Disclaimer: They aren't mine. I'm not a man named Neil Gaiman, nor am I a man named Terry Pratchett. I'm not a man at all, actually, but that doesn't really have any bearing on this topic.
Summary: Just what is it about Crowley that has you so captivated?
Authoress' Note: This is not as finished as I would like, but I knew that if I didn't post it soon, I never would. Please leave me a nice review and some sort of caffeinated beverage. Or just a review.
Something
It's something in the way he moves—fluid, cat-like, graceful motions—that draws your willing attention to his long legs, his slender form, his perfect balance. He carries himself like a son of kings, but he walks like a seductress.
It's something in the way he speaks—the soft, sibilant, carefully enunciated words—that reminds you of the fact that he was once a snake, the silver-tongued Tempter. He could convince a woman to doom her race.
It's something in the way he dresses—black, black, and more black, slim-fitting, form-flattering, and always the shades—that shows you that he, at least, knows a decent symbolic color when he sees one, and that he does know just how good he looks.
It's something in the way he glances at you sideways from behind those dark glasses, yellow eyes burning fiercely, a knowing smirk on his lips, that makes you feel naked and helpless and pierced and gloriously shameless about it.
Because when you think about it, it's really just fascination with that something of his that keeps you coming back for more.
Again, and again, and again.
-finis-