Crowley (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
pocketfulofsouls) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
ataraxionlogs2012-03-31 12:15 am
pocketfulofsouls) wrote in ataraxionlogs2012-03-31 12:15 am
One Thing's Trash...
CHARACTERS: Crowley (pocketfulofsouls) and Yoite (maleit)
LOCATION: The communal showers and then other places.
WARNINGS: Trigger warnings for body shame, horror, and humiliation. Will add as they come.
SUMMARY: And the Oxygen Garden thought they were shady.
One thing he can give Tranquility is that life is much simpler aboard the lonely starship. While stress is the key to evolution, it's refreshing to have his concerns rolled down to one pivotal point - himself. Just like the old days, the only thing he has to manage are his own manners while he lives off of the land, so to speak. No more worrying about cleaning up someone else's mess, and at least a little less paranoia regarding who was getting ready to ramrod him as soon as he turned his back. Demons were worse than a pack of dogs when it came to power. Sometimes Crowley just wanted to be irresponsible every once in a while without having to look over his fucking shoulder.
There's an art to making deals, or so Crowley believes. It's not about just speaking well - it's knowing the right things to say. And to know what to say, one needs to know their client, just as a real hunter knows that snaring a rabbit is very different from stalking a lion. It's knowing how to act and adjust, when to push and when to bide. It's knowing how to hurt.
The suicidal want to hate themselves, and everyone wants to be impressed. There is no noise, no footsteps on the tile nor subtle breeze. At one moment, the benches in the towel room are empty. In the next, like the cigarette burn at corner of a film reel, there is a man, or at least the shape of one, sitting upon the closest seat to the hall of shower stalls. Despite the lingering humidity in the communal shower, he is dressed in a full three-piece suit and a dark overcoat. One leg crossed over the other, he waits while the drone of the shower continues on, flickering through the small device that connects the people living within the city-sized tankard.
There is, perhaps, one noticeable difference. For every action, there must be a reaction: the faintest hint of sulphur laces its way through the sweltering atmosphere and lingers.
This business almost seems too easy, really, but while Crowley has his pride, he's also got an eye for opportunity and a healthy sense of reality. Having anything in his pocket aside from a few coins can't be a bad thing at the moment, especially since it's been proven the client in question has at least one skill of use. While he's got power and experience, his situation at the moment is still like trying to work a ball of clay into a fortress. And then there's the fact that he gets to play the game again. One year on Earth and forty in Hell can easily make one miss the trade they'd been mastering for centuries. If you didn't whet a blade every now and then, it didn't remain sharp, and Crowley was nothing if not keen.
pocketfulofsouls) and Yoite (maleit)LOCATION: The communal showers and then other places.
WARNINGS: Trigger warnings for body shame, horror, and humiliation. Will add as they come.
SUMMARY: And the Oxygen Garden thought they were shady.
One thing he can give Tranquility is that life is much simpler aboard the lonely starship. While stress is the key to evolution, it's refreshing to have his concerns rolled down to one pivotal point - himself. Just like the old days, the only thing he has to manage are his own manners while he lives off of the land, so to speak. No more worrying about cleaning up someone else's mess, and at least a little less paranoia regarding who was getting ready to ramrod him as soon as he turned his back. Demons were worse than a pack of dogs when it came to power. Sometimes Crowley just wanted to be irresponsible every once in a while without having to look over his fucking shoulder.
There's an art to making deals, or so Crowley believes. It's not about just speaking well - it's knowing the right things to say. And to know what to say, one needs to know their client, just as a real hunter knows that snaring a rabbit is very different from stalking a lion. It's knowing how to act and adjust, when to push and when to bide. It's knowing how to hurt.
The suicidal want to hate themselves, and everyone wants to be impressed. There is no noise, no footsteps on the tile nor subtle breeze. At one moment, the benches in the towel room are empty. In the next, like the cigarette burn at corner of a film reel, there is a man, or at least the shape of one, sitting upon the closest seat to the hall of shower stalls. Despite the lingering humidity in the communal shower, he is dressed in a full three-piece suit and a dark overcoat. One leg crossed over the other, he waits while the drone of the shower continues on, flickering through the small device that connects the people living within the city-sized tankard.
There is, perhaps, one noticeable difference. For every action, there must be a reaction: the faintest hint of sulphur laces its way through the sweltering atmosphere and lingers.
This business almost seems too easy, really, but while Crowley has his pride, he's also got an eye for opportunity and a healthy sense of reality. Having anything in his pocket aside from a few coins can't be a bad thing at the moment, especially since it's been proven the client in question has at least one skill of use. While he's got power and experience, his situation at the moment is still like trying to work a ball of clay into a fortress. And then there's the fact that he gets to play the game again. One year on Earth and forty in Hell can easily make one miss the trade they'd been mastering for centuries. If you didn't whet a blade every now and then, it didn't remain sharp, and Crowley was nothing if not keen.
no subject
It's a steep price, that's palpable. Troubling. Three years. He'd be nineteen. Compared to the four to six months he'd negotiated with Hattori, it was ages. Compared to the fourteen he'd spent in his veritable cage, it was the blink of an eye. But he could do it. Yoite was sure he could do it. And nobody else on the ship had anything to offer but debates and chastising. He was sick of it.
And there was nothing stopping him from keeping an eye out for other methods in the meantime. Erasure. No Yoite, no deal, after all.
His eyes bat again, but his stature slumps in the slightest. Relieved? It's certainly something. "Fine," is all he offers, one word as he lowers his chin a bit.