"You do! All that product in your hair... those pretty hazel eyes... sinful long lashes. You know, some people would sell their soul for a pretty face like yours, Dean."
It's said in a sort of patronizing way, like he might pat Dean on the head at the end of it. But he didn't. Because he sees what's happening now that Dean's yelling, and, a touch alarmed, he backs away from him as the fully clothed hunter climbs in with him. But he only backed up one step, and now he's standing still again, watching in amusement as Dean tries to wrestle the soap from him.
So he simply drops it. There is a very loud, wet thud. Then the soap in question follows gravity and slides between Crowley's feet where it rests over the drain.
"Oops," he smiles. There, he's gone and made the prison joke for you, Dean. Won't you be the punchline?
In different circumstances,with a different tone of voice, or said by someone else, it might have seemed like a compliment. As is, it just makes Dean want to punch him as he tried to steal his bar of soap back from the demon
( ... )
Crowley was amused. That was all. This was a game, because he knew that knife wasn't going to do a damned thing to him.
He watched as Dean fumbled after the soap and practically saw his thought process there. He didn't want the soap in the pool of water streaming off his body, but he really didn't want to reach for it.
And really, he didn't.
Especially not with the way Crowley was looking at him now that his clothes were soaked and clinging to his finely muscled body. Crowley looked ravenous, looked as though, perhaps, his tongue had slipped out to wet his lips in anticipation.
It's almost cute that Dean is trying to look intimidating. Cuter still how much he fails at it, and Crowley smirks openly as he takes a step closer, edging Dean up against the wall.
"Get your soap," he says, his tone a challenge and a dark invitation, completely ignoring Dean's insistence that he leave.
Warm hazel eyes watched Crowley's tongue, totally not meaning to, but Dean is easily distracted by things like that. The rather suggestive nature appeals to his base nature. And while the girth of his cock might be Crowley's most impressive physical feature, that wasn't to say the demon wasn't attractive, either.
Dean's breath caught as his back hit the tiled wall, able to feel it thought his wet shirt that was now like a second skin. He sucks in a breath through his teeth, and tries to figure out what the Hell to do considering that Crowley seems absolutely unconcerned with the knife that Dean had been brandishing. As a last ditch, he tries to graze Crowley with it, hoping it'll make him back off.
Of course, considering that Crowley has him cornered and Dean isn't trying to stab him through the heart at least says that he doesn't want the demon dead, however antagonistic their relationship might be
( ... )
Dean's fun to play with. Sam is too, but he doesn't like Sam so much. Dean reacts, and he's easy on the eyes. Very easy, it seems, as his attention strays downwards and he takes in the way the hunter fills out his soggy jeans.
Dean does graze his chest with the knife, but it doesn't hurt him more than it would hurt to be grazed by any other knife. Which for Crowley is actually something of a turn-on, judging by the way he exhales just now, the sound expertly mixed with a moan.
"Didn't know you were into the rough stuff."
He steps a little closer then, leaning aggressively into Dean's space, and he's staring at him. Eye to eye, and he's smiling, to see what Dean will do.
"Do it again," he purrs, his voice rich and deep and darkly inviting.
Dean is into the rough stuff, but he has no intention of letting on, if he can help it. That there's something erotic in rough hands on his body, in being cut slow and intentional instead of rough and chaotic like it is when he's fighting for his life, fighting to kill the monsters they face so often.
"I'm not," he said, lying through his teeth with a low growl.
He swallowed at the noises Crowley made, at the way he leans close, and it feels like there's nowhere to run with tiles pressing at his back and Crowley leering into his personal space. Honey hazels meeting the demon's dark eyes, and he seriously wants to knock that smile off his face.
"I'm not going to get you off," he snarls, leaning off the wall to try and press back into Crowley's space because he hates being on the defensive. He reaches up, free hand grabbing at a soap-slick shoulder and trying to push him back.
