bloodsalteds

[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. "

[bloodsalteds]

pushed back, dean gasps for air. lidded eyes swing their slitted stare up towards her expression. worry floods into veins that are pulsing, radiating with a growing what that's getting harder and harder to ignore. (and hide..where it matters) brows crinkle towards one another and he's half ready to ask if she's okay when she yanks him in again and slams their mouths back together. alright. that does things to him! things buried deep where he's pushed them and suffocated the want out of existence because he didn't want to push her too far. scare her away. more than some of his appearances here already should've. but the way she jerked him in? the way she's kissing him now? digs down into that hiding spot and starts pulling that ache for her right to the surface.

her fingers diving into his hair push goosebumps down his spine. fuck. they wrap around his waist. tingle along his hip bones. every piece of him craves her. has for so damn long. months.

he pours the need out between their mouths, breathing her in through his nose and then moaning thick and heavy across her tongue when she straddles him. his hands--that were being kept tame and digging into the cushions and the outsides of his own thighs are there to greet the outsides of hers. pressing in and dragging up the front of coffee and cream colored skin. reclined back, his fingers curl at the top of her hips and he pulls her with him. dean can feel the heat of her press against his pants that are quickly becoming more and more confining and tight. moving the kiss to her bottom lip, he peppers small pecks there and then murmurs against the corner of her mouth. "i want you. i want you so bad," voice ragged and strained--he groans and trails his mouth along her neck. towards her ear where his teeth lightly graze over the lobe. the heat of his palms moves back down her thighs and between them pressing through fabric to dance along their insides where the skin is sensitive and soft.

confession stated.. his heart races with a dozen ways he imagines this might go now..

                             DEAN KISSES BACK, and the tingling that has been slowly ebbing away comes back in full force. She gasps, surprised to feel so strongly, and Dean uses the opportunity to dip his tongue inside, which is a rather strange feeling. Isn't it unhygienic? Not that she can get ill or carry any bacteria or viruses that could make him sick, but still. It's weird. She has half a mind to push him off and demand the other kissing again when he curls his tongue behind her teeth, and her whole vessel breaks out in goosebumps. Now she does push him off with a surprised sound, eyes still round, breaths coming in quick little puffs. Her mouth feels like it's on fire, and only Dean knows how to handle the flames. The hand that has just pushed him off now digs into his shirt and yanks him close again.

                              Mouths clash, teeth click. Castiel copies his movement and dips her tongue between his lips, licking behind his teeth as her free hand comes up to curl around the back of his head to keep him steady, keep him close, but that's not enough. She really needs to ensure he won't go anywhere, so Castiel unceremoniously wraps her leg around his hips and straddles his lap. A smart tactical move, as it turns out because she can block the TV and the silly Terminator movie with her body and simultaneously push Dean into the soft couch cushions. A distant voice tells her she shouldn't be doing this — that's not her mission, that's not what protecting Dean is about, but a louder, more selfish part of her demands to go on, to keep feeling this incredible tingling, that burning fire that shoots through her veins and makes her grace do silly things inside her chest.

[bloodsalteds]

their little motel room wall's gonna get hellishly pissed off in about two seconds. cause that grip on stiles's throat? ends up with him being spun around and slammed against cheap wallpaper that's been plastered on drywall since the 70's of earlier. that shitty peacock print that makes dean's head spin every time he's had too much whiskey. hasn't gotten there yet tonight. not with stiles barking in his ear. pissin' him off. getting EXACTLY what the asshole wants the second his spine damn near makes the surface crumble as he hits. oh, he sees that glint in sloshed eyes. got one in his own reflecting right back. a smirk twists. taunting, teasing, measuring. "you'd like that. wouldn't ya," his fingers heed the request. the permission. whatever the fuck you wanna call it and squeeze as his body presses in tight enough he's gotta bend his elbow. lips brush the shell of an ear. the corner of his mouth? a beard tickles his skin. "i could.. turn you around, give you what you so obviously want." a free hand slips between toned legs, palms over the bulge he finds. "but isn't that just encouraging you to be a dick? mmmm. don't know. worth my time.. or not? convince me."

send 🙌 to grab my muse by the throat

@bloodsalted asked: 🙌 doooo it any way you want!

Stiles PISSED Dean off on PURPOSE, hoping for a result such as this one. His eyes closed as the hands wrapped around his neck, chills running down his spine, wishing for a moment that he would squeeze a little tighter. There is a deep breath, tongue swiping over his bottom lip, as whiskey eyes flutter open and look into deans with something glinting within them. ❝ If you're going to choke me, Dean, you could at least be fucking me while you do it, and NEVER be afraid to wrap your hands around me tighter.❞ The words escaping his pink plush lips in a teasing manner.

