bloodsalteds

[bloodsalteds]

oh shit!! he'd laugh if he could but there is immense joy that lightens his chest hearing her swear. dean's eyes are closed by the time her legs fall open around his head and her fingers bury themselves in his hair. his name falls from her mouth on repeat. inked and freckled arms and shoulders tighten. the slight burn in his scalp makes his hard-on pulse against the bedding and he can't help pressing himself tighter to the mattress as he curls his fingers inside of her finding that coveted spot buried deep within and stroking along it in circles. first with his pointer and then both fingers. it keeps them buried to the point his palm's touching her but his mouth? that's made a claim he's not in the hurry to relinquish yet. or any time soon.

don't stop, she begs. never, his brain instantly responds and he can feel her grow more insistent. more desperate to come undone again as she pushes herself against him and holds his head down. mouth devouring her as though she's the only sustenance that can quell a starving man's need--dean licks against the bundle of nerves that pulls her closer and closer to the water's edge. he'll gladly drown her. and drown in her. his free hand grips her hip, fingertips pressing their blunt edges into skin and bone as she starts to come against his mouth.

he can taste her. thicker. warmer. her legs clamp onto him and he starts thrusting his tongue against her clit with each rise of her spine. each breath that has her shuddering and moving against him. he doesn't stop even as in the distance, he can hear some car alarms going off. none of that matters for shit when she's riding wave after wave of delight and he's the one to send her there. his fingers spread stroking slower, softer as she starts to climb back to the surface. he only turns his head to start kissing her inner thighs when they fall open. a quiet hum vibrates low and gravelly in his throat.

"the way you taste.. perfect. all of you. just. perfect." both hands clamp around the backs of her thighs as one more kiss is pressed under her belly button. not light enough to tickle. no. it's got a light graze of teeth that are still showing when he grins up at her. hair a mess. looking for all the world like he was the one who just got fucked.

nodding, he starts to climb up the length of her body until he's between her legs. lips pepper soft kisses against the long length of her neck. her temple. "i want you," he purrs into her ear--a hand slips between them to curl around his shaft that he guides between her lips taunting her opening and then that spot he'd just feasted upon. back and forth until he's so slick and she's coating him in her heat. "cassie..." he breathes not letting himself go but pressing to the point he splits her open for him teasing her. teasing himself. a quiver dances up his spine as he starts to fuck his hand nearly slipping inside every time he presses close. gripping the sheets with his free hand, he nudges against her jawline so she turns her head to look into his eyes. dark and craving her to his core. lips part as he presses in. punching out a soft gasp that opens his mouth wider. an inch. two. then out.

he loves her. doesn't say it. barely needs to with the devotion beaming out from long lashes. the hunter frees himself and cups her cheek holding them face to face. eye to eye when the next swing of his hips pushes him inside walls that grip and pull him in.

                               HIS SKILLED HAND RETURNS. Castiel bites her lower lip as she leans back on her elbows and watches him kiss and suck on her breast while hot fingers tease that sweet spot that makes fireworks explode behind her eyes. Oh, she wouldn't have thought it possible to return to that much lust immediately, but here she is, trembling beneath his touch, parting her legs even more to give him access to everything, each part of her served on a silver platter. 

                                Sweat beads gather on her forehead. It shouldn't be possible because she never sweats, never feels too hot or too cold, but now it's like Dean fired up a furnace inside her, and he slowly moves it from her breasts down to her hips, the fire following each press of his lips until—

                                "Oh, shit!" Castiel has never used this language before, but now it slips past trembling lips as a lightning bolt of pleasure shoots through her core. Dean has his mouth there. It's even better than his fingers. How is that possible? "Dean, Dean, Dean," Castiel gasps as her legs fall open around his head, hips tilting up to press toward his mouth. One hand darts down to bury strong fingers into his hair, pulling a little. "Dean, it's—oh—it's—don't stop, please, don't stop, don't–" 

                                She breaks off with a moan because the tsunami is back. She can see it on the horizon. It's rushing closer and closer with every thrust of Dean's fingers, every slow pull of lips and lick of his tongue. She just got washed away by it a few minutes ago, and now it turned around to storm right back. The waves are building higher and higher as she starts to tingle all over, and then the water is there, flushing her away in a gush of lust and ecstasy.

                                Her back arches off the mattress; strong thighs clamp around Dean's head as she thrusts into his touch and convulses around him with broken-off little sounds. Behind pressed-together lids, her eyes flash blue. Two car alarms start outside. Castiel hears nothing of it as she rides the waves through waterfalls and currents to quieter waters.

                                Her thighs fall open with a sigh. She's boneless; her body feels ready to melt into the mattress. "Dean," she murmurs. The hand in his hair starts to pet his head slowly. "Thank you." Now, it's time to return the favor and drown his brain in good chemicals. "Come up here."

[bloodsalteds]

eyelids crack open as a lazy smile curves upon parted lips. beautiful. he's never considered himself beautiful. not until it was breathed into his ear like a prayer to something more sacred than holy. holy can be tainted, twisted--stained and ugly. sacred? sacred is how cas holds him in his gaze. sacred is how cas touches him with such reverence that he feels worshipped. loved. and when those fingers of a being who has seen eons (entire galaxies made and then collapse only to be reborn anew into brilliance that dean will never know or see?) turn HUNGRY and wanting for him? how can he not melt? dissolve into whimpers and pants that never quite fill his lungs all the way up? how can he not fall in love over and over? want him more and more now that he's let himself want more than he's ever wanted? more than he'd ever ALLOW himself to want..

..a need that builds and builds as fingers start to thrust harder--faster inside of him. spread open and then close. the stretch becomes consuming and he touches himself so light, his fingers barely stroke over hot, velvet skin. dean hears the firm no before air hits against his shaft once his hand is removed. pinned behind his back with the other. oh, both knees nearly give as the thrill zips through his entire frame. chills erupt over the backs of his legs. his spine. shoulders. arms. a livewire's tangling itself through his veins and thrumming with his heart that pounds heavy in his chest. "okay.. okay," he murmurs. "i'll take it," his voice cracks before words become impossible on his tongue and only a yelp of pleasure rings in the night air once cas's voice greets him from behind. another stretch that grows wider. wider! relaxing around the intrusion as it turns from a light, pleasurable burn into something wholly delightful that strokes the fires in his belly and between his legs until they're damn near out of control---dean's noises turn to thick groans and a desperate tight throated; "i am. god, cas. i am.."

if the question didn't shatter him from head to toe? the sensation of being opened, pushed into until cas is buried inside of him certainly did. brows press together from the strain to stop himself from pressing back. from thrusting his hips til he's fucking himself against cas's shaft. no. he's supposed to take it. "..both.." a wave of warmth edged with blissful tingles tightens his belly and makes his length bob between his thighs when he tightens around him. hot and slick and teetering on an edge as the familiar smell of grace fills his nose. ozone and something else. something heavenly and good and perfect. cas. it's cas's scent and he needs him so bad it hurts. "fuck me, cas. hard. deep. fast. slow. all of it," he moans sounding so far off and yet as if it's only the two of them that exist. and all that matters is cas and how he feels pushed in deep, claiming what's been his since the moment the angel found him in hell. "m'yours.."

