Work Text:
Dean knocked on the bathroom door. “Hey, we’re taking off. No wild parties while we’re gone.”
“So, just a mild parties then?” You shot back.
Honestly, who would you even invite to the Men of Letters Bunker besides Charlie and maybe Kevin.
There was no reply. None was needed. Dean and Sam had a long drive ahead of them to reach Tulsa, and that chimera wasn’t going to slay itself. There was a distant roar of the Impala as you turned off the water and exited the shower. You stroked fingers through your wet hair, but left the dryer in its drawer. It really was just for Sam anyway.
The robe was a soft terry cloth that left you feeling comfortable, warm and cozy. Tonight would be nice. The bunker was all yours!
…
You stepped out into the dimly lit hallway, concrete walls echoing each step in an eery subdued way. You might not be afraid of the things that go bump in the night but being alone, again, was often a source of great pain. As a hunter you’d certainly had your fair share of wandering dirt roads in the dead of night, not a soul for miles to help when the car broke down. Yet you hadn’t felt isolated, what with the stars, the rustling of trees in the wind and the occasional call of a bird. There had always been life.
But the bunker?
That must be it. It was too stone, too sterile, and buzzed with wardings you were always vaguely aware of.
Making it to your room you considered putting on some Netflix and maybe calling Cas over to watch The Witcher. That way he could tell you all things Dean would do better. Cas was at least the one guy you knew who wouldn’t misinterpret the request as the colloquial ‘Netflix and Chill’.
He really was Dean’s guy anyway, though they’d been dancing around that for ages.
No, if you were honest, Cas wasn’t your type. Not only because he was your friend but he always struck as far too- vanilla, for your liking. You didn’t like to admit it, even to yourself, but over the years of hunting you’d become all too aware of your personal kinks.
Demons, especially, really did bring that out in you.
Standing before the full length mirror you turned and dropped just the shoulder of the robe, taking in the sight of scars across your back. A hand reached up and stroked the faded lines, recalling the blade and its drag across your skin.
You shook your head. It was one thing to be kinky, another to be dark. Some lines you wouldn’t allow yourself to cross, no matter how much your psyche pushed for it.
Thankfully, your phone rang, distracting you from a spiral of self hate. Unthankfully, the screen flashed with a familiar number of 666. Crowley was calling.
You debated answering, allowing it to ring once more, twice more, then eventually the room fell deftly silent without the melodic vibration. You could still answer, seeing as he was leaving a voicemail, but decided it was best to wait. After a moment in the absence of sound, as the stone walls began to close in again, you picked up the device.
The screen flashed letting you know you had a new message, and if only to hear a voice that wasn’t yours speaking in the stillness of the bunker, you clicked to see what the King of Hell had to say for himself.
“Evening darling, I hear the boys are out.” And how did he know that? “Thought you might be a little uncomfortable with your solitude and naturally I wanted to offer my services. Free of charge of course. You couldn’t afford me otherwise.” You stifled an amused huff. “Call me back and I’ll make it worth both our whiles.” Click.
You ran a thumb down the side of the phone case, caressing it without realizing what you were doing. You played the message again. Then again. And maybe again after that. It was, at all times, 1. Annoying he knew you so well. 2. Sweet that he would care. If he actually did. 3. Amusing, not that you’d ever admit it. And 4. Exactly the kind of distraction you were craving. He had to be up to something and weren’t you just being a good hunter to find out what?
You paced about the room for nearly fifteen minutes, playing with your drying hair as you moved. You debated, speculated and pondered your options, just before giving in to the pain of seclusion and hitting the redial button.
“This is the King,” he answered, knowing full well who was on the other line. Knowing full well you’d never call him such.
“Going by Elvis now are you?” you asked.
“Elvis wasn’t king without a little demonic help and a few plagiarized songs.” There was the distinct sound of ice in a glass and you were sure he was taking a sip of something. “Though you didn’t call me to discuss music.”
Walking beside the bed you idly ran fingers along the covers. Movement was good for the imagination and you could easily imagine him sitting back on some lavish chair, feet propped up and a smirk hidden within a well groomed beard with just a touch of grey amongst the hairs. “I heard your message. You sounded a little sad and pathetic. Thought I’d be nice and check in.”
“Hmm,” he mused on the other end of the phone, “is that the lie you’re going with? I’d expect something more angry. You called to tell me off for ruining your evening, alone with your pillows and bad television.” You could hear the smile “And just how many times did you listen to my ‘sad and pathetic’ voice before calling me back?”
