thoroughly overlooked since he was first bringing houseplants home.
.. Listen, just because he was getting better at talking about himself didn't mean he didn't enjoy being overlooked, still. He could usually accept gathering some attention, but it was taking some work.
In any case. He'd planted some plants outside of his residence, neatly tucked away from view. For the most part, anyways. Some of them kept in their pots, but some planted in the soil. Those were .. a little different from his usual fare.
Anyways. It was getting colder. Crowley was not excited about it by any stretch, not least because he'd have to relocate his plants. It wouldn't do to abandon them to the cold, after all. So .. he'd prepared his plant room. Expanded it a little, got it ready for winter. Now all that was left to move them inside.
... Crowley stares at the green plants bleakly. The pots hadn't been too bad, except for his lack of available arms or legs.  He'd left them in front of his door to deal with later. A few empty ones have been left nearby for him to move those left into. He'll have to dig them up to put them in, though. A spade, or should he use his paws, he wonders? He taps a paw against the ground, before realizing he doesn't even have opposable thumbs.
That solves one problem. He continues staring. Then, finally, he sighs. He's already filthy, it's not like it matters. He'll just .. have to be careful about the roots.
So, he sets to work. He leaves a wide gap between the dig circle and the plant stalk as he claws into the dirt*. He, very rapidly, gets covered in dirt, pressed so low to see the roots as he is.
"Be grateful I'm not leaving you out to die," He hisses to the shaking plant as he finally unearths it, unharmed. It is ... strangely exhausting. He hadn't really gotten tired, when he was still connected to hell's energy. And he still didn't need to .. sleep or eat or anything, but apparently he got tired now.
Worrying.
*do felines usually dig? crowley doesn't actually know, he hadn't bothered to learn anything about servals before becoming one.
Crowley, very carefully, lifts up the plant in his paws. He steadfast ignores the dirt on his chest and legs in favor of awkwardly wriggling towards the pot, unable to use his upper half. It's the least dignified he's ever looked, and he spreads his wings to help him keep balance, at the cost of his feathers. He unceremoniously dumps it into the pot. If it knows what's good for it, there won't be anything wrong with it. He checks the leaves frequently, anyways.
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6
Tanglewood / Open catch the sun ➵ flight,, attempt
« on: November 05, 2019, 01:41:56 PM »
all you've ever done is been a noose to hang on to — 。+゚.
Wings half-spread, feathers catching the wind. He hasn't jumped yet, and he hesitates to. Crowley paces along his perch, awkwardly spinning around each time he reaches the edge. He'd found the largest tree he could just for this purpose. It wasn't a particularly good good purpose, mind, but that was .. fine. Crowley was just stupid, and he did stupid things, and this was fine with him. Usually. He probably wouldn't admit it out loud if he could help it. Crowley may not have a reputation*, but that didn't mean he couldn't have some dignity. Crowley dreads the day he has to give that up.
*or at least the one he wanted.*
*pretended to want.

