Request: @alikat7 Requesting - Crowley x reader. Crowley introduces his new woman to Rowena.
Summary: Crowley introduces you to his Mother. It goes exactly as he thought it would. [wc 712] [ao3]
Warnings: none?
The first thing you notice about the place is that it doesn’t feel like a home. It feels like a test. Dim lighting. Expensive furniture that looks like no one actually sits on it. A faint scent of something sharp—spells, probably. Or something worse.
And at the center of it all sits Rowena. She’s lounging like she owns not just the room, but reality itself. Fingers tapping lazily against the armrest, red hair catching the low light like fire.
Her eyes land on you. And sharpen. “Well,” she hums, voice silk-wrapped venom, “that’s new.”
You feel Crowley before you hear him—his presence sliding in beside you, casual but deliberate. His hand brushes your lower back, not quite possessive, but not accidental either.
“Mother,” he says dryly, “do try to contain your excitement.”
Rowena’s gaze flicks between you both, slow and assessing. “…You brought a human into my home,” she says, like she’s tasting the words and finding them lacking.
“Not just any human,” Crowley replies, a smirk curling at his lips. “Do keep up.”
Your stomach flips slightly. That tone—half amusement, half warning.
Rowena notices. Of course she does. “Oh?” She leans forward now, interest piqued. “And what exactly makes this one so… special?”
Crowley doesn’t answer right away. Instead, his thumb brushes once—once—against your side. Grounding. Claiming. “…She’s mine.”
The temperature in the room drops. Not dramatically. Just enough to notice.
Rowena goes very still. But then she laughs. “Oh, Fergus,” she sighs, shaking her head, “you always did have a flair for dramatics.” Her gaze slides back to you, slower this time. Sharper. “You expect me to believe you’ve grown attached?”
Crowley’s smile doesn’t falter. But something underneath it does. “Believe whatever you like,” he says lightly. “Doesn’t make it any less true.”
That lands. You feel it. So does she. Rowena rises in one smooth, predatory motion, circling you like she’s inspecting a piece of art she’s not sure she likes yet. You hold your ground—but barely.
There’s power rolling off her in waves. Old. Dangerous. Curious in the worst way.
“Tell me, darling,” she murmurs, coming to a stop just a little too close, “did he tell you what he is?”
You don’t answer immediately. Instead, you glance at Crowley. He’s watching you. Not controlling. Not interrupting. Just… waiting.
Your choice. “I know enough,” you say finally.
Rowena arches a brow. “And yet you stayed.” There’s something almost impressed in her tone now. Almost.
Behind you, Crowley shifts—subtle, but there. Closer. Like a shadow tightening.
Rowena notices that too. Her lips curl. “Oh, this is rich,” she laughs softly. “The King of Hell, hovering like a lovesick schoolboy.”
“I’d watch that mouth, if I were you,” Crowley mutters. But there’s no real bite in it. Not yet.
Rowena’s gaze flicks between you again.Then something changes. Not softer. But… curious. “…does she know?” Rowena asks suddenly.
Crowley’s expression hardens just slightly. “Know what?”
Rowena smiles—sharp and knowing. “That you don’t bring anyone here unless you’re planning on keeping them.”
Your breath catches.
Crowley doesn’t respond. Which—somehow—is worse than if he had.
Rowena turns back to you, tilting her head. “Be careful, dear,” she says, almost gently now. “My son doesn’t do anything halfway.” A pause. Her eyes flick to Crowley. “He consumes.”
The silence that follows is thick. Charged. Crowley exhales sharply, stepping fully to your side now. Close enough that his presence blocks some of Rowena’s intensity. “That’s quite enough, Mother.” His tone has shifted. Less playful. More final.
Rowena studies him for a long moment. She smiles. Slow. Satisfied. “…oh, I see,” she murmurs.
And just like that, You’re no longer the most interesting thing in the room. He is.
“Well then,” she says, turning away, utterly unbothered, “this should be entertaining.” She glances back over her shoulder, eyes gleaming. “For both of us.”