You blushed and the absence of a quick reply was proof enough he’d guessed correctly. There was a low chuckle from the other end. “What do you want Crowley?” You asked before he could tease you further.
There was a pause as if he was choosing his next words carefully. After all, it would be far too easy for you to decide you were tired of the conversation and simply hang up. “I have a theory I wanted to test. An offer to make, if you’ll allow me?”
“A theory?”
“All I ask is you let me explain in full before deciding to end the conversation.” He didn’t want you to hang up? What offense was he about to make?
You could end the call now, hang up and… you looked around at the drab walls; be back to your own quiet devices. “I won’t hang up until you’re finished telling me what you want, but you can’t keep rambling just to keep me on the line either.”
A sound of approval came from his voice. “You are smart, pet.” He praised and you felt a tingle down your back. You hated how much you liked his compliments.
There was a short pause, as if he knew the sensation he’d brought on and was allowing you to feel it in full, before he continued.
“The thing is. You and I have had this little back and forth going for some time. You want me even if you won’t admit it, and I blatantly admit to wanting you 69 ways to Sunday.” He had such a way with words. “But of course your propriety and desire to not feel depraved have kept us apart. Are you clenching your fist?” He asked.
You looked down to your free hand which had balled into a fist. “I-“
“It’s your tell, darling.”
“I don’t-“ you started to snap, feeling the heat rise to your face. It was one thing for him to know you. It was another for him to know you better than you did.
Another chuckle. “Every time I say something that peaks your interest, you ball your fist. It makes you mad that I get under your skin, and you want to punch me.”
That much you couldn’t deny. “Make your point please,” you said in growing exasperation.
“That’s the other thing. You get caught up in your own head. You overthink. It’s hard to enjoy rapture when you can’t decide if you should or if it somehow makes you sinful.” He growled the last word, the sudden and unexpected shift causing you to take in a sharp breath.
You said nothing and hoped he hadn’t caught the reaction.
The smug tone of his next sentence implied that he had. “The phone is a great little device. Gives us distance. Allows us to be separate, and yet together. I’m not there for you to see me gloating, and you aren’t here for me to see your expression. Impersonal, yet personal all the same.”
Wait, was he really about to suggest-
“Crowley…” you said slowly in disbelief “did you call me for phone sex?!”
“The other, other, thing is… you enjoy my silver tongue. You enjoy the growl and depth of my voice. You enjoy the way I speak, and all those lovely little pet names I give you. And even if you won’t admit it, you’d enjoy my lips against this receiver even more than on your inner thigh, and I assure you darling, I’d be an expert on your thigh.”
The heat rushed to your face as the imagery caught up to you. The idea of the demon kissing the soft flesh on an oh so personal expanse of skin. Allowing him access to such an area. It was dizzying and caused a slight throb against your lower region. You jolted at the sensation. “I doubt that,” was the only mildly witty comeback you could conjure.
There was the sound of another sip from his glass. Followed by his dropping just an octave lower. “Let’s imagine how you’d like it best shall we?”
You didn’t answer. Nor did you hang up.
“I can see you perched on the edge of my throne. I don’t let anyone sit there, but for you, I’d make an exception. Pulling you forward and tilting your hips so I could devour you. Then you’d bare yourself to me in all the ways that matter.” You gulped at the powerful image of him lavishing you with such affections on his throne.
“Or” he didn’t give you much time to recover “laid back across that sorry excuse for a kitchen table in the tree house. Fine dining to be sure. Always a risk of being caught. You’d have to force yourself to stay quiet, hope no one else wakes up for a midnight snack.” At home, where Sam and Dean could so easily find the two of you. The prospect of being caught in such a position. You were making a fist again and forced yourself to let it go. “I rather like the thought of you on my couch, stretched out across the leather, wearing some little black number and nothing else. Pushing the silk skirt up high to expose you. A nice fire in the corner to make you feel warm and create glistening little drops of sweat down your skin.“
Were you really listening to this?
“I'd place a gentle kiss, yes gentle, you always have to start off that way before being rough,” and oh you did like it rough. “I have to tease you, at least a little.” Each of his words had you ensnared as they built up your interest. The once soft robe was now scraping against hardened nipples as you moved inside the room. Not that you were here anymore. You were in his office, laying back against a leather sofa with his hands on your thighs. Rough hands, soft hands, squeezing hands, or all of the above. You imagined spreading those thighs with the smallest provocation, and letting him prove his prowess. Letting him earn the title of ‘silver tongued’.
