Crowley lounged comfortably on a grand velvet couch, one arm draped over the back, legs crossed lazily at the ankle. His ever-present smirk tugged at his lips as he observed you standing before him, shifting your weight from one foot to the other.

The air between you was thick, charged with something unspoken.

“My, my,” he drawled, propping his chin against his knuckles. “You’re looking particularly tense today, darling. Trouble?”

You huffed, crossing your arms. “I ran out.”

He blinked. Then, his grin widened, all sharp fangs and amusement.

“Oh?” Crowley tilted his head. “You know, you could’ve just taken one of those weak little fledglings outside—”

“I don’t like their blood.” You wrinkled your nose, expression shifting into something pouty. “It’s disgusting. Not rich enough.”

Crowley chuckled, utterly charmed. “Ahhh, I see.” He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, his red eyes gleaming with mischief. “And what are you proposing, then?”

You hesitated for only a moment. Then, without a hint of shame, you stepped between his legs, bracing your hands on his shoulders as you leaned in.

“You know what I want, Crowley.”

Oh, he knew.

He had known for quite some time now, ever since the first time he had allowed you to drink from him—just a taste, just to see what would happen.

And, oh… the way your lips had parted, the way your lashes had fluttered, the way you had shuddered as his blood slid down your throat.

It had been intoxicating.

“You’re terribly spoiled,” he murmured, lifting a hand to tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear. “What am I going to do with you?”

You gave him a look, the kind that told him you were about two seconds away from sinking your fangs into his throat whether he gave you permission or not.

Crowley loved that look.

With a low chuckle, he tilted his head to the side, baring his neck for you in a way that sent a delightful shiver of anticipation through your body.

“Go on then,” he purred, lips curving in amusement. “Drink to your heart’s content.”