                              CASTIEL WATCHES HIM LIKE A HAWK. The white moonlight floods over Dean's naked skin, making him look paler than he is. The freckles dotted across his shoulders are a harsh contrast. As Castiel stares, a bit of red wanders down between Dean's shoulder blades the more he thrusts his fingers in and out, in and out. He wishes there was better lighting so he could see everything, not only the harsh colors the night allows to shine in the dark, but this way, he can see the stars reflect in Dean's eyes before he squeezes them shut in pleasure. "You are beautiful," Castiel murmurs. His voice isn't filled with lust, isn't dropped into a husky murmur, no — he sounds reverent, adoring. An angel worshiping not God, not His son, no, but a simple human.

                               His fingers pick up their pace, scissoring on their way out to loosen Dean up even more. Dean's plea rolls sweetly down his spine, and Castiel is about to comply when his gaze flickers lower, and he finds Dean's hand in his crotch, showing very obvious movements. "No," he admonishes, pulling his fingers out with a frown. Unceremoniously, Dean's hands (yes, both of them, so he won't just use the other to jerk himself off) are dragged behind his back and held in place by Castiel's left palm. His grip is tender but firm. 

                               "I'm taking care of you. Let me. You just have to stay like that and take it, Dean." Long, from the night air cool fingers, push back into Dean; slow at first to let the hunter get used to the intrusion, then quicker again. A third finger joins the others soon after until everything is nice and slick and loose. "See," Castiel murmurs as he pulls out a second time to reach for the black bottle next to Dean's shoulder to lube himself up. He trusts that Dean will keep his hands off himself now. "I'm already done. Just had to get you ready. And you are ready, aren't you?" he adds as he gently, gingerly pushes in. Shit. Dean is really hot and tight around him. Castiel's grace crackles like static in the air. "Now: Slow and deep or hard and fast?"

[bloodsalteds]

goosebumps decorate freckled and inked shoulders soon as that grip in his locks becomes something so teasing with the tips of fingers grazing through thick strands to taunt his scalp. he hums, mouth full and muffled, against the hardened and velvet skin between his lips. heart thundering in his ears from something so fresh, so new and shared with him--dean falls into tasting him as if he's an addict that's been denied their fix to the point of breaking. head bobbing, mouth devouring every texture and inch he can swallow. fingers spread across crowley's thighs til his right hand drifts off to pat for and locate the little black bottle that was discarded earlier. after a few blind swipes and pauses to dip his head and pull back, lift up to swirl his tongue around the tip--he locates what he was searching for.

the bottle's in his palm when he hears the damn you breathed into his ear. enough foreplay, darling. a soft grin with puffy lips greets crowley when the hunter turned demon lifts his head--a brow cocks high as he glides his tongue over his bottom lip--screw him already? "gladly," voice husky and deep--he swipes his tongue one last time over the swollen crown for good measure. knees between crowley's legs--green eyes force his gaze away from the flushed face below him to the bottle that he clicks open and he coats his right set of fingers with the slippery gel. left hand curls around the backside of the closest knee, glides it up over his shoulder.

dean's breath is warm against the corner of crowley's mouth before his lips press there. a bent elbow keeps him propped up--his slickened fingers disappear between the demons thighs. face hovering damn near nose to nose with crowley--long lashes frame darkening eyes as that finger teases and taunts the tight muscle guarding the opening he's aching to slip inside of. they roll white when a tender push tests what it feels like then focus intently upon the pair of dark eyes so so close. "oh fuck..," he murmurs as that finger breaches the rim and pushes in to the first knuckle before pausing and judging crowley's reaction. "so tight..." god, he's so stiff between his own legs that he can barely take it but he doesn't want to hurt him. so? he takes his time and begins to thrust only when he feels him loosening. a second finger's added once he's sure he's not going to be too much.

by now, dean's panting softly when an eager tongue starts to explore a stubbled chin and neck. in no time; it locates a thrumming pulse point and presses against heated flesh. he's so warm and coated. grips those fingers so well. even when dean pulls them out and takes hold of himself--his tip barely slips inside. hunter turned demon loses his breath--chest heaving in a gasp of attempted recovery. "the way you feel...," he groans--nose pressing to the thick vein where his mouth left a wet stamp. "tell me if you want me to stop." and with that--another push of his hips sends him slipping fully past that tender circle punching a sheer moan of delight from the freaking pit of his stomach until he's seated halfway in, pulls out and thrusts in deeper--another jerk of his hips and he can feel the walls around him give--crowley's name fills the room, wantful and hungry.

Pillow princess play isn't exactly the Crowley brand. Being the cherry on top, quite literally a topping, at every orgy, one could say he has a problem giving up control. Ever. In every situation. Look at Dean turning the tables here and all it took was dying a little, returning as a demon. Well, a little bit of making the king of Hell fall in love with him, too, perhaps. And all Crowley can do now is relish in the caresses peppering his skin, maybe run his fingers through the loverboy's thick hair in the meantime. Do something, anything aside from exhaling raspy groans and panted breaths. Thanks to that skilled tongue accompanied by warm breaths flitting across goosebump-blanketed flesh, he's hard as a rock in no time all over again.

How slutty of him to spread his legs (for a Winchester no less!), to clutch around strands of hair and impatiently rolling his hips. To enter that damp heat already teasing him good. " I- I told you- " Only gasps make it past gaping lips. Full sentences? Forget it. That head is lost in a haze easily dumbing down the most brilliant minds when primal instincts run the show. Damn that bloody mouth! It feels too good to repeat demands Dean seems to creatively ignore by sucking his cock as if he's never tasted anything better. Which is probably right.

In lieu of distracting Crowley from his brave request prior, those efforts only fuel that ache, that yearning, for his lover to take him. To dip into untouched territory. A privilege no one ever received before; this must be love at its finest. Tingling sensations keep ripping through his meat suit, more and more lust pooling between his legs to spur the rocking motions of his hips into that sinful warmth. Trying to keep his eyes open is useless. They'll flutter shut by the next swirl of lover's tongue around his throbbing length anyway, the grip of his fingers around Dean's hair only loosening a tad to run their tips over his scalp. Such a good boy.

" Damn you ", lacks that breathed swear any and all edge. " Enough foreplay, darling. " Does he hear him? Crowley barely even hears himself, somehow dull as if he were underwater; mind spinning. " Screw me already. "

[bloodsalteds]

the dimming of lights gets a small curse underneath dean's breath. can't see her as well in the barely there glow of the candles in the other room. it's enough for what matters, though. her expressions. her breathing. the way her body moves for him? as long as he can see how she gasps. moans. her eyes roll? perfect. a happy grin twists his mouth as she bolts up the second he lays her down and her eyes rake over his form. yeah he's still got his clothes on. the tip of skin peeking out from the top is cold and aching between his legs. grunting with a zing of a thrill so bright and content you'd swear he couldn't get any happier--she one ups that possibility and starts undressing him.

once she's laid out on the bed, he's as naked as she is--dean wastes no time following her further down onto the sheets. awestruck eyes travel over her form as he leans back onto his heels between her legs. another jerk forward and their mouths meet. she tastes like want. need. desire. they feed off one another too perfect. too well. for it not to mean SOMETHING. oh, he's sunk. it shows in the way his lips remain parted. how his hands move over her like she's made out of stardust and just as holy. worshipping her from her collarbone to her chest. stomach. never once breaking the kiss. never once DARING to come up for air until it's her that breaks and she makes a demand that dusts pink over freckled shoulders. down his tattooed arms. over the bridge of his nose and cheeks. and equally decorated back. scars. and ink cover the muscles as they move underneath painted skin.

