Summary: Crowley comes to collect a favour he's owed. British!Reader.
The sweet aroma of the hot mocha lifted you into a state of euphoria, and you wrapped careful fingers around the handle of the stained mug before aimlessly lifting it from the kitchen surface, your mind enraptured by the book in your other hand. You were alone, the Winchesters away on a hunt that you'd opted to stay behind for; you were, like your family before you, better suited to more academic work. Bare feet padded into the library, the heavy steps echoing in the emptiness of the bunker, and you finally took a sip from the pale mug, feeling the keen burn of the still-hot fluid flow down your throat, the saccharine flavour kissing at the tip on your tongue before the bitterness of the coffee tore over it like the sea on a stormy day. You eyed the dark liquid for a moment, the colour a lustful temptation of russet and earthy brown, before setting the cup down onto the table sitting meekly in the centre of the room, your focus resetting back to the heavy tome in your tiny palm.
"Hello, darling," an accent not unlike your own came in the form of a gruff baritone, and, against your better judgement, your lips began to curl into a smile. You turned slowly on your heels, leaning against the back of one of the chairs tucked neatly under the table, cigarette jeans clinging to your form with the motion, eyes landing on the demon before you. Adorned, as always, in pitch, the suit he loved so carefully tailored to his slightly round form and the tie, dark and decorated with decadent swirls, hung tightly around his neck. Your gaze was scrupulous as he gave a smile that would be mistaken as genuine were it anyone else, his salt and pepper beard framing the falsity as though it was a painting.
"Crowley," you said, tilting your head in greeting despite Sam and Dean's ever-intruding opinions on the matter. Becoming a hunter had not let you forget your manners. "The boys aren't here, I'm afraid—they're in Illinois, last I checked." You wound your arm behind you to retrieve the coffee from its residence, lifting it up to your lips to drag out a long sip.
"I just came by to chat." He sang as he tucked his hands into his trouser pockets, peering at you through hazel eyes. Your brows knitted together, lips agape, tome forgotten until Crowley's smile widened, cunning fabricating the seams of the gesture. Your tense shoulders slumped and you expertly flipped the page of the book with your thumb.
"You don't chat, Crowley, and I'm not doing you any favours." You stated, a venomous seasoning to your otherwise polite tone, and you found yourself jolting from your somewhat relaxed position at the realisation granted on you thanks to the tome, rushing to the kitchen to collect your phone. The powerful scent of Crowley's cologne seemingly followed you despite the demon remaining in the library—or so you thought, and you raised your head from the book to see the small device in Crowley's grip.
"You seem to have forgotten that you owe me." He cocked his head, proud of his minor feat as he twirled the phone in his hand. "So if you want to save Squirrel and Moose from whatever you're helping them hunt, I suggest you do as you're told."
Your lips pursed and you settled the half-empty mug onto the work surface, brow arched as you looked up at the King of Hell, a chill running up your spine. A few stubborn moments were drawn to a halt by a heavy huff, and Crowley triumphantly pressed your phone into your palm, leaning down to whisper darkly in your ear.
"Rescue the boys, and then you'll tell Daddy everything he needs to know about our favourite prophet."
He brushed past you, expensive dress shoes tapping away at the wooden floor before he finally made himself comfortable back in the library. A quiet but aggravated 'bollocks' left you, well aware that whatever euphoria the beverage growing cold on the surface had given you had been dashed away with little effort, and you tipped the remaining brew down the sink before dialling in Dean's number.
Probably my favourite Crowley one shot I've written so far. I wanted to write a British reader-specific fic because I got sick of reading fics where the reader gushes over Crowley's accent. I mean, I love it too but as a British gal mahself, I'm not exactly fainting at the sound of it, y'know? Plus, I was really craving a good mocha while writing this.