[bloodsalteds]

goosebumps decorate the skin underneath crowley's fingernails. blossoming to life instantly with the tightening of those nails over his skin. hunter-turned-demon drinks in the sight of that smile. so freely given. without a thought. or a pause to hide it with something sardonic or muffled. it's a full on smile. and crowley's years slip away from him so quickly. beautiful. it's dangerous how gorgeous he can be when he's trying. but when he's not giving any effort and just is? deadly. in the best sort've way.

dean, following the same example, doesn't stop the puff of laughter from rattling its way out of his chest. "yeah.. guess we are," and his voice is a breathy whisper as he falls into agreement with the other demon. eyelids flutter with the touch grazing along the delicate skin underneath his eye. a quiet hum echoes the touch, rippling through the air quiet and soft. once his gaze opens again, long lashes partially veil his eyes from view. though, he aims his gaze directly to the set of lips he finds himself hungry for. doesn't look like he's the only one admiring the mouth across from him, though. because he finds himself pulled into a kiss and gratefully falls right into it. lips fit against crowley's eagerly nudging them open so he can have another taste. he swallows the first groan..

..but can't devour the next. because his legs are slightly parted with another slipping between them and dean finishes closing the distance by parting now very warm thighs so that he can fit the leg on top of crowley's perfectly around the demon's. it brushes their bodies together in all the right places and his tongue slips out, grazing over a slick bottom lip that teeth soon pinch the plump flesh between their grip. careful but teasing. enough that crowley, definitely, feels a light sting that's soon licked away before he captures his mouth again and arches hips towards the body so close--so pressed to him that a grunt chased by a moan falls into his lover's mouth. his touch? fluttering. from hip to shoulder, to the back of a head that he cups tight enough he balls up a little fist of short hair between his fingers. perfect.

The way things are, Crowley figures the best method will be to fully take advantage of those phases between Dean's flashes of bloodlust. When he seems clear enough, close enough to the hunter he... ugh... well, loves. Can you believe that? Crowley can't, still, might inwardly cringe at how the tables turned— wanted Dean to see and feel what a demon sees and feels. Just for the badassest demon in the room (yours truly) to feel and see the way those delicate dumbass humans do. The big guy up there really has a strange sense of humor. Give Crowley five minutes with him. Only five. Just to talk.

But not tonight; let him enjoy Romeo's caresses as smitten girlies do, pin his attention to that pair of full lips in waiting for an answer. He means it. Guess who gets flooded with all kinds of warm tingles now, subconsciously digs his nails into his lover's chest and must be smiling the stupidest smile known to mankind. It's actually Dean's final addition which lets a giggle catch at the back of Crowley's throat—

" See, we're even starting to speak the same language ", he teases back before that same smile falters. His hand reaches for his fellow demon's face again to cup his cheek, pad of his thumb brushing over the smooth skin under an eye. Lo' and behold. The super eloquent king of Hell is speechless! Cut him some slack; he's trying to process that wild ride of emotions firing through all fun parts of his meatsuit. And instead of returning to status quo aka playful talk, he pulls Dean into a kiss.

Maaaaybe one of his legs slides between the others'— didn't he ask, only a couple minutes ago, for another round of lovemaking?

[bloodsalteds]

staring at cas's mouth in their closeness, dean shudders as an aftershock rattles its way through his spine. long lashes half-veil his eyes from view but he looks utterly fascinated with the angel's lips. the little patch of glistening wet that his tongue left behind. the humor in his voice isn't missed and he nods, murmuring--"yes.." as his lover's mouth trails down his jawline and the spot under his ear that makes his knees buckle and the hunter very grateful that a strong arm is holding him up til he finds his footing again. even then? his knees remain weak. body filled with want and a building need that was only sated moments earlier has already begun to rear its head at the idea of being bent over his beloved car..and that body behind him. inside him.

a low groan runs warm against castiel's throat as dean turns his head towards the other's neck once he feels the touch against the sensitive ring of muscle between his cheeks. left hand gripping the angel's arm, the right reaches back and curls against a stubbled cheek. stroking idly as he presses himself back into the touch. bliss. every second of this feels like bliss wrapped in anticipation and covered with devotion. a hazy gaze opens blindly towards the night sky on the horizon. dean licks his lips and cuts off the vision by pressing his mouth to the side of cas's throat. sucking a patch of skin between his lips and greeting it with his tongue once he latches on.

the taste of cas fills his mouth. he hungrily sucks against the flavor. fingers spread out over cas's jawline, then graze further back until he's holding onto the back of his neck as his grip on the arm supporting him tightens. a pitched whimper's muffled against the angel's jugular when he hits a particularly good spot with a particularly amazing stroke. his tongue lashes against the skin as if it's a silent plea for more.