Mind, Crowley doesn't do this particularly often. It's not .. smart, and the results never change. Crowley is a demons, and demons can't fly**. Crowley will always be a demon. It's not something you can come back from. Crowley will always be flightless, and, presumably, he'll always be launching myself off of tall things whenever he thinks too hard on the whole flightless thing. Which, like -- there were quite a lot of flight related things here, wasn't there? Feza's attempt at a lesson, and then Snarl quizzing him, and the sheer number of Tanglers who had wings.
**not any that crowley knows, anyways
He hasn't proved it yet, and it's kind of strange to consider, because they're not built for flight, but Crowley's pretty sure most of them can fly. It's just .. him. And it's been bugging him, and now he's here.
It's fine. It's not like it'll kill him or anything. Okay, yeah, maybe it'd be a bit nasty if he didn't get any catch, but the point still stands. And there will be catch.
He stops pacing. He's left his sunglasses somewhere against the tree -- one of the first times he's had his eyes visible since he came here, to be entirely honest. He can't exactly replace or fix them, now that he doesn't have miracles, and Crowley likes them. For all his skills in finding things, he's not sure he'll find a pair that covers his eyes from the side too.
This isn't the point, and he's stalling. Crowley edges along the edge of the branch, front claws hooked more around the side than the front. He takes a deep breath, spreads his wings. His chest feels tight. He doesn't want to, because he knows how this will end, but he knows that he needs to, too. He tenses, wings spreading fully now. Another pause, and then he pushes himself off.
And, for a good few moments, they catch. It's been six thousand years since he could fly, but he still knows the motions, like riding a bicycle after a long time. Except if, like, the bicycle was broken.
Just like that, the illusion is broken. Crowley, if it didn't happen so quickly, might have winced as gravity reclaimed him. It's not a graceless, uncontrolled descent. It's quick, but just because he can't fly doesn't mean his wings don't fucking work. The beat of his wings are fruitless, except in keeping him from breaking his fucking weak, mortal bones in a terrible, cheap rendition of the Fall. Crowley plummets to the ground, forward-first. He grunts, feeling the flash of pain as he skids across the ground.
He lays there for a long moment, feeling .. numb, almost. It's not a relief, to have gotten it out of the way. He's scraped, and bruised, and the numbness is morphing into .. something. He's fucking upset. He'll admit it -- who the hell's going to find him out here? ... With his luck, somebody, but this isn't the fucking point. Frustration bubbling in his chest, the serval yanks his wings back in, and pulls in his legs, no longer sprawling. "Fucking dammit," He snarls, teeth bared, voice down. It aches, in the way of something that was important but can never be reclaimed. Just within arm's reach. He's fucking sick of this. "What did you fucking think would happen, anyways?" His voice raises, just a touch. There was no catharsis, and he's just left sitting on the fucking ground, nothing gained. God fucking dammit. He thought it'd help. His breath rattles. He lays his head down, and covers his snout with a paw. It's fine. Fuck.
//tl;dr crowley cant fly but hes an idiot so he just jumped out of a tree and is having Emotions about it
hes fine just kind of banged up

7
Tanglewood / Open you can leave it all behind ➵ pplants ...
« on: September 07, 2019, 02:51:21 AM »
all you've ever done is been a noose to hang on to — 。+゚.
The thing about Running Away From Everything You've Ever Known on a whim is that it's a stupid move. By this point, Crowley is used to doing stupid, dramatic things, but still finds himself distressed when he realizes he'd left his fucking plants to die back at home. One would probably not presume Crowley to be the plant-tending type, but he was, and he screamed at them, and he was also very invested in their wellbeing, for better or worse.*
*Crowley would probably say for worse. He never actually killed the underperforming plants like he intended to, and found himself, unfortunately, gratified whenever they came back to recovery. Which was not very demonic of him.
Crowley finds himself with a great, put-on sigh. Crowley, for whatever reason, wasn't able to miracle his plants to him. Which meant he couldn't retrieve his old plants. So he'd just have to replace them. Now, under normal circumstances, one would find it difficult to find potted plants ... anywhere, honestly. People tended to prefer the herbalistic type of garden. Crowley understood that, but Crowley didn't give a damn about healing.** And, in any cases, normal circumstances happened to other people.
*Crowley did, in fact, give a damn. Crowley is a liar. And, as a matter of fact, is fairly well informed on medical practices.
Now, a small wagon is probably rather undignified of Crowley. It didn't even go over the mud very well. Crowley is nothing but determined, head low as he stalks through the town, desperately hoping not to be spotted. Plant-tending wasn't a hobby Crowley tended to show off. It was just -- who the hell would look at Crowley, edgelord-asshole that he most definitely was, and would be like, oh, he fusses over useless houseplants. That makes sense.
Expecting to remain unnoticed*, Crowley inclines his head towards the wagon of plants. Once upon a time, Crowley had heard that talking to plants helped them grow. As usual, Crowley had his own take on that.
*Reality happened to like Crowley enough to bend to his will. Reality, as it happens, did not function as usual here.
"I probably shouldn't have expected much, but you lot are a bit on the small side," The serval says sourly, wings rustling against his back. And it was true, Crowley hadn't expected a lot from the Plants From An Unknown Source. But they were kind of sad, and wilty. Crowley finds them somewhat pathetic, but they were the best he could get his paws on in a short notice. Short notice being half a day. "You better keep an eye on that. Under-performers aren't welcome here," There's a threat somewhere in that difficult to parse sentence. Crowley himself isn't quite sure what the threat is -- in his long career as a plant caretaker, he's never actually killed one since his early attempts. Unintentionally or otherwise.

