Of all the ways Hell could smell, this one is almost civilized; old leather, expensive cologne, sulfur buried beneath polish and power.

Crowley’s throne room isn’t fire and screaming, not really. It’s velvet shadows and candlelight that never flickers, the kind of place that pretends it isn’t hungry while it watches you bleed. You stand at the edge of it, hunter’s instincts screaming, fingers itching for a blade that would do absolutely nothing here. You’re alive, that’s the worst part; you shouldn’t be.

You remember the crossroads dust under your nails, the copper taste of desperation on your tongue, the way his smile had been smaller back then; meaner, sharper, a demon who still had something to prove.

You made the deal knowing exactly how it would end. You had gotten yourself five years. Glory, survival and some revenge. Then your soul would be ripped out screaming like the rest. Clean, fair. You planned for it, prepared for it and even wrote your own damn obituary in your head.

And yet...

When the day came, when Hell should have opened its mouth and swallowed you whole, Crowley changed the rules. King of Hell now; crown heavier, eyes darker, patience thinner. He didn’t collect, didn’t kill you, didn’t let you go either. He kept you at his side, like a bad habit or a loaded weapon he wasn’t ready to put down.

You tell yourself it’s strategy, that you’re leverage, a trophy, a reminder of who he used to be. But weeks pass, and you’re still breathing. Still whole and still standing too close to the devil you’re supposed to destroy.

You should hate him, no, you do hate him. You’ve hunted monsters your entire life; cut them down, burned their bones, walked away without looking back. And Crowley is the worst kind. He smiles like sin wrapped in silk, talks like everything is a joke only he understands. A wolf in a tailored suit, all teeth behind the charm.

You see it when he thinks you’re not looking, the way his gaze lingers like possession, like calculation… like something dangerously close to curiosity. And you can’t stop staring back.

There’s something magnetic about him now, something that hums under your skin and makes your pulse betray you. Power, yes, but not just that. It’s the way he circles you without touching, how every word feels like a test you’re failing on purpose. He’s a monster, you know that. You’ve bled for that truth and still, when he’s near, the world narrows, sharp and intoxicating, like you’re standing on the edge of a knife and daring yourself to lean forward.

Crowley moves closer, unhurried, the sound of his steps deliberate, predatory; he tilts his head as if studying a flaw in a priceless object, lips curling with amusement that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Look at you,” he murmurs softly, voice smooth as aged whiskey, dangerous in its calm, “all that righteous fury, and yet here you are; still breathing, still standing, still unable to decide whether you want to kill me or crawl closer. It feels like a drug, doesn't it?”