3 Hens
dessert_first requested Dean and Eliot together.
Supernatural/Leverage crossover Explicit Dean/Eliot, but no warnings
A man walked into a bar. The bartender nodded recognition and set him up a beer. He'd walked into that bar every night for the past week, hoping for just that reaction. Now, when his contact finally showed, they'd assume he was local. Eliot took his beer with his own nod of thanks -- backed up with a tip that was decent, not memorable. She smiled and leaned across the bar. "Got some hustlers in today. Better watch yourself."
He smiled back. "Always do." He headed back to where the pool table and dartboard were. Also, and not incidentally, the back door.
Eliot noted a couple guys who'd been in earlier in the week, looking unhappy, and a couple of new guys, the taller of whom looked very unhappy. The other looked like he was having trouble hiding a grin, even as his friend (partner?) threw his hands up and stormed out. Those must be the hustlers he'd been warned about. The happier of the pair tracked his friend's exit, and his eyes lit on Eliot.
"Want to play?" he asked, cue in one hand, stake in the other.
The kid lacked finesse. He'd already taken the room for more than they were willing to lose, which was probably why his partner had ditched him, and then he'd challenged the next guy to walk in even though there was no way he could believably play down his skills to get the stakes up.
Eliot took a sip from his longneck, made it look like a gulp. Kid had to learn sometime, and all he'd planned for the evening was to further establish himself at the bar. "Sure, why not."
The first round went about as the kid expected. Eliot played a slightly better than average game, no obvious mistakes but no real strategy either, the kind of game played by a guy who won more than he lost against other average players. An easy mark. He won.
The kid handed him his winnings. "Double or nothing?"
Eliot nodded and set the money on the rail. The kid racked, and Eliot lined up his break. He glanced up. "What's your name, kid?"
He bristled at that. Probably didn't think of himself as a kid, but his rookie mistakes made Eliot feel old. After a moment, he answered, "Dean."
"Dean," he repeated. He struck the cue ball, and the table erupted into color and sound. When it settled, he tsked annoyance. He'd only sunk three balls; the six had stopped, balanced on the worn edge of the side pocket. He went on to clear the table, no fancy tricks and no nonsense either. By the end, Dean seemed torn between annoyed and ruefully amused -- his eyebrows drawn down, but his full lips quirking up at the corner.
"Best out of three," Eliot offered.
He laughed and pulled out his billfold. "Hell, why not."
Dean broke well, but he misjudged his third shot. Eliot cleaned up, then turned to the guys who'd watched Dean lose their money with increasingly overt glee. The situation was more or less diffused, but... "Drinks are on Dean," he said, passing the fold of money off with a flourish.
The room cleared out quickly as the occupants followed the promise of free drinks to the bar. The one in the torn jean jacket was still glowering. Could be trouble.
Eliot took a sip of his warm beer. "You're not very good at this."
"I do alright." He put his stick back on the rack.
"Not tonight," Eliot commented.
"Yeah," he agreed, then unexpectedly grinned. "Sammy's going to be pissed."
That must be the guy who'd wanted him to quit while he was ahead. "I'd be more worried about the guys you cleaned out."
"I can take care of myself," Dean stated with pure confidence. The way he moved said that wasn't entirely bravado.
Well, he'd done what he could. Not like he was the kid's keeper. He set the bottle down and headed for the front. Jean Jacket was talking with some friends, gesturing angrily towards the back. Eliot stepped back. Getting caught up in a bar fight, even one he'd win, was not part of the plan. "Time to go, kid." Dean started to object to the moniker, but Eliot grabbed a handful of his loose overshirt and pulled him towards the exit. "Now."
Dean glanced towards the front room and abruptly stopped resisting. Jean Jacket and friends must be coming their way. The door opened onto an alley, and they ran.
They fetched up in an alley that smelled of restaurant waste. White and black feathers made small drifts near the bins and the wall Dean leaned against. He seemed a bit out of breath, but he'd kept up. Eliot was impressed. Slightly. He listened but did not hear any sounds of pursuit above the blood pounding in his ears, pushing adrenaline through his system.
"My car is back there," Dean panted, annoyed.
Eliot shrugged. His, too. He leaned next to Dean, brushing his shoulder. "You want to go back for it?"
Dean gave him a dirty look but didn't move away. He pulled out a phone and dialed. "Sam, I need you to pick up the Impala. Don't go in -- we've worn out our welcome."
Eliot smirked at him. He hung up.
"Could have happened to anybody." Off the top of his head, Eliot knew a number of people to whom that sort of amateur mistake would not have happened. Even Hardison was better at reading a mark than that. It must have showed in his expression, because Dean grumbled, "Shut up."
He grinned. "Make me."
