[Fanfic] - Objects of Impressive Size
Fandom: Supernatural
Characters: Crowley
Rating: Teen
Word count: 620
Spoilers: 8.22
Summary: One moment he'd been taking notes and bemoaning the state of modern literature and the next, well, let’s just say that discovering himself in the Supernatural novels was a more than welcome reprieve.
Written for mmom
Living in Hell had its perks, Crowley had to admit. Consistently warm weather. Sprawling real estate. The distant screams from the racks that never quite dissipated. And best of all, his own office. Classy, elegant, and well-appointed. Much like himself.
Save for the pile of trash fiction spread out across his desk like a cheap whore.
The not unimpressively sized oeuvre of one Carver Edlund was an ode to staggeringly bad taste, if ever there was one. Fitting, considering its subject matter. The Winchesters wouldn't know class if it walked right up to them, dropped to its knees, and sucked their brains out through their cocks. But the books were key to getting a leg up on the lads (as opposed to a leg over- even a demon like himself had standards) and putting an end to whatever pathetic scheme they were so desperately trying to pull off.
A scheme Crowley had no intention of letting see daylight. Those boys were pissing all over his playground and touching all his toys and he was done playing voyeur. He was going to find their deepest, darkest secrets and he was going to tear at them until they cracked and crumbled and broke at his feet.
Crowley shifted in his seat. Made him tingly just thinking about it.
Those plaid-for-brains morons were about to discover just how impotent they really were and Crowley was going to enjoy every single minute of it. He was going to take away everything that gave their life meaning, and he was going do it with a smile.
And possibly a wank.
Granted, that wasn’t part of the original plan. One moment he'd been taking notes and bemoaning the state of modern literature and the next, well, let’s just say that discovering himself in the Supernatural novels was a more than welcome reprieve.
(As a point of fact, he’d dropped the damn book like holy water, fumbled at his belt, and ended up slumped forward in his chair, breathing hard and wondering quite literally what in hell had just happened.)
It had only gone downhill from there. Rather, it had gone up. Frequently and with great enthusiasm.
Coincidentally, he was far less likely to want to gouge his own eyes while researching the greatest hits of the Bobbsey Twins. Particularly when he got to the parts with, ‘“Hello Darling”’’ and ‘the impenetrable armor of his black on black suit’ and ‘a voice like liquid silk.’
Glancing at his watch, Crowley let himself relax and eased back in his sinfully expensive office chair. Plenty of time to kill. And so he reached for one of the books and - speaking of objects of impressive size - let his free hand drift downwards to where he could already feel a rush of heat building.
The best part, he figured, as his fist closed around heated flesh, was that he didn’t have to imagine the smooth, perfectly manicured fingers his mind conjured up for him as he read.
Just as he got to, ‘he kissed like he killed, brutally and with a certain flair,’ a rush of images raced behind his eyelids: human pain and agony and his own voice laughing as he won. A final stroke and a breath hissed out between clenched teeth and then it was over. One last shudder and he was still, sprawled back in his chair and gasping.
Damn, he was good.
When the rush cleared and breathing was once again an optional activity, Crowley cleaned himself up with a thought and reached for his mobile phone, straightening the edges of his suit more out of habit than necessity.
It was showtime. He had two uppity brothers to crush and a war to win
Characters: Crowley
Rating: Teen
Word count: 620
Spoilers: 8.22
Summary: One moment he'd been taking notes and bemoaning the state of modern literature and the next, well, let’s just say that discovering himself in the Supernatural novels was a more than welcome reprieve.
Written for mmom
Living in Hell had its perks, Crowley had to admit. Consistently warm weather. Sprawling real estate. The distant screams from the racks that never quite dissipated. And best of all, his own office. Classy, elegant, and well-appointed. Much like himself.
Save for the pile of trash fiction spread out across his desk like a cheap whore.
The not unimpressively sized oeuvre of one Carver Edlund was an ode to staggeringly bad taste, if ever there was one. Fitting, considering its subject matter. The Winchesters wouldn't know class if it walked right up to them, dropped to its knees, and sucked their brains out through their cocks. But the books were key to getting a leg up on the lads (as opposed to a leg over- even a demon like himself had standards) and putting an end to whatever pathetic scheme they were so desperately trying to pull off.
A scheme Crowley had no intention of letting see daylight. Those boys were pissing all over his playground and touching all his toys and he was done playing voyeur. He was going to find their deepest, darkest secrets and he was going to tear at them until they cracked and crumbled and broke at his feet.
Crowley shifted in his seat. Made him tingly just thinking about it.
Those plaid-for-brains morons were about to discover just how impotent they really were and Crowley was going to enjoy every single minute of it. He was going to take away everything that gave their life meaning, and he was going do it with a smile.
And possibly a wank.
Granted, that wasn’t part of the original plan. One moment he'd been taking notes and bemoaning the state of modern literature and the next, well, let’s just say that discovering himself in the Supernatural novels was a more than welcome reprieve.
(As a point of fact, he’d dropped the damn book like holy water, fumbled at his belt, and ended up slumped forward in his chair, breathing hard and wondering quite literally what in hell had just happened.)
It had only gone downhill from there. Rather, it had gone up. Frequently and with great enthusiasm.
Coincidentally, he was far less likely to want to gouge his own eyes while researching the greatest hits of the Bobbsey Twins. Particularly when he got to the parts with, ‘“Hello Darling”’’ and ‘the impenetrable armor of his black on black suit’ and ‘a voice like liquid silk.’
Glancing at his watch, Crowley let himself relax and eased back in his sinfully expensive office chair. Plenty of time to kill. And so he reached for one of the books and - speaking of objects of impressive size - let his free hand drift downwards to where he could already feel a rush of heat building.
The best part, he figured, as his fist closed around heated flesh, was that he didn’t have to imagine the smooth, perfectly manicured fingers his mind conjured up for him as he read.
Just as he got to, ‘he kissed like he killed, brutally and with a certain flair,’ a rush of images raced behind his eyelids: human pain and agony and his own voice laughing as he won. A final stroke and a breath hissed out between clenched teeth and then it was over. One last shudder and he was still, sprawled back in his chair and gasping.
Damn, he was good.
When the rush cleared and breathing was once again an optional activity, Crowley cleaned himself up with a thought and reached for his mobile phone, straightening the edges of his suit more out of habit than necessity.
It was showtime. He had two uppity brothers to crush and a war to win