“A gentle kiss against your thigh. Then another, lower, a lick here, a nibble there,” you felt the small smile of amusement form on your face and were so glad he couldn’t see it. “Then I’d lean in to where sinners dream to tread and saints are disavowed. My tongue tasting the forbidden fruit of your sex.”
You stopped pacing, knees suddenly weak, and found the bed beneath you. You took a moment, head spinning at the idea until you came back to your senses. Only then did you notice- he had stopped talking. You glanced at the phone to make sure you hadn’t lost connection. How bad could the reception be in hell anyway?
“Crowley?” You said and the wanting tone of your voice came through loud and clear.
“Something you wanted darling? Something you’d like to request?”
He was going to make you ask for more. God you hated him… god you wanted him… normally you could clap back at his barbs and jokes, but your mind was far too busy swimming with imagery for that right now. “You certainly have an active imagination.” You choked out.
“I imagine you taste of spices, sweetness and oak”
You raised a brow “Like your whiskey?”
“I remember how it tasted coming from your mouth, rolling off your tongue and over mine. The way you flicked and curled before pulling out of my reach.” The deal you’d made when he’d been brought to the bunker. Sam and Dean never got the details on how you’d pried the location from him on that one.
You smiled at the memory of the metal snapping tight. “You enjoyed being in chains.”
“So would you. That’s why we work so well together. Neither of us wants complete power all the time. Both of us hate being under someone else’s control. At least for more than the occasional bedroom fun. You’d like being chained, being tied-“
Your nostrils flared. “I would not like being enslaved.”
“I would never,” he said and the playful attitude gave you pause to disbelieve him. “No need to enslave when I can tempt you, when I can whisper sweet words and have you lace yourself up willingly. You’d hate being bound, but you’d love bondage. I guarantee it.”
Your wrists suddenly ached for the need of rope around them. The scratching of raw material across flesh. Pulling to feel resistance and pressure. Nowhere to run and no guilt about not fleeing. A low hum of satisfaction was buried deep inside her chest. Too low for him to hear.
You half sighed. “Maybe… but it’s not been tested.”
You could ask him over. Sam and Dean were gone. It would be just the two of you, alone in the bunker. Or you could meet him at his lair, like some would be comic book heroine descending into the villain’s home that ends up needing saving.
“A shame love. We’ll have to correct that error sometime soon.” He lamented “Are you touching yourself yet?”
You had been so lost that the thought of it hadn’t even occurred to you. “I-” Suddenly you felt embarrassment course through every vein.
“You wearing that god awful tank top and jeans?” He asked playfully enough.
It was your turn to smirk “I just showered. I’m in a robe. Just a robe. Clean and pristine.”
“There’s nothing pristine about you darling… unless you count your tits,” he groaned. You bit your lip at the sound. “Unfasten that sash.” You did as he commanded. “Expose yourself to the air.” It was so cold against your warm body as you stretched over the bed. “Brush a hand against your cheek and pretend it’s mine.” It felt silly at first but the back of your fingers stroked downwards, “over your throat and give it an easy squeeze,” were you into that? You tried it either way, “lower, you chest, your breast, your stomach.” You body flexed at the motion and your breath caught accordingly. “Now your clit…” you shivered, “slip those lovely little digits inside and tell me exactly how wet I’m making you.” He was so fucking arrogant.
Your fingers were doused as you reached between your legs. The warm sensation of playing with yourself, of him playing with you like this. “Soaking,” you answered truthfully.
An approving sound came from the other end of the phone. Was he touching himself as well? You wanted to know, wanted to watch. “Call me your king.” He demanded with desire.
“No.” You said flatly, your voice firm. “I’m not one of your demonic minions, Crowley.” Then, in sheer hope of not offending him your voice grew sweeter, softer. “Crowley,” you ran fingers across your clit again, his name hanging on your lips, “Crowley…”
“I could be your king,” he countered, though he obviously enjoyed your singsonging his name. “You could be my queen, my princess, or my consort.”
Your breathing picked up as your hand worked. It was a struggle to keep the phone against your ear. You didn’t want him on speaker, there was something more intimate about this. Having his voice only for you and not the empty bunker surrounding you. The bunker itself serving as the only witness to your carnal delights.
“I could adorn you in jewels, you’d wear nothing else, as you order me to pay tribute for the sight.” His voice got deeper, darker. “I could bend you over my knee after you defy me in front my court, adding a touch of rose to that perfect ass of yours with well timed strikes.” Your body tightened in anticipation of the spanking you weren’t going to receive, “or tie you up and have my way with you in every dark corner, wherever and whenever I see fit. And you’d moan for me every bloody time.”