eye contact severed, his head dips down. "anything you want," murmured against her chin. lips find her breast first. he closes his mouth over the hardened skin and sucks as his palm finds the apex between her thighs. cupping her there as his tongue joins in with the pull against her nipple, a thumb presses between slick folds and finds the center of pleasure to roll between it and his pointer while his middle finger taunts the damp heat that one press would bury it inside of. so he does...and moans as if the stiffness between tense thighs sank in.

his tongue doesn't stop until she's as flushed as he is. green eyes with their pupils blown wide snap up to catch her expression before he begins making his way down her body. a kiss there. a lick here. from ribs to navel. hips to upper thighs. there's not a spot in her that he doesn't want to taste. explore. LEARN. it's what he'd blame how once he's settled between her thighs--he has a mouthful of her without hesitation on. fingers open her for his tongue. his lips. a wet line licked up her center before his finger enters her just as he sucks that bundle of nerves between careful lips where a tongue is there to greet it instantly. eyes roll back before drifting shut and he finds a rhythm of pushing in deeper, deeper and adding his ring finger the next thrust inside. oh this is where he could freaking spend an eternity. the taste of her spreading over his tongue. filling his mouth and the tightness of her around his fingers.

                                 AN ORGASM. She's heard about this before, of course. The climax of sexual excitement that releases all sorts of chemicals in the brain. It makes some humans addicted to intercourse. She'd know: She helped smite Sodom and Gomorrah all those years ago. Castiel just never imagined it could feel like this. As if your whole being explodes all over the place with how amazing you suddenly are. Nothing else matters at that moment, only you and your partner and how they make you feel. Can she really blame humanity for trying to get as much of this as possible? No. Not anymore. In fact, she wants a second (and third and fourth…) as well.

                                  Dean, fortunately, seems to be of the same opinion. Castiel wraps her legs around his hips when he lifts her up and carries her through the dimly lit living room. The prospect of doing this all over again makes her twitch between the legs even though she has just climaxed. She wants to rub herself against his crotch but doesn't know if that would be too forward, so she finds Dean's lips instead and starts kissing him again until they reach the bed. The sheets are cool against her naked skin when he puts her down.

                                  It's even darker in the bedroom; only a bit of candlelight spills through the open door. It's still enough to see that Dean is very much completely dressed save for his half-undone pants and his erection peeking out. Outrageous. He must be naked immediately. Castiel sits up, grabs the front of his shirt, and yanks him down on the mattress next to her before she pulls said shirt off. The pants and underwear follow right after. 

                                  She'd seen him naked before: In the shower when she helped him clean up after his unfortunate vampire hunt. This time, though, there's hunger in the pit of her belly when her eyes rake over his nude form because she knows this body means pleasure. Ecstasy. Lust. Pressing in close, chest to chest, hips to hips, she catches his lips for another deep kiss that rekindles the fire inside her. "Show me," she demands.

[bloodsalteds]

how could he protest? when castiel's voice sends ripples of want through each limb? shakes him to his core. unravels the tightest knots the tattered pieces of him were twisted into with a mere touch? while addicted to the feel of his hands. the taste of his mouth? the sound of his moans. dean would give him everything to be the reason castiel comes undone and loses himself. in him. of all places. his precious impala gives each heavy breath a life of its own. fogging from his mouth over the glossy black paint. it shines around the matte finish with each heated exhale. anticipation pools low in his stomach. spreads down his inner thighs.

hearing the little plastic click springs goosebumps along dean's ribs. down tattooed and marked arms. over a decorated back made a canvas by an artist's skilled hands. not once. but twice. when he was barely twenty one and once again when he was pulled from hell and woven back together by the very hands that are slicking two fingers up by clear gel coming from the bottle. a grin twists over dean's mouth, he turns his head and looks over his shoulder. every time cas utters a phrase like fuck? well isn't that a wicked little thrill? dean likes to think he was the one that influenced that word out of cas. sounds so wickedly dirty when it has his tone underneath it.

green eyes, made darker with need, still stare back as cas finishes slicking up his fingers. taps the inside of his ankle. damn near lost his footing when he felt cas's length, muffled through clothing, brush over his thigh. fuck he wants him inside. but drawing it out through foreplay while he's bent over using his car and the trenchcoat that's become such a staple to look for and locate because the wearer is his? fuck, indeed. he's so damn hard, he's gotta let go of the fabric with his right hand and reach between his legs to give himself a relieving squeeze. nothing more. only a squeeze as feet shift and he bends over further to spread them wider----just as those fingers sink right back inside and rip a groan of delight right out of tightening lungs. eyes roll back before they close and his head turns, forehead dipping down to rest against tan fabric that his left hand immediately takes an entire fistful of. "cas! oh fuck...," he groans thick--tightening around the intrusion until he begins to melt underneath the sensation, thumb grazing over his tip that's already begun to gather a pearlescent bead of white for him to coat it with.

"deeper.. i need it.." he murmurs without a thought. without restraint. pleading for everything his body howls for inside. a long spine arches so that hips can tilt towards cas's palm. jesus christ. the way this feels? should be god damn illegal.

                                DEAN DOESN'T PROTEST. It's funny how he complains and moans and absolutely does the exact opposite of what you're telling him to do in basically any setting except the bedroom. Then he becomes compliant and almost submissive, and while he sometimes says something silly (because he's Dean, and if he can't make lewd remarks or pull out movie references Castiel doesn't understand, then he's seriously ill), he still follows instructions right down to the last detail. Castiel has no clue as to why that is, but since Dean enjoys himself, he also doesn't question it. (And besides, it's giving variety to their relationship.)

                                 Watching Dean bend over the car, Castiel then opens the little black bottle with a telltale click. "Well, I think we should rather do the good fucking," he objects, surprising himself by saying the f-word out loud. That almost never happens because Castiel doesn't enjoy crude language, but Dean buck naked bent over the hood of the car and digging his fingers into Castiel's beloved trench coat? Well. That can mess even with an angel's head a little. 

                                 He clears his throat and adjusts himself through his pants. Dean looks so auspicious like that, and Castiel would love nothing better than to slide right into him, but a bit more preparation is necessary. He doesn't want to hurt him, after all. Squirting a liberal amount of lube onto his index and middle finger, Castiel steps close until his clothed crotch presses against one bare buttock. His foot nudges Dean's ankle. "Spread them a little wider," he commands as he sinks two fingers back inside.

