Beer and velvet
fandom: Supernatural
pairing: Crowley / Bobby Singer
rating: K-11
genre: comedy, drama, or something like that
beta: dally <3
summary: Crowley had his arm resting on the back of the couch, touching Bobby's shoulders and neck. So much for the objections.
A/N: My first fic in English, not my thing really but I had to try. Spoiling very slightly season 8.
"Oi, is this really a way to treat your guest?"
"You're not my guest, you're a freakin' intruder."
"Oh, isn't it mister Social Skills..."
"Shut up," Bobby retorted without even turning his head, though it really didn't matter - in his demonic way of moving Crowley appeared right in front of Bobby's face. Hardly unexpectable, but still annoying as hell. "What do you want? You already got my soul!"
"I wanna get to know it."
"What?"
"You heard me. I want to know it. Owning something without knowing its true nature is such a bore."
"Really? Well guess what; I don't care."
"You think I care about your opinion? Think again," Crowley smirked and leaned closer. "Now, why don't we do something together, spend some quality time. Few beers, perhaps a movie...?"
"What? No."
"Come on, humour me."
"Forget it."
"I own you."
"No, you don't. It's just a soul, you can't make me do stupid things like that."
"Oh, yes I can. Or would you like me rather get to know it by touching it?"
"Touching it?"
"Yeah, touching it. And that would be a reasonable demand due to your very own words. So why don't you sit down, relax and have a beer with me, hm?"
"Balls."
And with a snap of infernal fingers there were frosty beers on the table and Velvet Goldmine running on TV. Bobby snorted.
"Come on," Crowley said, devilish smile lingering on his lips. "Pretty lads, all messed up, have to be worth watching."
"I think I've seen those enough in real life," Bobby grunted grimly, but sat next to Crowley anyway. He wouldn't like the film, he knew it already; too much makeup and too much of that damn glitter. But the boys were pretty, he had to admit that. And cold beer was as good as always, even not-so-pleasant company couldn't ruin that.
Bright colours flashed on the screen, tinting the soft shadows in Bobby's living room with pink, blue and glittering gold. Flirtatious, promising poses changed to even more promising ones, boy's lips pressed to another's, and before Bobby even realised what was going on, Crowley had his arm resting on the back of the couch, touching Bobby's shoulders and neck. So much for the hunter instincts, huh... And so much for the objections.
As the Oscar Wilde's trinket passed to a next owner, Crowley shifted and pressed closer to Bobby - knee to knee, thigh to thigh, and nose nuzzling Bobby's ear.
"I have a suggestion."
"Well isn't that a surprise," Bobby sniggered and took another swig from his bottle, eyes still firmly following happenings on TV.
"You happy with your ten years? Or would you like some more?"
"I'm not buying your crap, Crowley."
"That's not what I'm selling," Crowley whispered, flicking his tongue lightly over Bobby's earlobe. "Unless you're calling your life crap. I'm offering you time."
Bobby knew he shouldn't take the bait, it was a lie, a hoax, a trap. Nothing else could be expected from a demon. And dealing with those sons of bitches ended badly. Always. He should be the goddamned expert of it. But still it was just too tempting, sweet promises of great possibilities, and he was already doomed. Nothing to lose, really, so listening to Crowley's ramblings wouldn't hurt.
And of course there was this hot breath hovering over his skin, sending warm waves all over his body, husky whispers and all that stuff. Unlike his companion, Bobby Singer was just a man. So he gave in.
"One hour's worth is a peck on my lips, a french kiss buys you one more day. Four weeks you will get by placing hands on my hips, one year's purchase price is doing everything my way."
"That just might be the crappiest piece of rhyming I've ever heard. You came up with that all by yourself?"
"Thankfully no, that's the standard pricing," Crowley chuckled while his fingers pushed Bobby's cap from his head and got entwined in Bobby's hair. "So... how about it, then?"
"How about what, you piece of demon crap?"
"How about some extra time? Few hours, few days... perhaps few months or even a whole year if you're in the mood..." Demon's eyes had a feral glow and for a second Bobby saw them glinting red. Red like blood and deep wounds. Red like traffic lights that tell you to stop. Red like something tempting and poisonous. He smelled the faint memory of beer on Crowley's lips and nodded, almost against his own will. But just almost.
"Splendid! So what can I get you, couple of hours or -"
"You talk too damn much," Bobby snarled and pressed his lips on Crowley's. He didn't bother to ask permission with smooth licks or gentle nips, just opened the demon's mouth with his tongue as he grapped the lapels of Crowley's black jacket. "What the hell do you think I would do with only some hours?"
"That's really not my problem -"
"Is there a limit on how much time I can buy like this?"
"Depends on your business partner," Crowley smirked knowingly and patted Bobbys inner thigh. "Personally, I don't believe in restrictions, so take whatever you want, as many times as you want. The offer might stand only for a limited time, so use your opportunities wisely."
"Yeah, whatever," Bobby grunted and loosened Crowley's tie. It might be his first time with a demon, but it certainly wasn't his first time with a guy, and all things considered the whole deal sounded like a piece of cake. "I'll start with one year."
"That's the spirit," Crowley sighed already in a very satisfied tone and laid down on his back on the sofa while pretty boys on TV-screen started fucking each other. "Now get down here."
Though Bobby would never admit it to anyone (and most importantly not to Crowley!) he couldn't help thinking that this was quite a bargain. Playing Hell's game and paying the price had propably never been so damn pleasant.
