Written for lightningnymph on tumblr, who prompted, "GO!Crowley/SPN!Crowley. Trying to outdo each other." Not sure it's exactly what you were looking for - the prompt kind of ran away with me - but I hope you like it!
He hadn't started out trying to seduce the king of Hell. He hadn't started out trying to seduceanyone, really – sexual corruption wasn't his game, too complicated and messy and human – but he might have kind of accidentally done so.
But it wasn't his fault. Not really. It had been Crowley who'd flirted first, used that soft, dangerous, almost-drawl of his as he circled Crawly and raised his eyebrows and licked his lips slowly. And okay, so maybe he hadn't quite ignored it, had maybe flirted back a little, but so what? It didn't mean anything, not really, he was only here to do his millennial report, he wasn't planning on seducing his boss.
Okay, so he might have insinuated he wanted to kiss Crowley in there somewhere.
Might have.
But he hadn't meant it, not really. Not properly.
Or, at least, he doesn't think he meant it, but it's a bit hard to tell when he's on hands and knees in Hell's throne room, bare skin going numb against the cold, unforgiving marble as his boss slips one, two, three fingers into him, slick and easy and obscene. The slick noise of it echoes in the empty hall, along with Crawly's soft whimpers as he presses himself back onto those fingers.
They've not even kissed yet, which Crawly thinks is a shame, considering that's how this all started, and it would be a wonderful way to shut his mouthy boss up. But he's not going to give up and pull away, not going to show weakness, not now. Weakness is death in Hell, strength is everything.
Not that he particularly minds being strong for this, as the fingers spread wide and thick, stretching him, making him see stars. The fingers probe and press and search, before brushing up against that small bundle of nerves that makes him cry out before he remembers he's supposed to be trying to be silent, be strong.
The noise that comes out of his mouth when Crowley finally, finally pushes in, still fully clothed in that immaculate suit of his, isn't even human.
"Good boy, well done, good," murmurs Crowley softly, the front of his suit rough against Crawly's back as he leans over to whisper gentle encouragements in the demon's ear, as if he's not thrusting hard enough to steal Crawly's breath, as if he's not fucking him right there on the black marble floors where anyone could walk in and see.
As if Crawly's not gasping out obscenities and grinding back against the thick cock filling him up as if his life depends on it, because he'll be damned (again) if he's going to lose this one, if he's going to be the first to come.
Behind him, Crowley sounds as if he's going for a light jog in the park, silent other than slightly roughened breathing and the occasional grunt of satisfaction, lips curved up into a savage grin at the way the lesser demon twists below him – not trying to escape, but to goad, to challenge. Too often, after he took his throne, his underlings have bowed and scraped and cowered in fear of his power. As they should do, but it gets so awfully boring sometimes, and he does so love a challenge.
Which is why he pushes Crawly, reaches around and curls thick fingers tight around his cock, jerking him off with quick, rough, efficient strokes, murmurs low and filthy in his ear, "c'mon, darling, come for me pet, that's a good whore." And the demon hisses at him, actually hisses, and it's adorable that he thinks the sound's in any way defiant, especially when his cock's twitching and pulsing in Crowley's hand and marking the dark floors with pale cream.
Crowley pulls out then, still hard and throbbing, taking himself in hand and focusing on the way Crawly's breathing's gone soft and ragged, body, collapsed to his elbows and cheek pressed against the solid marble. It takes barely half a dozen strokes before he's coming across the demon's naked back and hair with a sharp grunt, lips curling up into viciously satisfied smile.
"Good boy," he murmurs softly, thumb rubbing at the curve of one thin, brown shoulder blade, and Crawly shudders beneath his touch as if his skin's suddenly gone three sizes too small.
"You win," he whispers, voice hoarse as if he's been screaming instead of whimpering. "You win."
Of course Crowley wins. He always wins. He's not the king of Hell for nothing, but still, the way the lesser demon says it – as if it's a reluctant acquiescence, a hard-earned right that Crowley's just gained – amuses him. He likes this one, defiant and full of spark as he is.
"I know," he says simply, tucking himself back into his trousers and smoothing the creases of his suit, before tangling a hand in Crawly's hair and pushing his head down. "Now be a pet and clean up that mess you've made, I'm entertaining an archduke in half an hour."