Like Vegas

Twenty minutes later, they were in a luxurious hotel room.

Harry had told the demon his name in return for Crowley's own, had exchanged information about recent events in the wizarding world for information about demons, had traded his dragon-hide boots (that automatically adjusted their size to the wearer) for the man's expensive tie, and had promised to buy the man an expensive bottle of scotch in return for providing transportation to the hotel.

He was currently sealing the deal on his Foe Glass (that thing was hardly helpful – he never looked at it in time for it to be of use) and decided that, if pressed on the issue, he could really do without his set of Wizard Chess as well, not to mention the dark artefacts he had inherited from his Godfather – the Black Vault was filled with them. And Crowley was both a demon and a business man – surely he would have an interest… and something to offer in return?

Yes, Harry was sure that they could come to some sort of deal.

Not that there was actually anything that he needed or wanted in return – in fact, what had Crowley given him for that Foe Glass again?

Harry frowned, trying to recall the deal he had made only moments ago, but the kiss he'd received had already burned the memory away. It didn't matter anyway, because another one of his offers was accepted by the demon with a devious smirk and the Master of Death leaned in for yet another kiss.

His thoughts were again reduced to a hazy mess as Crowley ravaged his mouth. Harry moaned softly and tugged the demon even closer.

He didn't know just when he had ended up sitting on the bed, but he didn't even think to protest when the taller man pushed him down. The demon was standing over him with a smug smile and offered him his suit jacket in exchange for the basilisk-fang knife Harry'd carefully tucked in his own coat (how had Crowley known it was there?).

The raven-haired man just nodded, far beyond caring about the relative price of anything – and really why would he need a basilisk knife in the first place? Any other knife dipped in a bit of poison would be just as good wouldn't it? The only reason he had it in the first place was out of a morbid fascination with the fact that the fang that he'd had it made from had once been stuck in his arm and killing him. Not exactly a fond memory, now that he thought about it. No, Crowley was welcome to have it.

Especially if he kept kissing like that.

Harry's air was once again stolen and all he could breathe in was Crowley; sharp and fresh like the night air, strong and sulphur-y like an un-wieldable flame – like Fiendfyre.

A smell of danger and demon that should bother him far more than it did.

Because as it was, it didn't bother him at all. Instead Harry sighed contently, eyes closed, savouring the feeling of those demanding lips on his own, one of Crowley's hands tangled in his hair and another caressing the small of his back and was just about drowning completely in these sensations.

Crowley pulled back and the demon's eyes blazed with a mixture of pure lust and unadulterated wickedness when he oh-so-innocently suggested that really, as a powerful wizard, Harry didn't really need his soul now did he? I mean, he had magic – and all that power, what use did he have for his soul?

But, though he could have sworn that his body was just about on fire and though every nerve of it was tingling, Harry wasn't completely driven mad.

He had the information Crowley had given him earlier about demons – and he could tell that there was more there, hidden between the lines, that the demon hadn't told him. More than that, he had the sobering memory of Horcruxes to draw on - so he raised one of his eyebrows and made a counteroffer.

Harry wasn't about to sell his soul - but there were plenty of other things he could probably do without.

Starting with his clothes.

Three searing kisses later, Harry hadn't actually sold any of his clothes. Just his glasses, and a variety of wizarding items from his Vaults. But, as he took of his shirt himself, he rationalised that he wasn't trading away anything he particularly wanted to keep.

He figured it was somewhat like gambling in Vegas. As long as you made sure you had nothing more with you than you were willing to lose, things couldn't get that bad.

So he made sure to imprint the thought firmly in his mind – his soul wasn't going anywhere. Nor was he bartering the Deadly Hallows (not that he really wanted them himself, but giving away his title so soon after he'd gotten it, well, who knew what a mess that would turn out to be?), anything else, though, that was free game.

It was only thanks to his Occlumency skills (far better now than they had been under Snape's dubious guidance) that he managed to actually stay true to that. Because it was difficult to remember just why he couldn't say yes to whatever Crowley offered when the man was trailing his fingers down Harry's spine.

Crowley was still a demon, and a damned good one at that.

Lucky for Harry, he was a wizard, was filthy rich and the Master of Death. More than that, he was a Gryffindor and he didn't feel a hint of fear as he threw himself to the demon's torturous mercy.

He'd probably be alone, sore and a thousand things poorer tomorrow, but it would definitely be worth it.

His last thought before he fully surrendered to feeling, to touch and to the fire consuming him – was that he'd never actually been to Vegas – perhaps, if the did wake up alone, he should go there next?

(Word Count: 1000)

A.N.: So yeah, I decided on a longer chapter for the end… Does this even feel like an end? I'm not sure if I like it, actually... I feel that maybe Harry's thoughts take away from the whole thing - that they might break the flow? Maybe I should go more with descriptive touching? And that sounds weird. And slightly disturbing. I don't think that's actually a thing. o.0

But you know what I mean, right?

You know what, for my first slash story – I think I'm ok. (Is this still T - I have a habit of rating pretty much everything T...)