"No," Crowley says, very deliberately. "Fuck you."
Crowley reaches out a hand and presses his finger to the man's forehead.
He has no desire to actually hurt him, of course. No punches or hits because that's--well, that's messy, isn't it? It's very human. Crowley is, above all things, not a fighter. He's not going to injure or maim someone because it's cruel and he's not cruel. He's not about to throw a bolt of Hellfire at some poor human's face because he's a sack of shit, is he?
No, Crowley uses his imagination.
He imagines a line of fear going straight from his demonic core into the man's head. Something deep, something immensely frightening and personal. The man can pick the form himself, he can pick what he sees and how he feels it, but Crowley will become it, he'll stand there over the man, hovering at him.
no subject
Crowley reaches out a hand and presses his finger to the man's forehead.
He has no desire to actually hurt him, of course. No punches or hits because that's--well, that's messy, isn't it? It's very human. Crowley is, above all things, not a fighter. He's not going to injure or maim someone because it's cruel and he's not cruel. He's not about to throw a bolt of Hellfire at some poor human's face because he's a sack of shit, is he?
No, Crowley uses his imagination.
He imagines a line of fear going straight from his demonic core into the man's head. Something deep, something immensely frightening and personal. The man can pick the form himself, he can pick what he sees and how he feels it, but Crowley will become it, he'll stand there over the man, hovering at him.