also dropping this: do bad things to me / do bad things to you (both or whichever you're feeling tbh!)
new meme collection who dis?
Oh darling—no one can ruin you like I can. Promise. Because truthfully (and this is just between the two of us), although I very easily could do unspeakable things to leave you screaming my name, if I got my hands on you my way, I’d mark you up in all the ways you’re terrified to admit you want. Martyrdom, masochism—it all bleeds together after a while if it bleeds at all, doesn’t it? But I want you to remember me, buddy boy. I want to be the only thought behind those baby blues from the moment we come together to the moment we part. No more WINCHESTERS, no more HEAVEN, no more HELL, just CROWLEY and the things he makes you feel even though you shouldn’t.
So giving. It’s about time someone else did that but for you. I could take you apart atom by atom if that’s the game you wanted to play, but I know you better. So. No cuffs. No ropes. No seals. Not even a chain or two. No restraints—no way to bluff or pretend you don’t want this. Just you being a good little pet and lying still for me as I devour every inch of you, inside and out. We can save the kinky stuff for later (and believe me, luv, no one’s catalogue of filth comes anywhere near the depths of my carnal depravity), the first time we really do this is going to be nothing short of sublimely human. Tracing your scars with my tongue. Touching you as I just breathe for a moment in your ear, remind you whose bed you’ve fallen into. I can edge you for hours—and I will. I want every spare centimeter of you committed to my memory before we get anywhere NEAR the climax of our little tryst. I want you to cum from my tongue and mouth and hands alone. You ever been rimmed before, Cassie? I’ll leaving you seeing stars even if you have. I’m going to etch my lowly little name into every crevice of your grace and then I’m going to work you over two or three more times to make sure the engraving sticks. I’m going to leave you a mess—and the worst part, darling, is that I’m not going to leave you. You’ll have to decide on your own to go back to those putrid, pathetic excuses for failed heroes, and you’ll have to live with the thought every time you see me thereafter not only of our sweltering night of shared passion…but of the fact that the door’s open and you only need to walk in. How many times do you think you’ll really be in and out? I give you four, maybe five, before I weasel myself the rest of the way in and force you to face your own miserable abuse. And what then? Back to the Impala, the Bunker, the Boys?
But by all means, stop me if I’m wrong.
As for reversing the positions, angel mine, allow me to be perfectly candid: just getting you in my bed is victory enough to keep me high for months on end. Call me a hopeless romantic, perhaps; one of my notably few fatal flaws.
(And even so, Crowley can imagine the positions reversed, albeit with far more theatrics: relinquishing anything doesn’t come easily to him, let alone control. But those piercing blue eyes softened for him, prayerful tongue laving over his body, hot whispered praise pouring over his weak, almost trivial protestations; it’s a fantasy he’ll never cop to, but one that really tops the charts when the usual images of hard usage aren’t quite cutting it. A facsimile of love imperfectly writ between one who can no longer feel it and one who perhaps never will, a certain poetry he can’t deny. It’s a beautiful ache where it sits too low in the center-left of his chest.)