"You are. And you are going to get me off..." he said. Then, considering, he shrugged with an almost flippant air. "Well, I'm going to get you off... and that's going to get me off. It'll be just one big circle of satisfaction."
Crowley's eyes narrow as he studies Dean, as Dean pushes at his shoulder. He breaks into a grin and now, his hands are on Dean's upper arms and he's pinning him against the shower wall hard. He's leaning into it, his solid, strong body pressed against Dean's.
"Who the hell gets in the shower with a demon if they aren't looking to play?" he asked, his face close to Dean's, so close that their lips could brush if he wanted to. He does want to, but not yet, because this is a game and he wants to see how much it will take for Dean to break.
His eyes widened in shock at that particular declaration, and then narrowed down down to slits in transparent anger. He had no intention of indulging in any sort of... 'circle of satisfaction', or anything similar with the demon in his shower.
But his hand slipped against Crowley's slick skin, unable to find purchase, and he cursed mutedly under his breath. And then the demon's hands grabbed onto Dean's upper arms, shoving him back, pinning him against the wall so very hard. He gasped, the sound coming out warm, trembling a little across his lips. But then Dean started struggling, trying to get away, trying to ignore the feeling of the demon's firm, strong body pressing down against him.
"I just wanted you out of my god- damned shower," Dean snaps in retort, his struggles stilling because Crowley is too close. Dean is half afraid that if he struggled too much that he would be the one to close that distance, and he knew that he'd never live that down. His heartbeat beats fast in his chest, a mix of adrenaline and desire that he
( ... )
"Oh, come now," he scoffed. "You can come up with something better than that, at least."
Sure, Dean wanted him out, but you don't jump in with the intruder to get them out. You lose your edge that way. Dean was a hunter, he knew this. It was very basic stuff.
Dean wanted this. On some level, he was asking for it.
Crowley grips his arms more firmly. His grip was tight enough that it's very possible he could leave bruises. He's quietly appreciating the thickness of his arms, the solid muscle of biceps. Briefly, his grip on one of Dean's arm fluctuates, like he's testing the firmness and he issues a soft, low hum of approval as his eyes scan down to his broad, strong shoulders.
Crowley hadn't missed the way he gasped at being pushed into the wall, the way he liked it before he recovered and tried to hide the truth. Dean was into the rough stuff. He wanted to be manhandled, he wanted to be pushed around a little, or maybe a lot. It made sense. No one comes out of hell unscathed.
"Go to Hell," he snapped irritably, ignoring the irony.
He did want this, if he was honest, but he's not. It's not on any level that Dean is willing to admit to, and so he fights this as hard as he can, because it's easier than admitting he wanted this in the first place, that he'd been, maybe still was, asking for it
( ... )
Comments 36
"You do! All that product in your hair... those pretty hazel eyes... sinful long lashes. You know, some people would sell their soul for a pretty face like yours, Dean."
It's said in a sort of patronizing way, like he might pat Dean on the head at the end of it. But he didn't. Because he sees what's happening now that Dean's yelling, and, a touch alarmed, he backs away from him as the fully clothed hunter climbs in with him. But he only backed up one step, and now he's standing still again, watching in amusement as Dean tries to wrestle the soap from him.
So he simply drops it. There is a very loud, wet thud. Then the soap in question follows gravity and slides between Crowley's feet where it rests over the drain.
"Oops," he smiles. There, he's gone and made the prison joke for you, Dean. Won't you be the punchline?
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He watched as Dean fumbled after the soap and practically saw his thought process there. He didn't want the soap in the pool of water streaming off his body, but he really didn't want to reach for it.
And really, he didn't.
Especially not with the way Crowley was looking at him now that his clothes were soaked and clinging to his finely muscled body. Crowley looked ravenous, looked as though, perhaps, his tongue had slipped out to wet his lips in anticipation.
It's almost cute that Dean is trying to look intimidating. Cuter still how much he fails at it, and Crowley smirks openly as he takes a step closer, edging Dean up against the wall.
