Spn Imagines

Crowley 8

(Y/N) = Your Name

(Y/S/C) = Your Skin Color

(Y/H/C) = Your Hair Color

(Y/E/C) = Your Hair Color

Imagine being Crowley's punk son/daughter

"Get that metal out of your face!" Your dad shouts in exasperation. You turn your head to look at him, your entirely black eyes glaring.

"Get your head out of your ass." You snap back. "It isn't the seventeenth century, father. Besides, I look great." You say, flicking your head to the side to get your blood red hair out of your face. You really need to get it cut again. The strands aren't supposed to be lower than your perfectly arched eyebrows. Your dad glares at you, and you blow a kiss at him, touching the cold metal on your nose and mouth as you do so.

"I'm your father, and I'm also your ruler. Treat me with some respect or I'm throwing your sorry ass in the pit for a week." Your dad threatens, causing you to roll your eyes. You know that your dad wouldn't do that even if he lost his last nerve with you. Kill you then bring you back? Maybe. But throw you in the pit? Absolutely not. "Besides, you're going to need to be proper for that stupid meeting coming up." You freeze up at that. You whip your entire body around, nearly standing up.

"What?" You ask, very nearly shout.

"You heard me right. You're coming with me to one of my meetings. You're going to be the Queen of Hell when I die for good. Or retire. Either one works for me, really. You'll need to know the figurative hell you're going to have to prepare for that you're going to deal with when you're in charge." Your dad says.

"Dad, what the hell?!" You shout. Your dad snaps his fingers and all your piercings are out. Well, not the one in your tongue.

***

Your dad gave up. He just glares at you throughout the meeting with the promise of pain if you so much as speak out of turn. You scowl and stick your tongue out at him, flashing your fangs and piercing. When your dad's eyes flash red, you scowl and pay attention to the meeting again.