Oh, but this was a DANGEROUS road. Crowley brought his gaze back up to Muriel’s, where they met his stare with a raised chin. The part of himself that he despised was darkly thrilled; it fucking PURRED at the look they cast him, full of confidence and heat—and Crowley didn’t have the strength to chase it away. He inhaled deeply, looking for the comforting scent of raspberries and rum, toasted almonds and a pleasant note of spent gunpowder. The ratios of it were different in Muriel, but close enough to coalesce three years of loneliness into one long, throbbing stream of WANT.
Anyone else enjoy a Crowley who makes Bad Decisions?
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