[bloodsalteds]

head swimming with such a depth of anticipation that it has him upside down dizzy, gravity shifted straight into the orbit of the fellow demon underneath him--dean groans heavy when crowley agrees in a voice that sends a ripple of want down his spine straight to his gut where it pools heavy and warm and touches all the right places inside. oh the way crowley breathes out his own sound. all the while--fingers deftly caress the heated length inside his grip. toying ceaselessly with the way he's jerking into his touch. how does that grin spread over dean's mouth? content, wanting.

there are fingers in his hair now. scraping along his scalp sending that warmth into a blaze of want that dances along the insides of his thighs. lights something deeper in that green stare framed by lashes that dip down halfway as he flicks that gaze from dark eyes to parted lips. crowley trusting him as his gaze falls closed? don't think dean is too far gone into the darkside to not know what that means. or appreciate the depth of such a simple thing. crowley barely trusts himself let alone another person and yet? here he is. naked underneath him, eyes closed and breathless. a picture of beauty and his for the taking? no. no. no. for granted is far from how this is taken. dean holds it with the relevance it means. precious. something to savor.

just like the taste of crowley's throat as his mouth closes upon a thrumming vein. teeth lightly drag over stubbled skin. before he begins his descent. tongue, teeth and lips explore a bobbing adam's apple. the cleft just past it. trace collarbones and circle back to the center of a chest that is peppered with kisses and increasingly panting breaths as dean's hand speeds up, caressing, stroking. circling the tip with a building rhythm that is anything but shy. as he shifts and lowers with his open mouthed kisses--a tongue stretches out to circle around the circumference of one nipple and the other--stopping there so that he can close his mouth around the hardening flesh and suck.

heat rushes over kiss dampened skin via the demon winchester's nose. leaving the trail his tongue took the same temperature and then cooling. there's no way he can stay here long. not when the thought of having crowley in his mouth overrides the rest of his sensors, short circuits them and has him popping off with a wet noise before hurriedly kissing his way down a stomach where he pauses staring at the tip jutting out from his grip--moving with crowley's hips and his own thrusts. the newness of all of this? has been left unsaid but with a glance up the length of crowley's body towards his chin and what parts of his face he can see?

hesitation doesn't come anywhere near what he's aching to do. only curious need and with that? dean's mouth opens, his tongue dances over his bottom lip and he takes the head in--heat and suction there to meet it as his tongue hurries to catch up and swirl over velvet skin. a heavy moan, muffled and deep, he swallows in more--removing his hand as he bobs his head and begins to learn exactly how he tastes. sinful. doesn't scratch the surface.

Completely forgetting about the reality out there; kingly duties, demon business, image and reputation. Crowley can count the times he's let himself give zero shits on one hand sans using all five fingers, mind you. Doesn't even feel wrong. At least not with Dean turned demon, who isn't going to question his authority or consider him weak for chasing pleasure he, too, can't get enough of. Their rough first round phases into the background of his mind. Gentle the strokes he drags around his lover's swollen length. His grip loose enough for Dean to buck into the warmth of his palm.

Moans get swallowed by the fervor of another kiss which leaves their lips red and damp, where every caress of those otherwise callous hands leave goosebumps and mounting want in its wake. A pinch of nervousness may or may not settle among all this tingling heat surging through Crowley's own meatsuit, though. Letting someone nail him? Letting someone top him? It's a debut. But curiosity wins, teaming up with yearning to feel him inside; hard, throbbing, hitting the right spots.

" As you wish ", bleeds his husky answer past a faint but no less impish smile ere he lays back. Before Dean can even add those last two words, he sinks into the sheets exhaling a drawn, quiet groan. The sensation of warm skin wrapping around his cock, that playful nudge to the moist tip; he can't help his hips jerking into the touch. Legs parting further. It's distracting. Has him fail to keep his own ministrations going, both hands seeking purchase in lover's short locks to dig their fingernails into the scalp beneath. Then drag along sensitive skin.

Lids flutter shut, mouth hangs slightly agape— eloquence is dead. No coherent thought formed. There's only feeling and riding the waves while giving himself to Dean's mercy. Don't tell anyone.

[bloodsalteds]

merry crisis and all that

[bloodsalteds]

dean could swallow her whole with the way she moves and sounds and feels. there's a craving for her building up in every inch of his body that makes him want to devour her taste, her sounds, her body and make her all his. he doesn't want to stop until she can't take anymore and begs him to. this can't end with just one feeling of how she's warming up against his fingers. that she's clenching him tighter and he can feel what's building inside her even if he doesn't see her expression because he's too busy licking against her nipple to have a true look.

dean's whole body sings with pleasure once he begins stroking himself, and the warmth of it rushes in. relief against tight skin that throbs in time with his heartbeat. he moans against her flesh picking up the speed in which he toys with that bundle of nerves he knows is going to push her over the edge her body's clinging to. all she has to do is fall.

..and fall she does. he rips his mouth off her as he feels her shift against his touch. fingers thrusting and thumb darting against her with barely any room to move, dean turns his head and does what he can. takes the nipple he began with back into his hungry mouth and instantly picks up where he left off with the other. wildly caressing her skin as he feels her begin to come against his palm. a grin spreads over his lips. if she were inside her skull at all, she might feel that cockiness explode in his expression when he realizes--this is a woman who's letting go like she's never let go before. feeling things she never felt before. okay. now.. he damn near shudders in his own grip.

muscles tremble around his fingers. she's hot and wet and so fucking lost that he ends up moaning at the feel of her in his hand as she rides her high. her body jerks, clings to his fingers and rocks against his thumb while pleasure overrides her senses and drives her to take what her body needs. barely notices how his bones are about to crumble in her grip. but there will be bruises there soon. ones he won't mind having at all.

dean stays with her the entire time. til she collapses and releases him. he inhales sharp feeling warmth around his wrist--but their foreheads meet and he melts when he hears the question. "that, cassie, was what you call an orgasm..." and FUCK any other man she's ever been with deserves to lose a couple teeth for making her miss out. though, maybe a handshake in the end, too, cause he gets to be the one to give the first one to her. his hand slips free from his pants. the other gently withdraws his fingers from her and moves to curl around the back of her thigh with the other matching it's grip on the opposite.

a deft move and he makes sure her legs are wrapped around him before scoots to the edge of the sofa, lifts her and stands at the same time. "..and we're not done with those yet." a crooked grin's pasted on his mouth and they're on their way towards her bedroom.

                            A STUTTERED BREATH LEAVES HER WHEN SHE FEELS HIS FINGER SINK IN UNTIL THE KNUCKLE. It's funny, actually, how he affects her when she doesn't even need air, and yet her breathing picks up anyway, making her feel dizzy and lightheaded. Her hips tilt, chasing that thumb rubbing across the body equivalent of a nuclear missile for how it's wreaking havoc inside her. She only knows that if he dares to pull back (if he can because his wrist is still in her iron grip), she might smite him by accident. This cannot, mustn't end. She won't allow it.

                             Green eyes dart down, find Dean's equally green ones as he sucks a nipple between his pink lips. Goosebumps shoot across her breasts and down her arms. Yes, she's been right: this does feel excellent. Sadly, he only has one mouth, but she can overlook this flaw in God's creation because he makes up for it with his wickedly skilled tongue and even more skilled fingers. Two are now inside her, and Castiel spreads her legs a little wider to let him roam freely, but the most important part is his thumb, which switches up to circling this sweet spot relentlessly. It tears little sharp gasps out of her over and over again with every new wave of lust and overwhelming pleasure that shoots through her like a lightning bolt.

                             She feels like she's standing on a beach staring at the ocean, and in the distance, she can see the waves piling up into a tsunami. There's nowhere to go, no higher ground she could escape to, and so she stands and braces herself for that gigantic wave rolling closer and closer with an ear-splitting uproar until it's upon her, washing her away.

                             Throwing her head back, Castiel releases one sharp moan. Her grace explodes in her eyes and then shoots outwards: the TV shuts down, the microwave in the kitchen stops, all the lamps turn off, and they're left in nothing but the golden light of the candles they ignited earlier this evening. Outside the window, Manhattan is darker than ever: a complete and utter blackout.

