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emerald_embersTitle: Just a Slip of the Tongue
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Castiel/Crowley
Rating: PG
Word Count: 958
Summary: It's all a question of taste.
The funny thing is, or so Crowley supposes, that he doesn't really have to make an effort in the end.
Castiel is as uncomfortable an ally as Crowley has ever had but at least the angel seems to have a sense of the true gravity of the situation, which is more than he can say for the Winchesters; and being cut off from heaven, Castiel doesn't have the ability to simply wipe Crowley from existence with a look.
It's still unsettling to hear the rustle of wings whenever the angel appears and to know that if Castiel were to leave his vessel it would leave Crowley blinded, but thankfully the angel seems guileless enough; even if Crowley could swear he'd heard mutterings about smiting whenever their frequent arguments took a turn for the worse.
It's an uneasy alliance but since when have such things been otherwise between angels and demons? Crowley's a salesman, he's used to handling contracts, and being on good terms with your business partner isn't always a necessity.
It starts off small; the angel doesn't even seem to think twice about accepting the mojito Crowley prepares for him as they look over a Latin scroll where even to Crowley's eyes the text is illegible; Castiel on the other hand can read a little beyond what human eyes, borrowed or otherwise, can see. He might have lost most of his powers but certain quirks of perception are still there.
When Castiel accepts the mojito it's hard to resist seeing where the angel's limits lie; and moreover, where his tastes lie. Rum certainly turns out to be a favourite, and Castiel makes a genuine quiet sigh of pleasure when Crowley treats him to a strawberry daiquiri for the first time.
But cocktails are frivolous and after a while Crowley finds himself intrigued by this angel who not only accepts alcohol from a demon, but has preferences; he eases away from the mixes to trying Castiel out with wines and spirits and liqueurs, and he supposes he shouldn't honestly be so surprised when the angel turns out to have something of a sweet tooth.
What is a surprise is realising that his interest in the angel's tastes isn't quite as detached as he thought. A night comes when Crowley calls on Castiel to provide additional safeguarding for his current residence by blessing the water supply - Crowley technically could do the job himself but there's no way he's standing within five metres of that much holy water, and Castiel doesn't object because demons are demons as far as he's concerned. Crowley thanks the angel for the work without actually saying 'thank you', pours the angel a glass of Baileys, and wonders how he's managed to slip through the net of Castiel's black and white view on demons as Castiel takes a sip.
At first he prepares to grab a trashcan when the angel freezes up, assumes politeness is the one thing stopping Castiel from spitting or vomiting, but then Castiel swallows with a sound that is - and there's no other word for it - orgasmic. It's an outright moan that sends a shiver electric down Crowley's spine and there's an awkward moment when they both look at each other before Crowley clears his throat and walks away, leaving Castiel to the glass in peace.
It is the best part of a fortnight before circumstance forces Castiel to his residence again, Castiel calling in the favour of the blessing in exchange for a very particular variety of herb that Crowley knows well enough to possess and well enough not to touch without the assistance of a few very well-trusted hands.
He pours Castiel a glass of Baileys again while waiting on the parcel to be brought down from the attic - and it will never cease to amuse him how those who have raided or attempted to raid his properties in the past always, always head for the basement first; even angelic invaders don't think to start at the top and work their way down - and watches the angel take it in hands that do for just a split second seem to hesitate.
Castiel sips with slow deliberation, muscles tense with resisting the urge to react, and Crowley realises he isn't going to hear another moan for as long as the angel continues to distrust him.
He can't exactly blame the angel for distrusting him - he is a demon after all, and content in being one - but after the parcel is brought up, Crowley gestures for his assistants to leave and rather than inching closer on the sofa like a teenager, takes the glass from Castiel's hands, feeling the faint warmth from Castiel's fingers still lingering on the surface as he puts it down on the coffee table.
Castiel stares at him with wide eyes like a frightened animal, and it's hard to resist turning predatory given his own tendencies, but he manages; the thought that if Castiel ever gets his powers back he could destroy Crowley certainly manages to tame any urge to take advantage.
The angel actually shivers when Crowley cups his face in one hand, brushing his thumb across lips still damp with whiskey and cream, and Crowley knows better than to play the relative morality game with an angel. It's easier just to say, "After I got out of Hell I had to wait three hundred years for them to invent that," and watch Castiel's expression turn from fear to borderline confusion before he leans in and licks the sweetness straight back out of Castiel's mouth.
The angel doesn't protest and the moan that escapes his lips, even muffled, is every bit as electric as it was at that first taste.