Dean's eyes went wide and startled, his gaze flickering from Eliot's eyes to mouth and back, before an answering grin spread across his face. His hand rose to the base of Eliot's neck, and he reeled him in to kiss away his challenging expression. Eliot pushed him back against the wall, and he grunted. He wouldn't be getting in any fights tonight, but he could have this, a different sort of rush. He pressed against Dean, noticing a few extra pressure points. The kid was carrying a surprising number of well-concealed weapons. Interesting. And it explained the layers.
But not as interesting as what they were doing. He dropped one hand to Dean's crotch, rubbing firmly. Dean's head dropped back against the wall. He mouthed down his throat, feeling the groan vibrate against his lips. He ran into the edge of his t-shirt and bit down, and Dean's hips jerked forward. He straightened, smiling. He worked open Dean's jeans, pushed the clothes out of his way as he knelt.
Dean cursed, his hands winding into Eliot's hair. Eliot licked a stripe from root to tip, wringing another curse free. Eliot appreciated a vocal partner. Too bad about the location -- public spaces were not the best place to tease. He let the head in past his lips, worked the crown with his tongue, before sliding down to meet his fist where it curved around the base.
The kid's hands clenched and released in his hair, consideration fighting instinct. Eliot appreciated that, too, almost as much as the weight of the cock on his tongue and the drag of it against his lips. He worked him fast and just this side of rough, pulling his mouth away to watch when Dean cursed, "Fuck, I'm going to -- " and came with a grimace.
Eliot stood up and opened his fly. The constriction had become uncomfortable, and even just that much felt good. Dean cracked an eye open, panting. "Gimme a minute, and --"
Eliot shook his head, pressing against him. "This is fine." His cock rubbed against the wetness on Dean's belly. "Christ, better than fine."
Dean still seemed boneless from release, but his hands landed on Eliot's hips, not guiding so much as riding along. Eliot tucked his forehead against Dean's neck and thrust against him to his own orgasm.
The juncture of Dean's neck and shoulder proved very comfortable, but eventually Eliot had to move. He straightened away from Dean, putting himself back together as Dean did the same. Their eyes met, and Eliot waited for the awkward moment to happen. Instead, Dean grinned.
Eliot shook his head. "Try to stay out of trouble." He tapped Dean's shoulder and walked towards the head of the alley.
"I wasn't in trouble," Dean called.
He snorted and waved as he turned the corner to the street.
Supernatural/Leverage crossover Explicit Dean/Eliot, but no warnings
A man walked into a bar. The bartender nodded recognition and set him up a beer. He'd walked into that bar every night for the past week, hoping for just that reaction. Now, when his contact finally showed, they'd assume he was local. Eliot took his beer with his own nod of thanks -- backed up with a tip that was decent, not memorable. She smiled and leaned across the bar. "Got some hustlers in today. Better watch yourself."
He smiled back. "Always do." He headed back to where the pool table and dartboard were. Also, and not incidentally, the back door.
Eliot noted a couple guys who'd been in earlier in the week, looking unhappy, and a couple of new guys, the taller of whom looked very unhappy. The other looked like he was having trouble hiding a grin, even as his friend (partner?) threw his hands up and stormed out. Those must be the hustlers he'd been warned about. The happier of the pair tracked his friend's exit, and his eyes lit on Eliot.
"Want to play?" he asked, cue in one hand, stake in the other.
The kid lacked finesse. He'd already taken the room for more than they were willing to lose, which was probably why his partner had ditched him, and then he'd challenged the next guy to walk in even though there was no way he could believably play down his skills to get the stakes up.
Eliot took a sip from his longneck, made it look like a gulp. Kid had to learn sometime, and all he'd planned for the evening was to further establish himself at the bar. "Sure, why not."
The first round went about as the kid expected. Eliot played a slightly better than average game, no obvious mistakes but no real strategy either, the kind of game played by a guy who won more than he lost against other average players. An easy mark. He won.
The kid handed him his winnings. "Double or nothing?"
Eliot nodded and set the money on the rail. The kid racked, and Eliot lined up his break. He glanced up. "What's your name, kid?"
He bristled at that. Probably didn't think of himself as a kid, but his rookie mistakes made Eliot feel old. After a moment, he answered, "Dean."
"Dean," he repeated. He struck the cue ball, and the table erupted into color and sound. When it settled, he tsked annoyance. He'd only sunk three balls; the six had stopped, balanced on the worn edge of the side pocket. He went on to clear the table, no fancy tricks and no nonsense either. By the end, Dean seemed torn between annoyed and ruefully amused -- his eyebrows drawn down, but his full lips quirking up at the corner.
"Best out of three," Eliot offered.
He laughed and pulled out his billfold. "Hell, why not."