                             Castiel doesn't notice any of it, though; she lets herself be pulled apart and reassembled over and over, her body twitching, almost jerking under Dean's skilled touch, her fingers around his wrist nearly crushing his bones as she keeps his face pressed to her breasts.

                             It takes almost a whole minute until the tsunami spits her out again. Still trembling, she sinks down into Dean's lap, letting go of his hand and head. Her forehead dips forward, resting on his. Her eyes are closed. Sometimes, her body twitches again. "What was that?" she breathes eventually. And most importantly: can they repeat that?

[bloodsalteds]

hughie has made him need more than he's dared allow himself to admit before finding him.

being like this with hughie can't possibly get old. even if it's still relatively new-ish. each time they're tangled up in each other? dean lets go in a way that would terrify him before. how what they're doing unfolded to where they got to this point? a series of nights spent together that took turns towards one another that dean never would've expected. and will never take for granted now that he has them.

unseen devotion that goes unspoken plays out across the hunter's face as he groans hot and warm over hughie's collarbone and shoulder. fingertips sense how hughie melts into his grip. he'd apologize for hurting him if he had half the ability to form a coherent sentence right now. but he doesn't think he could string together more than a word or two before he'd lose the ability to do anything more than moan.

---had he had the ability unknown to himself? it would've been yanked away the second those two words caress over his ear. good boy. dean melts even further into the mattress than he already has. dizzy as the blood rushes south, chasing after the thrill that zings from head to toe, coils around the base of his spine and spreads heat and cold over his nerves. thighs part (knee lifting to make that possible) as a hand reaches into his underwear. hips stutter (a thumb strokes over the tip, makes his whole body shake), grinding himself against the languid, skilled thrust of hughie's hand. a sharp grunt followed by a trembling whimper parts his lips--dean's toes curl like somehow they are attached to the noise and simply instinct guided into the clench.

"fuck," he breathes barely above a whisper when the stroke of deft fingers against his skin causes that wave of pleasure to roll right back through his limbs that second it connects with the other's grip on him. unending. one wave after another washes through his body making him crave to simply sink. be swallowed up. drowned in the feel of him. the smell. the taste. addictive and he wants more. always wants more.

the hunter nods to the request, hips grinding to a short pause as he slowly starts to roll onto his back. a craving swells in his chest. makes his skin prickle once it hits the air. he inhales deep. lidded eyes half open to stare towards hughie soon as he swings into view. green blown with wide, black pupils. freckled skin flushed. his tongue's caught between his front teeth. the tip of it sticks out between his lips as dean sucks in a deep breath through his nose.

trembling fingers lift to curl against the other's cheek, stroking as they unfurl and dance along a temple. worn, rough skin that's seen too many weapons in it's grip lately is made soft--damn near feather-like by the gentility that he touches hughie with. god, he's so hard it hurts. that touch slides down a long throat towards a light skinned chest and lower still, dancing over a bare stomach as though now that he's within reach and bared to him? indulging himself in exploring the sensation of hughie's form underneath his fingers is too tempting to resist.

Hughie is unlike Dean in so many respects. Hughie has lived in New York his entire life. Dean, he's pretty sure, has lived everywhere except New York. He's like something out of legend, a wandering warrior, with an armour of leather and denim, forced to wander the earth and help all that he meets. Well. Perhaps he was forced once. Now Hughie isn't sure if Dean doesn't want to settle down or is simply incapable of doing so. Travel is in his blood. Places like this are his home. A transient life is not so easily abandoned. Perhaps it's another factor in why he's so at ease. Hughie would like to claim all the credit, but being on home turf must help in the tumbling of walls.

Dean is a live wire in the best way possible. Every touch, no matter how small or subtle, gets some sort of repsonse. A twitch. A jerk. A sigh. A moan. Nothing is held back or tamped down. He's hiding against Hughie's shoulder, but there is no front here. Bravado has dissolved and what is left is sensitive and raw. Dean clings. He's wanting and desperate and all of it is on show. It's an honour to be given access to something so heavily guarded. It may not seem like it, with the way that he teases, coaxing and pulling those beautiful noises from Dean's lips, but Hughie will do his utmost to handle him with care.

It's not just what Dean deserves, but, Hughie thinks, what he needs.

Dean's hands wander as frequently as Hughies, but their movements aren't nearly so calculated. They're messy in their desperation and Hughie thinks that that's wonderful. Perhaps it's a little cruel, dragging it out like this, playing Dean like he's a finely tuned instrument, but Hughie won't deprive Dean more than he can handle. He knows when to stop, when they're right up at the brink and it's time to pull back. They're almost there.

There's a crack in Dean's voice that Hughie imagines runs throughout his entire being. A full body twitch wracks him, an insistent thrust into Hughie's hand. A needy rasp fills Hughie's ears, sends lightning tingles down his spine. Dean's words roll deliciously around Hughie's mind, until his teeth sink into the tender flesh of his collarbone and fingertips dig bruisingly into his shoulder. Briefly, half lidded eyes are wide open and a gasp makes Hughie's lungs spasm. The initial surprise and shock of pain die down and a grin splits Hughie's face. The sting melts into a warm, wet ache and he acclimitises pleasantly to Dean's vice grip.

"Good boy," Hughie murmurs, low and sweet, as his hand slips between the waistband of his boxer briefs and hot, wanting skin. As fingers finally close around the waiting erection, eyes almost close completely, the smile becomes big and dreamy. Hughie thumbs the leaking head, once, twice, before reaching down and giving a firm, leisurely stroke.

"You think you could lie back for me?" Hughie asks gently, knowing that a disentanglement might be too big of an ask in that moment. It probably doesn't help that his grasp is still full of Dean's erecetion and is pumping at a languid pace. It doesn't stop Hughie though. If they don't move beyond this, intertwined with each other, the careful flick of Hughie's wrist and the squeeze of his hand guiding Dean to completion, then it will be more than enough. It'll be plenty. If other moving parts can be involved, then it will simply be a bonus.

[bloodsalteds]

dean's focus is solely on her. he doesn't see the blocked out view of the television. why would he even notice anyway? the view he has sitting on his lap? far better than anything the old boob-tube could provide! the hum of the microwave might sink in later. maybe. maybe not. cause all he hears is the way her breath is leaving her. the sounds she makes when his fingers glide over her core and one dips inside. his lips part, awe-struck eyes drinking in every sight. how her chest moves. how her legs are spread on either side of him and his arm's disappearing past the hem of her dress. how the fabric's bunched up. how her bottom lip just trembled right before another breath fell free. he'd never get bored or tired of stroking her. pressing into her, just to pull the tip of his finger out and sink in. a hair's width deeper. the room feels brighter. looks brighter. might be the electrical. he doesn't give a shit.

cassie could say his name like that on repeat and he'd die a happy man right here, right now. the burning sensation in his scalp only nudges him on further. teeth cinch together and he sucks in a breath of utter delight at the tug. his finger enters her again. crooks then withdraws as he waits for her to do what he asked. bare herself. he wants to touch all of her. see all of her. breathe her entire body in.

impressed doesn't cover the look on his face. she just fucking RIPPED her dress off like the god damn hulk and if dean wasn't already in love? he'd be head over heels instantly, wholly and entirely as the threads give way and tear open and he's staring at her naked with the FUCKING TATTERED remains of her dress being shrugged off like it doesn't mean a freaking thing. like she didn't just DO THAT!!! his eyes look something like a deer caught in the headlights and a man who's about to bust out into a freaking song about love and marriage and worshipping the fucking ground she walks on. WOW!!! WOW!!! WOW!! on repeat in that skull of his. bouncing around all willy nilly as his jaw hangs open. takes him about ten seconds to snap out of the lingering holy shit!!!! before he realizes she's got his wrist in a vice grip again making sure he doesn't remove it from her (wouldn't dare. not now. not FOR A MILLION BUCKS!) and his finger enters her all the way. deep. hooking as his thumb speeds up. a slow, steady push and pull begins. before a second nudges at her without entering. almost like it's there to hold her open for him to explore. learn. touch.