You couldn’t help it. The moan that escaped your lungs and passed through the phone.
“Do you want something My Queen, My princess, My slut? Just say the word, and I’ll give you anything your delicious body desires.”
How was he still able to form complete sentences?
“Your-“ you swallowed, realizing for the first time how dry your mouth had become from panting. “Your cock.”
Another approving rumble from his end. “Good girl.” Your whole body shook with the words. “My good fucking girl.” What would it feel like with him inside you while he said that? “Mine,” he growled and your senses went fuzzy. “My cock deep inside you. Filling you and stretching your walls. Hitting your cervix. Gliding in and out. You want me deep, need me to fill every possible inch. All of me, and only for you.”
“Yes,” you whispered.
“Burying myself in your sweet nectar.”
You couldn’t stop the soft laugh. The last word throwing you off but you enjoyed it still. “Don’t stop,” you insisted, afraid he might. “Please don’t stop.” Your fingers twirled, stroked and circled as you tried to get close. The slickness creating less friction than you needed.
“Beg me. Beg your king.”
Through gritted teeth and fading resolve you bit out, “I’m not calling you that.”
“You will if you want off. There’s only one way you’re getting there tonight, and it’ll be when I tell you to.”
You turned your head and whined into the pillow. Feeling yourself so close and yet needing that last little push. He knew you far too well. You hated it, loved it, wanted more. “Please,” you breathed into the phone. Then, with great strain you tried to meet him part way, “your majesty.”
He chuckled with pleasure. “What do you want to call me?” he teased.
“Bastard,” you answered truthfully and there was a hearty laugh on his end. You smiled. “My demon,” with emphasis on the first word.
“Your demon,” he agreed. “Your demon with his cock deep inside you. Kissing you with his silver tongue, running it down your neck, biting your throat,” you felt your legs spread wider in the solitude of the empty room. “Hands caressing your sides and hips. Pulling you into me. Fucking the heaven out of you. Corrupting your very soul with my indecency.”
Only he would talk like that. Your demon. You personal demon that had plagued your for far too long.
“My name on your lips. My cock inside you. My teeth biting your neck. My hands not letting you go. In my bed. In my kingdom. Are you ready darling? Are you awaiting my command?”
You were too far gone. “Fuck”
And in the absolute deepest you had ever heard him, with the darkest tone he’d ever thrown your way, in the absolute most demonic voice he ordered, “Cum for me. Cum for your king.”
And you did. Blinding light swept across your vision, a thundering drum beat to your very core. Shockwaves, bliss and tension coursed through every muscle as you rose to new heights of ecstasy. Panting breath and soft moaning for him to hear. Was he joining you? Thinking of fucking you. Feeling it as your voice trembled against the receiver.
Before your arm could cramp you let go. Body still shaking with aftershock. Face flush and the concept of sin hovering on the barrier of your afterglow, waiting to assault your satisfaction when the timing was right.
When the pounding in your ears subsided It was quiet once again. Too quiet as only your heavy breaths filled the room. Had he finished and left? Were you alone, left alone to face your disgrace? As the world slowly came back in to focus you felt the wave of loathing start to seep in.
“I’d wrap you in something soft” he said, his voice quiet and… caring. At least that’s what you chose to believe. “Slip you between sheets of Egyptian cotton. Praise you as I kissed your neck where bruises start to form. An arm tight around you, holding you close.” You melted at the thought and somehow managed to get beneath your own covers. The robe discarded against the floor. The bunker blankets weren’t so lavish as fine silk or Egyptian cotton and they felt itchy against your bare skin. “Would you like that darling?” He purred.
It was all you wanted in that moment. “I would.”
There was a shuffling sound on the other end. Maybe he was repositioning. Making himself comfortable or perhaps now that he was sated, getting back to work. You frowned at the thought of him leaving.
“You haven’t hung up,” he observed.
You snuggled against your pillow. “I don’t like the quiet.“
“Then I’ll talk and you can listen. You’ll be my captive audience.” He said playfully.
And Crowley proceeded to tell you about his day; the coup he squashed, the deal he made, and the demon he tortured. It wasn’t until sunrise outside the bunker that sleep overtook you. Even when you no longer responded to his questions he kept talking, staying on the phone to be part of your dreams.
Making sure that you weren’t alone.