                                 DEAN'S CLIMAX COMES AS A LITTLE SURPRISE. Castiel didn't expect him to follow his suggestion immediately — as if he waited for permission to come? Castiel would never forbid him to have an orgasm, and anyway, he doesn't think you can control it like that. He can't, at least. But perhaps that's something Dean would like to experiment with? There's a truckload of things Castiel doesn't know about human sexuality and the broad sphere of kinks and fetishes. He'll have to ask Dean about it; everything they've tried so far has been great, and he expects more new things to be equally entertaining.

                                  He strokes Dean through his orgasm, quick and unrelenting at the start, then gentler, slower when it subsides. His left arm stays wrapped around Dean's chest, offering stability and security as his greedy eyes take in the pearly liquid that pours over his fingers and knuckles, warm and sticky. His mouth hungrily opens when Dean turns his head to catch his lips for deep, languid kisses. Afterward, their foreheads are pressed together, Castiel's regular breath mixed with Dean's quicker puffs. He can still feel the hunter's rapid heartbeat under his arm, though it has slowed a bit by now.

                                  "Is that an order, Dean?" he murmurs against the other's lips, a hint of humor creeping into his voice. There's no way Dean can go again so soon, but they'll need a little prep time, anyway, and Castiel is more than willing to indulge him. His lips trail over Dean's jaw and move to a spot right below his left ear, sucking gently. The lube is in the bag in the trunk — very far away. Castiel doesn't want to let go of Dean just yet, but luckily, he provided some 'homemade' lubricant just a minute ago: Castiel smiles against Dean's skin as he pulls his sticky right hand behind Dean's back, Castiel's fingers sliding between his buttocks to rub at the tightly puckered muscle ring. 

[bloodsalteds]

dean watches him. in the way their noses nearly brush as he inches close and touches their foreheads together after that wrinkle forms on crowley's brow. he knows there's a tease coming. their meeting brought up only serves to curve a smile upon his mouth. he makes space, not much, but enough to meet those dark eyes again. feels his stomach do a flip-flop. so much for the heartless, soul-tarnished demon, eh? maybe the hunger's quelled for the time being. maybe that monster in him wants to tangle itself around the demon until it's wrapped so tight there'd be no shaking him off. maybe that darkness that he feels swallowing him up further and further can't compete with the elation of being, literally, screwed into the mattress so hard that he's pretty sure he couldn't make his legs work if he tried. all this time later, even! doesn't matter whatever combination of whatever has landed him peacefully laying here letting his fingertips trail down, down, down to a bare hip that they curl against.

a hand upon his chest sends goosebumps rippling over his flesh. hardening the darkened skin around his nipples and jerks a warm shudder up his spine. asked if he means it--the hunter-turned-demon arches a brow. touch spreads over crowley's hip--dances up to his waist where he grips gently but firmly against him. "yeah.. i mean it," staring into his eyes--he squints trying to make his point crystal clear. "i get it.. why you'd ask that. more than just because of," and his gaze bounces to where the mark would be on his arm if it were visible in the position they're in. his thumb strokes pale skin.

"..but i do mean it." a wrinkle of thought forms between his brows. remember that. even if this thing eats me up. remember what i'm saying. words that don't see the light of day before he looks into crowley's gaze and, just like him, lets his expression turn lighter. teasing. "you're not like the other girls. i promise.."

Who would have thought that a badass like Crowley could thoroughly enjoy this? Entangled limbs with another, those feather-light touches sending goosebumps all over his meatsuit... Claiming he's not sentimental sure as hell will sound like a big, fat lie from here on out. Needs another excuse to downplay his concern in the future, whenever a Winchester— whenever Dean— is in danger. Love is weakness. If, a big if, this is love. Maybe he's past that point, however. Hearing that Dean says he's not sorry? Murmuring those sweet nothings into their shared, mingling breaths? Crowley wants to believe it's not just the mark's corruption speaking through that illegally beautiful mouth.

He can't help the simper accompanying another slow blink. Fingertips of his hand previously tracing Dean's jawline now drag along his neck, down to his chest. " I knew you fell head over heels for me the very second we met in that mansion. The colt? " He crinkles his nose, barely noticeable the shake of his head. " Just some minor side-plot. " Crowley isn't really convinced, naturally, habit has him hide behind smugness and witty remarks all over again. That same smugness curves his mouth into a smile, brows wagging. And the way his heart skips a beat as soon as they make eye contact almost gets him nauseous. Somehow not in a bad way.

Swallowing dryly, Crowley lets his impish mien sober, frowns even while turning his attention to his own hand now resting against Dean's chest. Juicy. The temptation to squeeze crosses his mind. Just for the heck of it. " Do you... mean it? "

[bloodsalteds]