Work Text:
Crowley is the guardian of clubs.
He protects the sinners, the dancers, the drinkers and watches them-he downs vodka and rum and gin and brandy, watching, waiting, and protecting. When a woman goes to the bathroom, he patiently waits for her to return safely to her friend group. When a young man vanishes from the bar for too long, he seeks them out and guides them back to the club and calls them a taxi.
Dressed in a shimmery red dress and killer black lipstick, Crowley consoles the crying woman in the stall and offers the young lady tissues and crackers from her purse. Crowley fixes her makeup, straightens her outfit all while assuring her yes, she is worthy of love and should not let one bad breakup keep her from dancing like nobody's watching.
He holds the gentleman behind the bar in wings blacker than night, still speckled with hazy galaxies while he hiccups into his chest, fearful about his future with his friends, family, lover. Crowley mumbles praise to him for getting this far, voice tinged with just the softest sin of sloth to grant him rest.
Crowley is wary of those who he does not recognize in clubs, in bars, in pubs. He stalks them without them knowing, snake eyes flickering over the duct tape, the pills, the disposable phone concealed in their pockets.
He tempts them. He tempts them to dance with the sultry and ditzy redhead whos already had a few too many and leads them outside, stumbling and confused. He strikes them with inhuman force and they wake up the next day, a cold an unknown fear gripping their very souls.
Crowley loves the sin and lust that fills dance halls, the gyrating bodies and whispered promise between lovers of an even happier evening to come. He does the best he can to bless them, in the sinful way only a demon can and wishes them the sweetest kisses, softest caresses and swiftest rest afterward.