Crowley scoffs under his breath. But his hand finds yours this time. Fully. Fingers threading through like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Like he’s done it a hundred times. Like he plans to do it a hundred more. And the entire time— Rowena is watching. Smiling like she’s already ten steps ahead of whatever the hell she was thinking.
A friend recently introduced me to x reader fics, and honestly, my life has been so much better ever since. I’ve spent so many wonderful nights reading them…..tysm…….btw, i read aziraphale and crowley x reader fic do u like that?
[SPN Crowley x hunter!Reader] Let Me Be Here For You | One Shot
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Crowley/Reader
Characters: Crowley, Reader
Rating: General Audiences
Words: 1,002
Synopsis: Y/N and Crowley were supposed to have a date night. Except things do not go as planned: the hunter goes through a chronic pain flare up.
Tags: Gender-Neutral Reader-Insert, Hunter Reader-Insert, Hunter!Reader, Fluff, Sickfic, Chronic Pain, Soft Crowley (Supernatural), Slight Destiel mention, Slight Juliet the Hellhound mention, Romantic Fluff, Short One Shot, Chronically Ill Reader-Insert, Established Relationship, Massage, Crowley x reader
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
As I'm freed from uni and finally having a bit of life back into my body, I've been digging through my old x reader drafts (circa 2023/2024) to finish some of them and post them!!!! So here's one I started to write when I had chronic pain flare ups to try to lift my spirit up a bit! It's short, but I hope you'll enjoy nonetheless!
explicit ✨ edinburgh!crowley x ftm!reader ✨ good omens ✨ 12m
🔖 accents, chair sex, creampie, drugged sex, drunk sex, established relationship, marking, recreational drug use, trans character, trans male character, vaginal sex.
✧ read below or on ao3 ✧
🍒 author’s note: this was low-key rushed but i needed to get it out of my head.
Rain lashes against the windowpanes of the Edinburgh flat; a heavy, relentless Scottish deluge that turns the cobblestones below into slick, black mirrors. Inside, however, the world is reduced to the amber glow of a roaring hearth and a profound, unbothered warmth. Crowley is blissfully melting into his favourite armchair.
For the better part of twenty years, Scotland has been a sanctuary. Two decades of wandering through the Highlands, tracing the sharp lines of towering gothic architecture and drinking liquor that burns like fire in his throat. He loves all of it; the sweeping wools and dramatic tailoring of the current fashion, the moody landmarks, the wonderfully relaxed local drug laws, and, above all else, you.
Living here with you in this quiet, domestic slice of the 19th century has been some of the happiest decades of his agonisingly long existence. He loves this place so deeply that the sharp, lilting cadence of a Scottish accent has long since settled into his chest, becoming his default tongue whenever he speaks to the shopkeepers, the locals and to you. It's a habit of his — a tell, really — reserved only for the rare corners of the earth that manage to get into his good graces.
Right now, though, he isn't doing much speaking. He's simply waiting for you to get home.
The afternoon had brought a bit of a chill so he'd treated himself to his favourite remedy for a damp day; a heavy crystal glass of rich, ruby port, spiked with a generous splash of laudanum. By now, the concoction has done its beautiful, lazy work. Crowley is delightfully sluggish; a heavy warmth pooling in his limbs, leaving him loose and just a little bit giddy.
He's stripped down to his comforts; his heavy frock coat and waistcoat are tossed carelessly over a nearby settee. He sits, sprawling, in the armchair, wearing only his loose, dark poet shirt — which is unbuttoned nearly to his stomach, exposing the pale expanse of his chest and the sprinkling of dark hair across it — his tight breeches and his boots. His serpentine eyes are half-lidded, tracking the flames, a soft, dopey smile playing on his lips.
The rain outside can do what it likes. The world can spin how it pleases. In here, the fire is hot, the laudanum is humming sweetly in his veins and, any moment now, the lock on the front door will turn and you will walk through it.