Dean broke well, but he misjudged his third shot. Eliot cleaned up, then turned to the guys who'd watched Dean lose their money with increasingly overt glee. The situation was more or less diffused, but... "Drinks are on Dean," he said, passing the fold of money off with a flourish.
The room cleared out quickly as the occupants followed the promise of free drinks to the bar. The one in the torn jean jacket was still glowering. Could be trouble.
Eliot took a sip of his warm beer. "You're not very good at this."
"I do alright." He put his stick back on the rack.
"Not tonight," Eliot commented.
"Yeah," he agreed, then unexpectedly grinned. "Sammy's going to be pissed."
That must be the guy who'd wanted him to quit while he was ahead. "I'd be more worried about the guys you cleaned out."
"I can take care of myself," Dean stated with pure confidence. The way he moved said that wasn't entirely bravado.
Well, he'd done what he could. Not like he was the kid's keeper. He set the bottle down and headed for the front. Jean Jacket was talking with some friends, gesturing angrily towards the back. Eliot stepped back. Getting caught up in a bar fight, even one he'd win, was not part of the plan. "Time to go, kid." Dean started to object to the moniker, but Eliot grabbed a handful of his loose overshirt and pulled him towards the exit. "Now."
Dean glanced towards the front room and abruptly stopped resisting. Jean Jacket and friends must be coming their way. The door opened onto an alley, and they ran.
They fetched up in an alley that smelled of restaurant waste. White and black feathers made small drifts near the bins and the wall Dean leaned against. He seemed a bit out of breath, but he'd kept up. Eliot was impressed. Slightly. He listened but did not hear any sounds of pursuit above the blood pounding in his ears, pushing adrenaline through his system.
"My car is back there," Dean panted, annoyed.
Eliot shrugged. His, too. He leaned next to Dean, brushing his shoulder. "You want to go back for it?"
Dean gave him a dirty look but didn't move away. He pulled out a phone and dialed. "Sam, I need you to pick up the Impala. Don't go in -- we've worn out our welcome."
Eliot smirked at him. He hung up.
"Could have happened to anybody." Off the top of his head, Eliot knew a number of people to whom that sort of amateur mistake would not have happened. Even Hardison was better at reading a mark than that. It must have showed in his expression, because Dean grumbled, "Shut up."
He grinned. "Make me."
Dean's eyes went wide and startled, his gaze flickering from Eliot's eyes to mouth and back, before an answering grin spread across his face. His hand rose to the base of Eliot's neck, and he reeled him in to kiss away his challenging expression. Eliot pushed him back against the wall, and he grunted. He wouldn't be getting in any fights tonight, but he could have this, a different sort of rush. He pressed against Dean, noticing a few extra pressure points. The kid was carrying a surprising number of well-concealed weapons. Interesting. And it explained the layers.
But not as interesting as what they were doing. He dropped one hand to Dean's crotch, rubbing firmly. Dean's head dropped back against the wall. He mouthed down his throat, feeling the groan vibrate against his lips. He ran into the edge of his t-shirt and bit down, and Dean's hips jerked forward. He straightened, smiling. He worked open Dean's jeans, pushed the clothes out of his way as he knelt.
Dean cursed, his hands winding into Eliot's hair. Eliot licked a stripe from root to tip, wringing another curse free. Eliot appreciated a vocal partner. Too bad about the location -- public spaces were not the best place to tease. He let the head in past his lips, worked the crown with his tongue, before sliding down to meet his fist where it curved around the base.
The kid's hands clenched and released in his hair, consideration fighting instinct. Eliot appreciated that, too, almost as much as the weight of the cock on his tongue and the drag of it against his lips. He worked him fast and just this side of rough, pulling his mouth away to watch when Dean cursed, "Fuck, I'm going to -- " and came with a grimace.
Eliot stood up and opened his fly. The constriction had become uncomfortable, and even just that much felt good. Dean cracked an eye open, panting. "Gimme a minute, and --"
Eliot shook his head, pressing against him. "This is fine." His cock rubbed against the wetness on Dean's belly. "Christ, better than fine."
Dean still seemed boneless from release, but his hands landed on Eliot's hips, not guiding so much as riding along. Eliot tucked his forehead against Dean's neck and thrust against him to his own orgasm.
The juncture of Dean's neck and shoulder proved very comfortable, but eventually Eliot had to move. He straightened away from Dean, putting himself back together as Dean did the same. Their eyes met, and Eliot waited for the awkward moment to happen. Instead, Dean grinned.
Eliot shook his head. "Try to stay out of trouble." He tapped Dean's shoulder and walked towards the head of the alley.
"I wasn't in trouble," Dean called.
He snorted and waved as he turned the corner to the street.