8
Biographies / Animal FREEFALL ➵ crowley's storage
« on: September 05, 2019, 08:20:31 AM »
crowley
I. tags. / called to the devil
II. bio. / and the devil did come
III. timeline. / said to the devil
IV. art. / "devil do you like drums?
V. icons. / do you like cigarettes, dominoes, rum?"
(c) guppy

9
Tanglewood / Open half of heaven * joiner
« on: September 04, 2019, 07:49:09 PM »
//(chanting) im a basic bastard and i have NO SHAME
mobile!! (hence the super temp profile work lol)
Crowley couldn't precisely explain why he was here. Not officially, anyways. Downstairs hadn't told given him any orders to --  not that he'd be this involved if they had. And though it'd be impossibly easy to start enough drama to get some sort of commendation, he couldn't say he found the idea that appealing. He was hardly a proper demon in this way. He'd be found frequently causing minor chaos, and stopping far short of whatever the hell his demonic coworkers were doing. It helped that he got a lot of leeway from the wars and such he had supposedly caused. Not that he had a single paw involved in any of them -- it was hardly undemonic to lie, at least?
This is not the point. The point is, Crowley scared Aziraphale off again, and he's not sure how much back and forth he can take before he loses his mind. There's only so many times you can be spun on a merry-go-round of Aziraphale's alternating affection and .. resentment? No, not that, but something.
Aziraphale likes him, Crowley is sure of that much. He's happy to give Aziraphale his space, too -- it was hard for an angel to be friends with a demon, what with all that propaganda, he's sure.
So maybe it's just ... look. These places are sort of like ... no-go zones. He's heard of Heaven and Hell sending agents a couple of times, before ultimately just .. dropping it like some sort of goddamn hot potato. It was fascinating. Mysteries were like catnip to this particular demon, and, anyways, Aziraphale wouldn't think to find him here, which is sort of a double-edged blade, but it means he'll get a wonderful sulk while it lasts.
It's just a question of whether it's worth it. The mud here is particularly resistant -- unlike his plants, they stubbornly refuse to listen to what he tells it, and remains stubbornly stuck to his paws.
He just had to choose the filthiest place, didn't he? Now, Crowley has never been accused of being consistent or whatever the better word is, but even so he feels disinclined to back out. He's fucking done with pirates, and blood-ridden edgelords, or whatever. So the swamp hermits it was.
*Crowley had been a pirate for a good while, ages back. It didn't live up to the hype.
"Does anybody actually live here?" Crowley shouts sourly, fully expecting somebody to be listening. His tail, resembling its domestic counterpart's more than a serval's, twitches behind him. He wishes he could sleep for a fucking century again, but Aziraphale had made him promise. "Don't answer that. I'm looking to join." He lowers his voice to sit back on his haunches.
He hopes it'll be worth it and whatever it was Heaven and Hell were avoiding didn't come to bite him in the ass.*
*It would.

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'BEASTS OF BEYOND + an ability-based animal roleplay In Dire Straits: Awoo BIANDRI: fantasy canine rpg RPGfix