"you're beautiful," he murmurs against her left nipple, neck craned so his eyes can stay locked on hers. thick lashes flutter when his lips wrap around hardened flesh, suck it in between them where his tongue greets it. the pattern against the bundle of nerves under his thumb begins to circle and nudge--and that second finger finally does slip in to join the other as he begins to thrust them til he's palming her and keeping them in, scissoring them. fuck. he's so hard, it hurts. his free hand leaves her thigh--no belt to unfasten but his pants are unbuttoned--unzipped and his hand disappears into them as he squeezes himself drawing out a heavy moan as he releases her from his mouth and moves to the other neglected side only to suck it between his lips and teasing it with the tip of an eager tongue. eyes slip shut as he hungrily tastes her and those thrusts of his fingers that refuse to pull out quicken.

                                INSTEAD OF HELPING HER, Dean makes everything worse. Or better. Castiel isn't sure how to label it. Fact is that when his fingers glide between her legs and hit a spot she didn't even know existed, something inside her explodes. She makes an unidentifiable sound in the back of her throat, something between a gasp and a grunt, as white-hot pleasure bursts through her whole abdomen, starting from where his fingers touch her and rolling through every limb, every fiber of her being. Her grace lashes out: behind her back, unseen by Dean, the TV violently changes channels. The microwave in the next room starts to hum and warm up no contents. The light bulbs glow a little brighter.

                                 "Dean, Dean, I—" Castiel's voice trembles. If intercourse always starts like this, then she finally understands why humanity is so addicted to it. Nothing has ever felt like this: too much and not enough at the same time, all-consuming and hot. Then a finger slowly pushes inside her, and she yanks at Dean's hair without realizing it, her other hand keeping his hand pinned between her legs in an iron grip. He couldn't pull away if he wanted to. 

                                 Something akin to a sob bursts out of her. "Dean, please," Castiel mumbles as she stares at him, pupils blown wide. As if she's high. Maybe she is; this is certainly the first time she has experienced hormones like that. Belatedly, she remembers what he told her: Pull your dress off. Yes. Excellent idea. Then there's no fabric in the way anymore, and he can touch her everywhere. Rather than reaching for the hem and pulling it over her head, though, Castiel decides that the fastest way is to grab the dress in the front and rip it apart. That shouldn't be such an easy feat for a mere human woman, but Castiel can't think of that right now, and she probably wouldn't care either way. The dress is off, that's the important part, and since she's not wearing any underwear or these strange short corsets that trap her breasts, she's completely naked from one moment to the next. Cold air makes her nipples perk up. Dean should use his mouth on them, she decides, so she rises to her knees to push her breasts into Dean's face (her hand had darted down to snatch Dean's wrist again and keep his fingers where they are).

[bloodsalteds]

the way she reacts to every kiss. every stroke of his fingers and tongue. it's consuming every lick of common sense he has. he wants to touch her everywhere all at once. his hands can't get enough of the bit of skin he grazes once her dress pools high enough that her bare upper thigh is there to stroke. or how his fucking teeth want to chew their way through the cotton fabric covering her chest and wrap his lips around the raised flesh he can see when he opens his eyes and glances down. he feels starved for every inch of her skin. every moan and sigh he can stroke or kiss or lick out of her. oh, he's past sinking. he's sunk and drowning and coming up for air is the LAST thing in his mind. no. he wants every bit of her to devour every sense of him and she moves against him like she barely has any idea of how much she possess him. how she drives him up the wall. down it. then back up again. teeth drag over the skin above the hem of her dress. over the shoulder. her hands in his hair and on his skin cause ripples of delight to run in waves over his body. he's forgotten how hard he is inside his pants (that's a feat that no one's ever accomplished) and only once she shifts against him--is he reminded and it makes him groan. heavy and hot against the wet spot on her chest where his mouth lifts up to let it escape.

dean hears his name, eyelids swing open and look up. then she says something that sends a shocking jolt through him so fucking brilliant and bright that he feels heat and cold and loses his vision to a flash of white that swallows him up. a grunt later and his hand's stolen, shoved up her dress and welp.. that's it. he's a goner. GONER! his fingers find her core, feel the warm wet between her legs and sink between flimsy cotton and the folds of her skin. he touches her and moans at how she coats his fingers. "oh, sweetheart. you are..." the small bundle of nerves receives a stroke from the pad of his thumb as his pointer drifts further in. lower. circling the ring of flesh that begs him to push the length inside with how slick and throbbing she is. oh they did that. they made her that way. and he can only whisper out, voice low and raw. "pull your dress off for me.." because he isn't stopping. his free hand braces the top of her right thigh as he watches every movement her face makes when he presses against hardened flesh and his finger sinks inside. slow and easy. just to the first knuckle. just enough that he can feel her clenching against him. "so warm.. oh my god, cassie..."

                                HIS HANDS ON HER HIPS ARE HOT. They burn right through the thin material of the dress and make her grace tremble and shake inside her chest. Castiel can't do anything but stare in wonder when Dean's lips move to the corner of her mouth, leaving a tingling path behind. She doesn't know what he means by I want you since she's very obviously right here, trapping him between her legs, but she also doesn't care right now because his mouth moves to her neck and then her earlobe and her body goes haywire: sharp thrills of pleasure shoot down her spine and pool low in her belly, enhanced by his hot palms dancing along the insides of her thighs. She's so incredibly warm. She's never felt this hot before, not even when she stood in the middle of a burning sun. She wants Dean's mouth all over her body, not only her lips and neck. She thinks it would feel absolutely fantastic to have it pressed to the soft skin of her breasts, and she moves to sit up and push them into his face, and between her legs, she— oh.

                                 "Dean," she says breathlessly. What is going on here? That has never happened before. "Dean, I'm — wet." Because there's no other term for it. There's moisture where her thighs meet. It's throbbing and warm there as well, and suddenly, it's way more important that Dean takes care of that business than applying his wicked mouth to her breasts. One hand drops from the back of his head to grab his wrist and shove it up her thigh and beneath her dress in something akin to despair. Dean must do something. He'll know what, right? He has to. Castiel doesn't know what she'll do if this feeling doesn't go away.

