Out
No more four in the morning for me.
Out
PG-13 | Bobby/Crowley | ~650 words
Crowley is a pest and Bobby just wants some peace. Really.
“How the hell did you get in here?” Bobby finds himself asking. Again.
“Basement window,” Crowley says, smugly. “Or maybe a crack in your foundation, there’s so many choices I seem to have lost track.”
“I’ve warded this place up and down,” Bobby says.
“Not quite,” Crowley corrects, pulling a bottle of scotch from his pocket. The bottle is, in fact, much larger than the pocket in question, but physics are the least of Bobby’s problems. His house has become a crossroads demon’s new haunt, somehow, and he can’t find a way to get the pesky fucker out. “Cheers,” Crowley says, pouring himself a drink.
“Out,” Bobby demands.
“I’m not bothering you, am I?”
As a hunter he should be happy that he’s reduced a powerful demon to the level of schoolyard annoyance, but fucking seriously, the bastard is still in his house and all of his salt-loaded rifles are mysteriously absent or misfiring.
He’s starting to think Crowley is trying to trick him into dismantling his house with a shotgun, since Bobby found a charm that turns his immediate vicinity into a human friendly safe zone. Crowley can’t hurt him unless Bobby consents to it.
Bobby will never be that stupid.
“Boy, I ain’t got any pigtails for you to pull,” Bobby says.
“On the contrary,” Crowley says, his fingers brushing against the bristles of Bobby’s beard. He can sense the demon’s urge to tug and nearly smiles.
“Havin’ a little trouble there?” he asks.
“Not at all,” Crowley says, trailing his fingers up Bobby’s jaw, intent on choking him, or something. Bobby huffs, letting the confidence he has in his spellwork show through. He feels a little uneasy, but Crowley hasn’t been able to give him any injury as serious as a papercut yet.
“Let me know when you’re finished,” Bobby says, rolling his eyes. He’s not backing away because he doesn’t want to show weakness, arching an eyebrow sardonically.
“I’m sure you’ll figure it out,” Crowley says, setting down his glass on Bobby’s desk. He’s not sure when they got so close to the desk, or when his back started to push up against it. Or when Crowley got close enough for Bobby to notice he’s maybe an inch or two taller than the supposed King of Hell.
He can’t help it, he laughs a little.
“What’s so funny?” Crowley snaps, his voice losing its whiskey-smoothed quality and dropping straight to pissy.
“You,” Bobby says. “Why are you even here? You can’t hurt me, shorty.”
Crowley scowls, his face scrunching up petulantly. “Stop talking, you surly bastard.”
The words make me are on the tip of Bobby’s tongue, but he’s still trying to figure out if that would be consent to harm or not when Crowley tugs his face down by his beard -- ow -- and locks their mouths together.
So secondary harm is still permitted by the spell. Good to know.
Somehow having a demon attached to his face is a lot worse than one actually being inside him, and he grabs Crowley’s wrists with the full intent of pushing him off, but is kind of just hanging onto him. Really. Crowley’s fingers disentangle themselves from Bobby’s beard, much to his relief, and cup around the back of his neck, while Bobby’s hands ruffle Crowley’s sleeves on the way down his arms.
“What the hell?” Bobby asks, tilting his head back.
“There hasn’t been a human clever enough to hold my interest in something like three hundred years,” Crowley says. “Just enjoy it.”
“You’re not getting anything out of me,” Bobby snaps.
“I wouldn’t expect to, darling,” Crowley says.
It’s probably a trap.
Bobby’s going to go along with it. Professional curiosity.
“Fine,” Bobby says.
“Glad to hear it,” Crowley drawls. The shiver down Bobby’s spine is entirely due to the fact that Crowley’s a demon, and nothing else.
~
Out
PG-13 | Bobby/Crowley | ~650 words
Crowley is a pest and Bobby just wants some peace. Really.
“How the hell did you get in here?” Bobby finds himself asking. Again.
“Basement window,” Crowley says, smugly. “Or maybe a crack in your foundation, there’s so many choices I seem to have lost track.”
“I’ve warded this place up and down,” Bobby says.
“Not quite,” Crowley corrects, pulling a bottle of scotch from his pocket. The bottle is, in fact, much larger than the pocket in question, but physics are the least of Bobby’s problems. His house has become a crossroads demon’s new haunt, somehow, and he can’t find a way to get the pesky fucker out. “Cheers,” Crowley says, pouring himself a drink.
“Out,” Bobby demands.
“I’m not bothering you, am I?”
As a hunter he should be happy that he’s reduced a powerful demon to the level of schoolyard annoyance, but fucking seriously, the bastard is still in his house and all of his salt-loaded rifles are mysteriously absent or misfiring.
He’s starting to think Crowley is trying to trick him into dismantling his house with a shotgun, since Bobby found a charm that turns his immediate vicinity into a human friendly safe zone. Crowley can’t hurt him unless Bobby consents to it.
Bobby will never be that stupid.
“Boy, I ain’t got any pigtails for you to pull,” Bobby says.
“On the contrary,” Crowley says, his fingers brushing against the bristles of Bobby’s beard. He can sense the demon’s urge to tug and nearly smiles.
“Havin’ a little trouble there?” he asks.
“Not at all,” Crowley says, trailing his fingers up Bobby’s jaw, intent on choking him, or something. Bobby huffs, letting the confidence he has in his spellwork show through. He feels a little uneasy, but Crowley hasn’t been able to give him any injury as serious as a papercut yet.
“Let me know when you’re finished,” Bobby says, rolling his eyes. He’s not backing away because he doesn’t want to show weakness, arching an eyebrow sardonically.
“I’m sure you’ll figure it out,” Crowley says, setting down his glass on Bobby’s desk. He’s not sure when they got so close to the desk, or when his back started to push up against it. Or when Crowley got close enough for Bobby to notice he’s maybe an inch or two taller than the supposed King of Hell.
He can’t help it, he laughs a little.
“What’s so funny?” Crowley snaps, his voice losing its whiskey-smoothed quality and dropping straight to pissy.
“You,” Bobby says. “Why are you even here? You can’t hurt me, shorty.”
Crowley scowls, his face scrunching up petulantly. “Stop talking, you surly bastard.”
The words make me are on the tip of Bobby’s tongue, but he’s still trying to figure out if that would be consent to harm or not when Crowley tugs his face down by his beard -- ow -- and locks their mouths together.
So secondary harm is still permitted by the spell. Good to know.
Somehow having a demon attached to his face is a lot worse than one actually being inside him, and he grabs Crowley’s wrists with the full intent of pushing him off, but is kind of just hanging onto him. Really. Crowley’s fingers disentangle themselves from Bobby’s beard, much to his relief, and cup around the back of his neck, while Bobby’s hands ruffle Crowley’s sleeves on the way down his arms.
“What the hell?” Bobby asks, tilting his head back.
“There hasn’t been a human clever enough to hold my interest in something like three hundred years,” Crowley says. “Just enjoy it.”
“You’re not getting anything out of me,” Bobby snaps.
“I wouldn’t expect to, darling,” Crowley says.
It’s probably a trap.
Bobby’s going to go along with it. Professional curiosity.
“Fine,” Bobby says.
“Glad to hear it,” Crowley drawls. The shiver down Bobby’s spine is entirely due to the fact that Crowley’s a demon, and nothing else.
~