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John had enjoyed the conversation most of the night. His new flat mate was great company and quite frankly, could drink him under the table with what seemed like little effort. John had just set down his last beer when Crowley turned to him with a mischievous sort of expression that left the poor doctor frozen like a cornered rabbit.
“You loved Sherlock more than you’ll tell me, which is fine.” He whispered, “It’s all fine, isn’t it?”
John was silent, unable to move as Crowley crowded him.
“But..the way you talk about him.” The demon grinned,“You were attracted to his cleverness. His brilliant brain, always one step ahead. And his eloquent mouth practically speaking prose even when he insulted you. Then of course, those lithe, nimble fingers that never truly touched you.” Crowley whispered to John knowingly.
His own hand snaking down the doctors broad chest, stopping short at his trousers with the hitch of his breath.
Crowley was planting a seed that couldn’t be trampled down like other impertinent weeds that tried to grow in the man’s mind before. A seed so virulent and strong that from it would spring the tree of long forbidden fruit. A tree not cleverly placed on the moon or on some distant, insurmountable mountain, but in his own heart. The harvest of which was decades overdue. John Watson was what one would call metaphorically, fucked.
John swallowed and was silently grateful when the hand on him pulled away before he had the nerve to ask for more. “I’ve got to be getting to bed. Work in the morning.” He cleared his throat as he excused himself to the safety of his bedroom.
Crowley smirked on the sofa as he sat there and waited for the slightest squeak of a box spring to prove his theory right. Going to bed satisfied with his temptation.