[bloodsalteds]

never. not once. does cas stop stroking him through every flick of his tongue against his skin. every suckle that pulls that strip of flesh further into his mouth. a telltale bruise soon does blossom between his lips. marking his territory as sam would accuse him of jokingly when they're alone. he's spotted them before. on them both. because he likes the feeling of being marked. his scar. his tattoos. the bruises cas's mouth and fingers leave behind on his skin? he shows them proudly. much, again, to sam's chagrin. dean only gives his brother a knowing grin before disappearing off to give the angel another. collect more himself! why stop at just one? tonight, though? as a pitched moan chases after a coiling in his belly brought on by two fingers gliding in and out of him, sticking in spots and pushing back in--he's not sure he can focus enough on peppering another right next to the one he's currently crafting into place. oh god! the way that feels? he's thankful for the arm around him or he'd fucking collapse as knees turn watery and he grinds back against cas's palm.

brows burrow at the sudden emptiness right as his own hand slinks between cas's legs. barely gets a touch before the angel nudges him away. leaves him breathless and finding his footing again as he's left to stand on his own. one hand placed down heavily upon the impala's cold surface and the other? wiping the spit off his mouth with the back of his hand. cas doesn't leave him waiting for long. with the sound of feathers and wind--he's standing beside him. the sight of the little bottle in his hand knocks the wind out of dean's chest. that much power over him. he's handed it over ages ago. and just when he thinks he can't possibly give him any more? just the sight of a simple bottle of lube and what it says is about to happen goes and fucks him up in the best way possible like it's the first damn time.

a brow arches. simple instruction. no need to go into detail. he likes it. dean bites his bottom lip and yields to the command. elbows bent--he gratefully leans against his precious car and the equally precious coat spread across the hood as much as it'll fit. fingers curl into the pliable fabric and he glances back over his shoulder--watching as goosebumps dance over his thighs. his hips. the line along his stomach muscles that tremble in anticipation.

"need you so fucking bad, cas..." there's not a god damn thing he wouldn't do for the angel behind him. not a god damn thing.

                            DEAN'S MOUTH ON HIS NECK MAKES CASTIEL PAUSE FOR A MOMENT. Little warm shivers run down his spine and pool low in his belly. A hickey. That's what Dean is trying to give him here. Castiel simply healed the first ones — on himself, but also on Dean. Hickeys are bruises, after all, even if they feel good while getting them. He quickly discovered that he likes other people to see them, though. Not necessarily Sam — while the younger Winchester moans about it and calls them nasty (in a humorous voice), he kind of knows that they're sharing a bed. Or wherever they're having sex. No, Castiel likes hickeys because when they sit in a diner and pretty waitresses come to take Dean's generic order of a burger and fries, they see the hickey, and they're 68.4 % less likely to flirt with him and write their telephone number on the bill. They can see that Dean's physical needs are taken care of, and Castiel feels secretly proud of that. Maybe that's also Dean's reasoning for giving the angel a hickey.

                             "Don't stop," Castiel demands, sounding a little breathless as he keeps stroking Dean, softly teasing that little knot he knows will make fireworks go off in Dean's brain. He's up to two fingers, but it starts getting too dry quickly — semen is no replacement for lubricant, after all. Taking a deep breath to find the will to move away, Castiel gently pulls his fingers out and pushes Dean off. It's only a couple of yards to the back of the car, but Castiel still takes the quicker tour via wings; the little black bottle is easy to find among Dean's flannels and scooby doo underwear, and then the angel is back at Dean's side with the sound of fluttering wings. 

                             "Bend over," he instructs as he doffs his trench coat and spreads it over the hood — it won't really soften the hard steel, but at least it will offer some protection against night-chilly metal. 

[bloodsalteds]

PREMATURE DISSIPATING FJFKSKSKS FUCK DIXON 😭😭😂

// it's okay! i hear it happens to former angels sometimes!! we CAN get thru this, CAS! we can!!! idk man. the shit that goes thru my head!!! it's just THERE!!! i blame you. YEP! (re: this art if you are wholly confused. which i don't blame u. BLESS!)

[bloodsalteds]

When the makeout’s so good your angel boyfriend’s about to dematerialize

(Don’t repost)

Little ficlet below the cut ;) 

Seguir leyendo

[bloodsalteds]

eager eyes travel along a perfectly crafted face. from the lips that move as the other man begs to be fucked. to the way his eyelashes veil his gaze when dean's fingers squeeze and stroke along the ever growing firm press against the front of his jeans. the hunter grins against those pretty lips as fingers dance up only a few inches to unfasten a belt, pop open a button and ease a zipper down carefully. don't want to ruin the mood by hurting him. least not that way. once those trappings are gotten rid of, he can slide his hand between a soft layer of cotton and skin and touch him properly. fingers curl around a stiff length and draw it out causing stiles' jeans to ride lower on his hips. dean makes absolutely no motion to push them down any further than what pulling him free of them causes. hearing he's needed? fuck. that almost makes him lose his conviction and push them the rest of the way down right then and there. take him the way he's pleading. but that'd be giving in way too easy. gotta make him convince him first, right? and begging only gets you so far.

a battle-rough pad of his thumb circles the soft skin underneath his tip. strange how light that touch can be when it's choked the life out of so many beings. even beings like the one he's pressed against. a playful, taunting grin later and he releases him. both hands drift up to cup his cheeks. thumbs, then fingers glide over a kiss pouted bottom lip. dean leans in, breathing right over the flesh he reveals by pressing down. feeding the words directly into stiles' mouth as his thumb slips past the swell and dips inside a warm, wet mouth. "i said..convince me." withdrawing, his caress glides from lip, to jawline, then shoulders--where both palms press and guide him down the wall towards his knees making it damn clear what convincing he's insinuating. if they're playing this way? then they'll play.

Over the last couple of months, Stiles has gotten good at getting Dean to cave into what he wanted, though sometimes it took a little begging. His eyes rolled for a moment as his body collided against the motel wall, enjoying it always when the hunter would get rough with him. God, he was fucking addicted to the Winchester. when he met him a couple of years ago in Beacon Hills, he would not have imagined them like this; no, they were enemies back then. ❝ Like it? more like I would love it. Come on, Dean, you know you want to fuck the brat out of me. ❞ It wouldn't stop him from being a brat, but just maybe that would encourage the other to fuck him harder when they do reach that point tonight. As the palm met his bulge, he could not help the way his hips bucked. ❝ Fuck me, please, Dean. I need it. I NEED you. ❞

[bloodsalteds]

this is home to him. places where most people would call temporary. long enough to get what you need out of the place and then you move on. kinda suits him in many ways. least in his own brain. he's another temporary in the lives of most people he meets. another way to survive. or get what they need. before they return back to their real lives. the ones waiting for them past all the spooky shit. temporary home. temporary lovers. temporary life if he misses one step and meets the end that, no doubt, will be waiting for him one day. strange how most people would fear that. hate that their live goes from one town to the next. one grotesque piece of the weird and unnatural that comes to an end by bloodied hands. sleeping in a car that's been the only constant HOME to him since he was a kid. the uncertainty never settles well for the normal people he encounters. the unknowing where the next day will lead.

dean often thinks he'd like to settle down. become the man he dreamed of becoming. a firefighter. a mechanic. a construction worker or maybe even an emt. sometime who still helps people in one way or another. someone that lasts for more than a night or two in his bed before they're a reddened blur in his taillights. but what happens then? once he settles down? he feels it in the long spans of time he's stuck places. that fear. that it, too, is temporary and the illusion that it's gonna last is bullshit crumbling day by day til it'll be gone and the road whispers welcome home.

nights where he finds himself tangled up with someone familiar are few and far between. purposefully. easier to disappear when there's no feelings. hell. sometimes even no names. or real one. takes a lot to pull him back. have him come seeking out that familiarity that isn't temporary but threatens the worst. if he wanted to? if he dared to? it could become lasting. least for him. he's got an inkling how hughie feels but doesn't know for sure. hasn't asked. slippery slope and all.

soft touches become more desperate. dean's hands tremble as they move through thick strands of hair that are cool to the touch. a stark contrast to the heat that's building inside his body. tucked away, into the dark hollow of hughie's shoulder--the mask slips and he becomes desperate. needful. arching spine towards hands that move over him with a knowing that's growing more and more each time they do this. one hand slips down hughie's cheek. his thumb grazes over a velvety bottom lip and he can feel the curve that's building against the corner as his quiet voice caresses over dean's ear. warm breath paving the way.

