𝓭𝘦͟𝘷͟𝘪͟𝘭'𝘴 　　 𝒕𝘰𝘯𝘨𝘶𝘦.

“it doesn’t hurt any,” he softly attempts coaxing, smile etched along comely features. his hand rubs soothingly along the expanse of her back, nuzzling into her palm. “you never know if it’ll work or not.”

there’s a slow curl to his lips at the shyness, but he finds himself leaning into that soft caress. a small moment to soak in the touch before figure tips closer, nearly nose to nose. “next time, you should try praying to me. i might get here faster that way.”

“you’ll find out.” one hand rests upon the small of her back, other extremity catching hers. guiding it to his visage, he gently connects cheek to palm, gaze tracing along her features. “how much?”

limbs coil around her middle, a faint smile upon lips. “hello, little lamb.”

… suspicious squinting.

it’s what 𝒃𝒐𝒓𝒆𝒅 kings do.

does it bite?

right . . . lying to a liar is hardly the smartest thing the hunter’s done to date.

the demon’s been known to be very funny. at least this way he can handle that stench of his.

oh, did he hit where it hurts?

it’s in his blood, one might say.

hardly. pinches nose, peering smugly at the other.

so his only choices are to read a biography or irritate the winchester? it’s clear which option he’s going to choose.

reminders are too fun not to give.

he’s heard worse? ew. and what sort of ‘person’ is he, sam?

eye twitch. don’t take having a particular 𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒏𝒄𝒉 as a compliment.

disgust evident on features. keep that winchester stink far away from him.

delicate wrinkle of nose. not another winchester.

a low groan as he stretches limbs, lounging contentedly. the king has returned.