The storm cracks outside as he traces the rim of his glass with a fingertip. The opium haze has his thoughts swimming in a fuzzy haze as his gaze flickers to the door, willing you to walk through it. You; his person, his love, his everything that has made this era worth living in.
Finally, the door-latch clicks open and you hurry in from the rain.
"Christ, it's chucking it down out there!" You call into the flat as you quickly close and lock the door behind you. Crowley's grin widens as you stumble in from the rain, soaked and shivering. He raises his glass in a lazy toast.
"Thir's mah handsome lad." He drawls, his voice thick with drink. "Come warm yersel' up afore ye catch pneumonia." With a tired but infinitely fond smile, you hang up your coat and turn to walk into the modest sitting room.
"Evening." You murmur as he reaches a hand out, beckoning. His gaze is soft, the firelight highlighting the sharp angles of his high cheekbones.
"Come 'ere." The adopted accent curls lazily around the words. You reach out to take his hand, noting his state of undress.
"You look comfortable." You observe as his long, slender fingers weave their way into yours. He tugs you closer, encouraging you to step closer, between his endlessly-long, sprawled limbs.
"Never better." He gives you that wide smile and you see a flash of his teeth, white in the firelight. Your eyes flick down to the half-empty glass in his other hand and you lift a brow, teasingly reprimanding.
"How much have you had to drink?" You ask and he holds up the glass, peering at it for a long moment before downing the contents and setting it down on the side-table with a thud.
"Enough tea tak' th' edge off." He replies and you laugh.
"And what 'edge' would that be?"
"Th' edge o' bein' apairt from ye all day, ye daft bastard." It takes you aback somewhat; Crowley isn't exactly known for being open and honest with his feelings. Unless, of course, he's terribly drunk. He pulls you down until you're perched on his knee.
"So about four bottles?" You assume and he presses his lips into a thoughtful pout, brows knitting.
"Aye. Maybe five. Or six. 'Tis a bit blurry. The laudanum helps wi' th'—"
"I thought you'd gotten rid of your stash." You sigh heavily, interrupting him.
"Well…" His expression turns almost sheepish. "Ah may hae kept a wee bit. For medicinal purposes." Your eyes soften in resignation as you lean over, lightly scratching your fingers through his chest hair.
"So long as you don't do yourself an injury." You want him and he arches contentedly into your touch, like a panther or tiger getting a belly rub.
"Ah'm fiiiine. Tis nae lik' Ah'm takin' it ev'ryday. Jist…whin Ah'm wantin' tae relax." His words are slightly slurred but, due to his nature, you know he'll be just fine. You lean down to press a kiss to his temple.
"Just don't overdo it." Large hands settle on your hips as he presses his cheek against your shoulder, breathing you in.
"Aye, aye…"
Reaching down, you unbutton your waistcoat and toss it over onto the settee opposite, joining his discarded clothes. You unbutton your shirt until the suffocating nature of the stiff collar is no longer strangling you.
He tracks your movements with hazy, slitted eyes, a sound rumbling in his chest; something between a groan and a purr. A hand slides under your shirt, his palm pressing against the small of your back. "Mmm… Bonnie lad…" He mumbles, his voice smooth and velvety. He leans in closer, nose brushing your neck as he drinks in the scent of you. You take him in as well; smelling the sweetness of the port and the earthiness of the opiate on his breath.
"Crowley…" At your sigh, he presses a kiss to the pulse throbbing in your neck, his hand sliding further up your shirt until his fingertips brush the curve of your shoulder blade. Wet, open-mouthed kisses are planted along your jawline and you shiver.
"Aye?"
"You really shouldn't… Not when you're like this." You say and he pouts again.
"Why no'?" A hand cups your cheek, his thumb moving to lightly press at your bottom lip. "Ah'm feelin' grand…"
"I don't…want to take advantage of you." You assert and he pulls back immediately, the earnest look in his eyes slicing through the daze of his stupor.
"Dinnae be daft. Ye couldnae tak' advantage o' me." He insists.
"But you're— You're drunk, you're vulnerable! I could do anything to you." It isn't a threat; you would never. It's a worry.