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Castiel/Crowley
Rating: PG
Word Count: 958
Summary: It's all a question of taste.
The funny thing is, or so Crowley supposes, that he doesn't really have to make an effort in the end.
Castiel is as uncomfortable an ally as Crowley has ever had but at least the angel seems to have a sense of the true gravity of the situation, which is more than he can say for the Winchesters; and being cut off from heaven, Castiel doesn't have the ability to simply wipe Crowley from existence with a look.
It's still unsettling to hear the rustle of wings whenever the angel appears and to know that if Castiel were to leave his vessel it would leave Crowley blinded, but thankfully the angel seems guileless enough; even if Crowley could swear he'd heard mutterings about smiting whenever their frequent arguments took a turn for the worse.
It's an uneasy alliance but since when have such things been otherwise between angels and demons? Crowley's a salesman, he's used to handling contracts, and being on good terms with your business partner isn't always a necessity.
It starts off small; the angel doesn't even seem to think twice about accepting the mojito Crowley prepares for him as they look over a Latin scroll where even to Crowley's eyes the text is illegible; Castiel on the other hand can read a little beyond what human eyes, borrowed or otherwise, can see. He might have lost most of his powers but certain quirks of perception are still there.
When Castiel accepts the mojito it's hard to resist seeing where the angel's limits lie; and moreover, where his tastes lie. Rum certainly turns out to be a favourite, and Castiel makes a genuine quiet sigh of pleasure when Crowley treats him to a strawberry daiquiri for the first time.
But cocktails are frivolous and after a while Crowley finds himself intrigued by this angel who not only accepts alcohol from a demon, but has preferences; he eases away from the mixes to trying Castiel out with wines and spirits and liqueurs, and he supposes he shouldn't honestly be so surprised when the angel turns out to have something of a sweet tooth.
What is a surprise is realising that his interest in the angel's tastes isn't quite as detached as he thought. A night comes when Crowley calls on Castiel to provide additional safeguarding for his current residence by blessing the water supply - Crowley technically could do the job himself but there's no way he's standing within five metres of that much holy water, and Castiel doesn't object because demons are demons as far as he's concerned. Crowley thanks the angel for the work without actually saying 'thank you', pours the angel a glass of Baileys, and wonders how he's managed to slip through the net of Castiel's black and white view on demons as Castiel takes a sip.
At first he prepares to grab a trashcan when the angel freezes up, assumes politeness is the one thing stopping Castiel from spitting or vomiting, but then Castiel swallows with a sound that is - and there's no other word for it - orgasmic. It's an outright moan that sends a shiver electric down Crowley's spine and there's an awkward moment when they both look at each other before Crowley clears his throat and walks away, leaving Castiel to the glass in peace.
It is the best part of a fortnight before circumstance forces Castiel to his residence again, Castiel calling in the favour of the blessing in exchange for a very particular variety of herb that Crowley knows well enough to possess and well enough not to touch without the assistance of a few very well-trusted hands.
He pours Castiel a glass of Baileys again while waiting on the parcel to be brought down from the attic - and it will never cease to amuse him how those who have raided or attempted to raid his properties in the past always, always head for the basement first; even angelic invaders don't think to start at the top and work their way down - and watches the angel take it in hands that do for just a split second seem to hesitate.
Castiel sips with slow deliberation, muscles tense with resisting the urge to react, and Crowley realises he isn't going to hear another moan for as long as the angel continues to distrust him.
He can't exactly blame the angel for distrusting him - he is a demon after all, and content in being one - but after the parcel is brought up, Crowley gestures for his assistants to leave and rather than inching closer on the sofa like a teenager, takes the glass from Castiel's hands, feeling the faint warmth from Castiel's fingers still lingering on the surface as he puts it down on the coffee table.
Castiel stares at him with wide eyes like a frightened animal, and it's hard to resist turning predatory given his own tendencies, but he manages; the thought that if Castiel ever gets his powers back he could destroy Crowley certainly manages to tame any urge to take advantage.
The angel actually shivers when Crowley cups his face in one hand, brushing his thumb across lips still damp with whiskey and cream, and Crowley knows better than to play the relative morality game with an angel. It's easier just to say, "After I got out of Hell I had to wait three hundred years for them to invent that," and watch Castiel's expression turn from fear to borderline confusion before he leans in and licks the sweetness straight back out of Castiel's mouth.
The angel doesn't protest and the moan that escapes his lips, even muffled, is every bit as electric as it was at that first taste.
