Ooh, love (there he goes again)

[inlovewithmycar]

WHO: Crowley (inlovewithmycar) & YOU

WHAT: The Bentley has landed.

WHERE: Greenhouse, outside Casa de Gayngel, various

WHEN: Latter half of November, edging into December

WARNINGS: Gratuitous Queen lyrics ahoy. Crowley playing with the forbidden silly putty. Probably some other stuff down the line.

Starters below :3

Comments

[inlovewithmycar]

Morpheus.

[Something about the name - Oh for fuck's sake.]

Hang on a tic.

[Crowley whips out his phone, typing in a quick message to Vanessa, before pocketing it again.]

Anyway. Sand, eh? Like in the song?

[hypnagothic]

[ he watches Crowley pause in what he's doing to bring out his device instead with an air of disinterest, but there's the slightest frown of confusion at the question. ]

Song?

[inlovewithmycar]

Uh.

[Crowley hesitates. There's a little radio inside the greenhouse he took from an electronics shop. The whole thing turned out to be a waste of time; it doesn't play anything but static unless Crowley concentrates really hard, expending constant miracles which is, ultimately, counterproductive to why he's here in the first place. The first few bars to one song, however, shouldn't be to draining.

He clicks his fingers.

The first tinny notes, crackling with static, float from inside the greenhouse. Mister Sandman sings a cheery voice, bring me a dream tonight...]

[hypnagothic]

[ Dream doesn't look away from Crowley even as the music starts to pipe up from the little radio, the stare unwavering as if he's trying to puzzle out how his demonic magic works differently from the other demons he knows.

after several excruciatingly long seconds of staring, he finally glances towards the radio, saving Crowley from his regard. ]

Ah. Yes. That is one of my names, though it is certainly older than this song.

[inlovewithmycar]

Ehh, it's relatively recent.

['Relatively recent' being less than a century old.]

So the whole sand bit is actually a thing, eh? Funny what carries over.

[Then again, he supposes, Death doesn't need a scythe nor War a sword. It's just the way human brains shape these concepts like a collective ball of metaphysical Playdoh.]

[hypnagothic]

It is one of my tools of office. How I create.