"oh god," he groans practically sounding pained. so full of want that it's twisting his stomach deliciously. body lightly jerks with hughie opening his pants then absolutely shudders from head to toe when the stiffness inside his pants is given the slightest friction. please this..? into his ear. visible goosebumps run along his throat. his stomach caves in and he whines--pushing up into a slender, deft hand. "yes!" he clears his throat, willpower broken. "touch me. touch me.. i need!!" shattered into a breathy shout, dean's teeth find a pale collarbone and press in--not breaking the skin but clamping hard enough to seal his mouth upon hughie's flesh as his grip drops to a shoulder and presses in til the color bleeds out of the tips of his fingers. every nerve is alive and wanting..waiting for more.

It's a seedy little place, frozen forever in the twentieth century, never to progress beyond it. Hughie isn't used to motels, not the way Dean is. Every motel room is his home. Hughie doesn't think he could stop being on the move even if he wanted to. A part of him would miss it, he thinks, the musty scent, neon shining through thin lace curtains. He would get homesick for scratchy sheets and lumpy pillows. Hughie had been worried at first that the flashing sign would drive him insane. He can count on one hand the number of times he's stayed in a place like this; but there had been no need for concern. Dean provides ample distraction from their surroundings. The background blurs, nice and hazy, and all that's in focus is Dean, the taste of his mouth, the solid warmth of his toned form.

Small noises pass between them, overlap one another, gasps, moans and sighs. Lips part and they begin to map out each other's mouths. The've done this before, but not nearly often enough. It still feels new. Hughie's hands wander, palms marvelling at firm limbs and sun soft skin. Sometimes he gets a little jealous, watching Dean's biceps strain against his sleeves, the way his chest fills out his t-shirts, but not in this moment. It's enough to simply hold it all in his hands.

Hughie's touch meanders as Dean tucks his face against the crook of his neck, his fingers finding Hughie's curls. They cup his sides, slipping under the t-shirt, worn soft from many years. He can feel every blessed tremor it elicits. It feels only natural that his hands move further south; but he still asks. Because he wants to hear it. Because Dean deserves that question.

It does something to him. That a man of muscle and sinew, bravado and courage, a soldier against the unholy, makes noises like that. That he asks, that he begs, and all because of Hughie. Because of his touch, his lips, his fingers. Dean'svoice is shaky, a rare gift. His life doesn't allow for trembly moments. His strength keeps him alive, so the times where he doesn't have to be strong are all the more important and treasured.

Hughie grins. "Please," he echoes. His tone isn't mocking. It's as though it's the first time he's heard the word before and he's getting used to the feeling of it in his mouth. Long, clever fingers make easy work of Dean's belt. "Please what?" His button and fly open, and Hughie wastes no time palming the hardness that waits for him. His voice is a dry whisper, brushed against Dean's ear. "Please this?"

[bloodsalteds]

dean could fall into crowley's mouth for the entire night and not care to come up for air. the way he tastes. the way their lips seem to fit like they were made for one another? it's its own brand of addiction that a pleasure addict like him could fall into craving on a dangerous level. dangerous for who? him? crowley? the poor world that'd have to deal with the mess? meh. probably all three. brown strands of hair fall through his fingers as he moves his touch along a stubbled jawline, to the shell of an ear that he traces with such gentility, you'd swear that the king of hell is crafted of porcelain that might break at the slightest rough touch. maybe those will come soon. or maybe, just maybe, they can indulge themselves in this calm. this exploration. the pleasure that rolls through his limbs is deep and tantalizingly slow. makes his back arch, toes curl.

then a hand wraps around him and begins to stroke. making it clear that he hasn't forgotten about how hard he is pressed against his hip. dean's throat vibrates with a hearty moan muffled into crowley's mouth. stiffens further in his hand. flashes flutter as his eyes roll back behind lightly closed lids. kiss broken--he opens dazed eyes to gaze into crowley's. face flushed with heat over the freckled parts of his cheekbones and nose. thighs spread further in offering as lips, wet and shining, remain parted and he grinds lightly up into the touch. not once breaking eye contact. oh, the groan that leaves him is long and damn near inhuman. dean would agree to anything requested of him in this very moment. as crowley's touch continues stroking a length that is achingly begging for more between his legs.

he listens, eyes flicking a curious stare from the movement of crowley's lips to those dark and pleading eyes. back and forth. back and forth. the request makes his hips stutter and he licks his lips, nodding as much as he can with the hand upon him--and his head pressed into a pillow and held firm by crowley's other hand. a token of love. his chest grows warm. "yes. please, yes," he murmurs back before pressing a kiss to the demon's mouth and moving his hand to crowley's shoulder. a gentle nudge for him to lay back against plush sheets and pillows. "let me make you feel so good," his hand drifts between them curling around and palming him. stroking, nudging the tip with the pad of his thumb. the things he wants to do to him would make him the envy of any last demon who'd sell their own soul to be exactly where dean is. "lay back.." and he already starts to move kissing over his chin and down his throat. towards his collarbone. it's all lips and mouth and tongue. no teeth. a soft moan when his tongue dips into the hollow of his clavicle. "..for me?"

Dean's laughs are a blessing when they lack the foreboding undertone. Nothing to question here, nothing to be suspicious of. It's refreshing, as much as it is for someone like Crowley, who constantly operates on high alert (not saying paranoia that comes with responsibility), to just sink into that bliss. Their limbs entangled, wandering hands caressing, two demons melt into another kiss not going to break anytime soon. It lacks the bittersweet taste of powerplay, only sweet. With a faint remainder of whiskey breath. And this time, Crowley doesn't even for once think about flipping Dean over to crawl on top of him. Isn't that a miracle? Call it sentiment, love even, this one thing the baddest export of Hell hasn't let anywhere near him for ages.

The fellow demon's hand in his hair, one of his own resting atop a hip... he can't resist the temptation, thanks to Dean's little grunt of anticipation, to reach between his legs. Stroke him a bit, pointedly. That alone suffices to shoot surges of arousal into his own loins; prompts a breathy groan which just escapes when he severs the kiss. But keeps lover's face close to his own, free hand anchoring him by the nape of his neck.

" What if we... ", he hesitates, squinting, then continues to speak in whispers: " What if we switch it all up a little? " The idea alone sends all kinds of tingling sensations through his meatsuit, burns hot around his ears— hell, his entire noggin! " You ", precedes a slow blink (can Dean even resist those big, pleading eyes? 9/10 bet no.). " In me. " Crowley can't get himself to say it more specificly, if namely because this is a first. He's never let anyone do that. Screw the boss? A no-go. Slowly but surely, a challenging smile surfaces and no, he hasn't ceased to touch Dean where the bathing suit goes. " Call it a token of my love. "