In Which Insurance Agents are Demons

[safetyoffthegun]

Eliot was leaning back against the kitchen counter, laughing with an arched brow as he eyed Bobby, tipping the beer in his hand back to meet his lips, and drinking heavily from the amber-gold liquid.  They'd become fast friends after stumbling across each other in the middle of a job.  Turns out the bad guys that Nate and the rest of their crew had

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[crossroadskink]

Crowley always kept tabs on his favorite hunters. And when he said favorite what he really meant was the hunters that were the biggest pains in his ass, the most likely to be in his way, and the most entertaining to screw with. It always paid to be a few steps ahead, to know what was going on, and listen in when they think they're alone. Which is how Crowley came to discover that Eliot Spencer, long time annoyance and occasional booty call to the (mostly) former occupant of Crowley's current body, was now apparently a friend of Bobby's

[safetyoffthegun]

Eliot choked on his beer when he saw that familiar face strolling through the doorway and into Bobby's kitchen. His face flushing a little red under the slight tan of his skin and that near constant five-o'clock shadow that lingered on his jaw. There were certain people that he hadn't expected to have to deal with waltzing into Bobby's house. Sterling had been one of them.

"Hello Sterling. What the Hell are you doing here

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It was nice of Bobby not to give him away so soon. He was going to have a chance to screw with Eliot afterall. He'd have to thank Bobby later for this.

He set an envelope on the table as he sat down where Bobby had been, and leaned back to drink in Eliot. He was blushing and really quite lovely. This was the first time Crowley was meeting him, but the memories of him that Sterling carried were vivid and varied, but violent in and out of the bedroom. Crowley smiled at the memories and at Eliot.

"You've always had a way with words," he comments, amused at Eliot's choice of phrasing and the emphasis he'd put on Hell. So appropriate.

"It's been a while," he said pleasantly. "What's it now... three years?"

[safetyoffthegun]

Eliot glared at the demon he was facing off against, beer bottle set down on the counter with a little bit too much force. That assessment of Eliot's way with words wasn't untrue. In his defense, he was more likely to punch Sterling in the mouth rather than trip over failed retorts like a certain Winchester. His eyes flicker to the envelope he sets on the table, trying to work out the Insurance Agent's connection to Bobby Singer and coming up dry

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"Mmm, Paris..." they'd ruined that hotel room. Crowley was pleased by the memory, a memory that they'd technically shared. Crowley had taken occupancy before that night in Paris, but he and Sterling were on such good terms that he'd let him take over that night and Crowley had been quite pleasantly surprised as he rode in the passenger's seat for a lovely, if turbulent, ride

[safetyoffthegun]

The way he murmurs makes it fairly transparent that he's thinking about what happened after the job, not during. He swallows against the back of his throat, a scowl curling his lips. He remembers, of course, a flick of eyelashes over his blue eyes as he glares evenly at the man he might consider a demon, but certainly not in the literal sense. It's almost too obvious.

"No, I'm not."

It's snapped back in sharp response. That smug smile makes Eliot's shoulders tense, the way his arms were crossed across his chest becoming a little bit tighter. He wants to punch that smug look off of his face, but that goading has him trying to still his hands. Eliot does his best to do the exact opposite of what Sterling seems to be looking for.

But, that desire is seething under his skin. Eliot would claim he's only violent when it's justified, but Sterling is justification enough. And so, that goading only buys about ten seconds of stillness, before he's moving in a sudden, sharp snap of violence

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Oh, Crowley knows it's coming. He likes Eliot. Sterling likes Eliot. Their reasons overlap, and a big one is this. How quick he is to throw a punch, how desperately he wants to inflict pain and how much he's desperate to feel it

[safetyoffthegun]

"You always were a pervert, Sterling."

Eliot quips in reply, inhaling sharply as the man leans close, and it's challenging, almost threatening in a way he's never quite understood. But somehow every time this happens, he always ends up feeling like Sterling's the one winning. And so those words earn Crowley another fist to the jaw. But that's the problems start, because his lip splits under the force, and there is blood welling up against the crack in lips Eliot has found to be surprisingly soft.

And then there's no distance left, because Eliot's biting at Crowley's lip, where the blood is. He swipes his tongue across the wound, and he tenses, fractionally jerks back, because it's different. It's hot and almost burning, intense and it curls in his stomach, seethes in pins and needles across his lips. It's a second's pause, but it just makes Eliot growl against Crowley's mouth. If anything, he presses back harder, sucking that lip into his mouth as he scrapes teeth against injured flesh

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"You know me so well," he murmurs. In a sharp contrast to Eliot's tone, Crowley's is all bedroom. He's winning, because he can hear Eliot's sharp intake of breath and he knows that he's getting to him, he's getting under his skin like he always does. There's no question about it when he feels the second punch, feels his lip split beneath those knuckles.

It's good. With the adrenaline and desire coursing through him, the pain is dulled, which would be more of a disappointment if he weren't enjoying the ache that lingered after, the slow pulse as the blood ebbed from his lip. Bodies have such an inconvenient way of dampening pain when an individual is aroused, but the upside is that it allows such a fantastically high tolerance. And Crowley's tolerance and appetite for it is higher than even Sterling's was.

Crowley claps a hand down on Eliot's shoulder when he's kissing him to keep him there, when he's tasting the blood and when he pulls back. Crowley wonders if he notices - he must - will he say something? Will he know? Crowley

[safetyoffthegun]

Eliot gasps, and it's sharp, tinged with discomfort, but there's a hint of heat to it. There's an interest that goes further than Sterling had ever pushed him. Paris had been more, pushing those awkward boundaries Eliot had thought they'd worked out without words just a little bit further back. And then Crowley's hand is curling in the collar of his shirt, the fabric cutting into his trachea, so his breathing is a little bit rasping as he tries to fill his lungs. There's surprise, uncertainty that flashes in his blue eyes, because all of -- whatever this is -- aside, he doesn't really trust Sterling, and now the man has control of his breathing.

It's not in his nature to panic, but this is different from being tortured. It's almost consensual, and it's pleasure, and he's not trying to stop it"Never," he only barely manages to get out through his teeth in admittance, because it's a fact they are both well-acquainted with. You can't con someone who knows the answer to their question. And if you could, he wouldn't be the one