Crowley catches your face between his hands, amber eyes unblinking in the firelight.
"Ah'm drunk, no' helpless." He states firmly. "Ah trust ye."
With a sigh, you wrap your arms around his shoulders and press your face into his neck. He instantly melts against you, long arms looping around your waist to hold you steady. He smells like port, expensive opium, rain and something inherently ancient.
He pulls back slightly but doesn't release his hold on you. You go to speak but the words die in your throat as you feel the wet muscle of his tongue tracing the shell of your ear. A deep chuckle rumbles in his chest, his words coming out in a slurred, honeyed drawl. "Dinnae fash yersel', darlin'… Ye dinnae need tae worry aboot a thing…" He purrs.
That long, wet, serpentine tongue snakes into your ear and you can feel his hot breath fanning against the side of your face. Your breath stutters in your chest, your fingers curling into the loose fabric of his shirt.
"C-Crowley…" It comes out as more of a moan than a scolding. His hand slides along the length of your spine to hold you steady.
"Aye, tha's it…" He slurs against your ear. "Jist relax fur me. Wannae taste ev'ry inch o' ye…" You shudder, feeling the warmth of his body enveloping you, the slickness squirming in your ear, how deeply he can possess you. His movements become more deliberate, almost hypnotic, and it makes your blood run hot.
When it finally slithers back out again, he doesn't give you a moment to breathe before he presses his lips to yours, his tongue slipping between your lips to explore once again. "Ah want ye…" He hisses against your mouth, devouring any sounds that build in the back of your throat as you melt into him. "Git up and turn aroond."
You find yourself obeying before you even register it, standing from your perch on his thigh to face away from him, his long legs sliding between your own. A gasp leaves your throat as he hooks his fingers into your breeches and underthings, tugging them down to expose your rear as his other hand works the buttons on his own trousers. He admires the sight of you and strokes both palms over your soft, creamy flesh. "Absolutely perfect." He murmurs, trailing his fingers along your inner thighs to find you already wet, already wanting.
Straightening in his armchair, Crowley passes a hand through his red curls and wraps a tight fist around his cock, smearing pre over the crown. "C'mere, pet." He pats his thigh again. "Le's git tha' leakin' cunny filled up, aye?"
His free hand reaches up to grasp your hip, guiding you down. He positions you above him, your thighs bracketing his own, and notches the head of his cock into your cunt. "Easy…" He breathes. "Let it…sink in…" You bite your lip as he slowly pulls you down, filling you with that familiar heat that you've grown to adore and crave.
He groans low in his throat as if it physically hurts him to restrain himself to such a torturous pace but, when you finally bottom out and your feet are lifted from the floor, he's buried to the hilt and his head tips back to rest against the back of the armchair. "Thare ye are…"
You begin slowly rolling your hips down; difficult, given the fact that you have no purchase on the floor. The heat of the room is suddenly suffocating and you can feel sweat beading along your skin. "Ride it, pet…" He purrs, sitting up to wrap his arms around your stomach, his chest against your back.
There are more kisses on your neck, wet and heated, and, as you arch into him, the angle lets you take him deeper, pulling a soft whine from your mouth. "Spread yer legs wider, love." You do, letting him possess you completely as he leaves red, sucking bruises on your nape. "Tha's a guid lad…"
Your legs are spread obscenely wide over his thighs, trapping your feet off the floor and leaving you effectively suspended. He licks two fingers, slicking them with saliva, before slipping his hand between your legs to rub at the sensitive bundle of nerves there. You clench around him and he rocks his hips ever so slightly, grinding into you.
Tilting your head, you capture his lips in a messy, hungry kiss, letting him swallow your moans and whimpers as he throbs inside you. Every jerk, every tremor through your body; he feels them and you clench around him, every slow thrust bringing you closer to undoing. Neither of you can last long, not like this.
