Something shifts, when Crowley grabs Yoite's wrist. It's something dark, twisted and barbed at the edges that he'd sensed an undercurrent of but now it's all around him, it feels like it's in his skin and his cells more than usual. It feels like all the air's gone out and his nose is filled with that strong smell, that stink of sulphur.
His reaction has always been immediate, trained, ever since he escaped all The Evil and things weren't sounder but they were safer. He had turtlenecks in the middle of summer and lemon tea and medicine for his failing heart and it wasn't okay but it functioned, it functioned, and all that's happened is a grab of the wrist. Just fingers, flesh against flesh, and all of Yoite seizes up, as if he's just now suddenly realized what sort of danger he's gotten into.
Crowley's ki churns excitedly at this close a range. It's different from what pumps through his veins, normal, slightly elevated heart rate, human. But then something much more blackened and charred beneath. And Yoite who doesn't hesitate to slap someone's hand away when they try to so much as touch his shoulder doesn't move a muscle when Crowley's metaphorical claws have got him held.
His fingers twist for a moment in the demon's grasp, almost a threat, almost as if he's about to curl them in just slightly, watch his small intestines coil around his neck like a meat noose. Spleen and bladder spent on the floor and nothing but a shell of a carcass. But he doesn't.
He likes cutting into liars, sometimes. Crowley is not a liar.
"Outlines," he breathes suddenly, and despite himself his eyes flash back to those impossibly dark ones, his own wide and blue, blue blue, and, gods, he can't help it, they're terrified. But he doesn't move, doesn't budge, not one step. "I want guidelines, I want -- I need to know what I have to do."
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His reaction has always been immediate, trained, ever since he escaped all The Evil and things weren't sounder but they were safer. He had turtlenecks in the middle of summer and lemon tea and medicine for his failing heart and it wasn't okay but it functioned, it functioned, and all that's happened is a grab of the wrist. Just fingers, flesh against flesh, and all of Yoite seizes up, as if he's just now suddenly realized what sort of danger he's gotten into.
Crowley's ki churns excitedly at this close a range. It's different from what pumps through his veins, normal, slightly elevated heart rate, human. But then something much more blackened and charred beneath. And Yoite who doesn't hesitate to slap someone's hand away when they try to so much as touch his shoulder doesn't move a muscle when Crowley's metaphorical claws have got him held.
His fingers twist for a moment in the demon's grasp, almost a threat, almost as if he's about to curl them in just slightly, watch his small intestines coil around his neck like a meat noose. Spleen and bladder spent on the floor and nothing but a shell of a carcass. But he doesn't.
He likes cutting into liars, sometimes. Crowley is not a liar.
"Outlines," he breathes suddenly, and despite himself his eyes flash back to those impossibly dark ones, his own wide and blue, blue blue, and, gods, he can't help it, they're terrified. But he doesn't move, doesn't budge, not one step. "I want guidelines, I want -- I need to know what I have to do."