"Get your soap," he says, his tone a challenge and a dark invitation, completely ignoring Dean's insistence that he leave.
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Dean's breath caught as his back hit the tiled wall, able to feel it thought his wet shirt that was now like a second skin. He sucks in a breath through his teeth, and tries to figure out what the Hell to do considering that Crowley seems absolutely unconcerned with the knife that Dean had been brandishing. As a last ditch, he tries to graze Crowley with it, hoping it'll make him back off.
Of course, considering that Crowley has him cornered and Dean isn't trying to stab him through the heart at least says that he doesn't want the demon dead, however antagonistic their relationship might be ( ... )
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Dean does graze his chest with the knife, but it doesn't hurt him more than it would hurt to be grazed by any other knife. Which for Crowley is actually something of a turn-on, judging by the way he exhales just now, the sound expertly mixed with a moan.
"Didn't know you were into the rough stuff."
He steps a little closer then, leaning aggressively into Dean's space, and he's staring at him. Eye to eye, and he's smiling, to see what Dean will do.
"Do it again," he purrs, his voice rich and deep and darkly inviting.
Reply
"I'm not," he said, lying through his teeth with a low growl.
He swallowed at the noises Crowley made, at the way he leans close, and it feels like there's nowhere to run with tiles pressing at his back and Crowley leering into his personal space. Honey hazels meeting the demon's dark eyes, and he seriously wants to knock that smile off his face.
"I'm not going to get you off," he snarls, leaning off the wall to try and press back into Crowley's space because he hates being on the defensive. He reaches up, free hand grabbing at a soap-slick shoulder and trying to push him back.
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Crowley's eyes narrow as he studies Dean, as Dean pushes at his shoulder. He breaks into a grin and now, his hands are on Dean's upper arms and he's pinning him against the shower wall hard. He's leaning into it, his solid, strong body pressed against Dean's.
"Who the hell gets in the shower with a demon if they aren't looking to play?" he asked, his face close to Dean's, so close that their lips could brush if he wanted to. He does want to, but not yet, because this is a game and he wants to see how much it will take for Dean to break.
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But his hand slipped against Crowley's slick skin, unable to find purchase, and he cursed mutedly under his breath. And then the demon's hands grabbed onto Dean's upper arms, shoving him back, pinning him against the wall so very hard. He gasped, the sound coming out warm, trembling a little across his lips. But then Dean started struggling, trying to get away, trying to ignore the feeling of the demon's firm, strong body pressing down against him.
"I just wanted you out of my god- damned shower," Dean snaps in retort, his struggles stilling because Crowley is too close. Dean is half afraid that if he struggled too much that he would be the one to close that distance, and he knew that he'd never live that down. His heartbeat beats fast in his chest, a mix of adrenaline and desire that he ( ... )
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Sure, Dean wanted him out, but you don't jump in with the intruder to get them out. You lose your edge that way. Dean was a hunter, he knew this. It was very basic stuff.
Dean wanted this. On some level, he was asking for it.
Crowley grips his arms more firmly. His grip was tight enough that it's very possible he could leave bruises. He's quietly appreciating the thickness of his arms, the solid muscle of biceps. Briefly, his grip on one of Dean's arm fluctuates, like he's testing the firmness and he issues a soft, low hum of approval as his eyes scan down to his broad, strong shoulders.
Crowley hadn't missed the way he gasped at being pushed into the wall, the way he liked it before he recovered and tried to hide the truth. Dean was into the rough stuff. He wanted to be manhandled, he wanted to be pushed around a little, or maybe a lot. It made sense. No one comes out of hell unscathed.
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He did want this, if he was honest, but he's not. It's not on any level that Dean is willing to admit to, and so he fights this as hard as he can, because it's easier than admitting he wanted this in the first place, that he'd been, maybe still was, asking for it ( ... )
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