When he releases your lips, you bury your face in the side of his neck, your breaths coming in short bursts. His forehead presses to your temple, his fingers circling your clit in small, perfect circles. "Let go, pet. Ah'm right here. Cum fur me, let it go…"
You go completely still, pulsing violently around him. Your bud throbs under his fingers as you finish. You're gasping into his neck, grabbing the arms of the chair with white-knuckled intensity. You let out a breathless sob, milking him for all he has. He holds you up effortlessly, head pushing back into the cushion as he spends. Hot, thick spurts coat your tender inner walls and he hisses out a bitten-back curse against your temple as the excess oozes out around his cock.
You stay in his lap as you pass through, into the afterglow, feeling him soften pleasantly inside you. The both of you are breathing heavy but thoroughly satisfied, the chill of the evening long since chased away. His hands roam over your body, lips pressing endless kisses to your temple, hairline and cheek. "Thare ye go…" He sighs, resting his chin on your shoulder, hands rubbing slowly against your lower belly.
"I think I might need to lie down after that…" You huff out a breathless laugh and he nods.
"Aye, Ah think ye might be right." Your body has gone completely boneless in his arms. He drops one last, lingering kiss to your cheek and you return the favour with one to his temple. "C'mon, lad. Le's git ye intae bed."
and if you got this far, it'd be lovely if you dropped me a kudos or a comment (whatever you have time for) on ao3. thanks for reading 💛✨
Crowley returns home after a tiring day. The ghost he married is very happy about this.
Masterpost
hi I wrote this at like 2 a.m. a day or two ago bc the lack of Crowley content was driving me mad. please enjoy. also if you saw this on ao3 no you didn’t.
Crowley groans softly as he collapses into bed, bones aching from a mixture of age and wear. Being Headmage is exhausting, especially with Ashengrotto showing up to request more school resources for his café. Dealing with this specific group of students is the bane of his school career, he’d swear to it. How kind he is for still putting up with it.
The man has already left his coat in the main room, but he doesn’t have the energy to get up and fully change yet.
A gentle touch meets his hair, two cold hands starting to gently massage his weary bones.
An echoing voice flows like a gentle balm on his ears after today. Your hands move slower as they reach his shoulder blades, pressing into the very old scar tissue that resides there through his clothes.
“Welcome back. I take work wasn’t well?”
You coo at the man, one hand leaving his back to start removing accessories. Rings and gloves first, each removed carefully with a kiss pressed to his bare palms when done.
Crowley shivers softly and leans into the touch, seeking affection as is expected from him.
“You’re right, unfortunately enough…” Crowley sighs, “Was your day at least better than mine?”
The man lifts himself up to help undress and get into more comfortable clothing, he’s simply so kind as to not make someone he cares about so much do too much work.
“Oh yes. It was quite peaceful here, if a bit boring,” you remark with a hint of amusement, “that bird you dislike came around again. He had some nice peaches for breakfast today.”
Crowley frowns at this. “The raven? That pest knows better than to keep begging for food.”
The man grumbles as he slips into the extravagant robe, the mask hiding his annoyed and jealous expression. Not that it does much against his spouse, but that can be ignored.
“He’s just a bird, sweetie,” you laugh softly at the theatrics. “No need for all of this.”
“He’s- he’s taking our food!”
Crowleys attempt at a defense is weak, and both of you know it. You finally appear visually in front of him with an expression that shows it.
“It’s half of one fruit. D’you want to try that excuse again?”
“…No. My point stands, he should stay away.”
You sigh, amused by mostly fed up with your husband.
“Stupid excuses…” You mumble, floating over to the bed and dragging Crowley with you.
The two lay down, already entangling with each other in ways only a ghost could enable.
“You wound me. With how great of a husband I am, I don’t deserve this treatment.”
Crowley laments, but he receives a kiss for his efforts. A very pleasant reward, he thinks.
“That treatment there? I see, how terrible a lover I must be, then.”
You joke, removing the mask hiding Crowleys lovely gold eyes and setting it aside to truly kiss the man.
The cold of the kiss feels like home, and Crowley couldn’t hope to be anywhere better. You move down to nuzzle into his neck. And perhaps bite a bit, if you feel like it.
