He reminds Sam of a junkie, sprawled out on the bed in a daze, excited about being so completely drained of all energy, a lazy smile and half-lidded eyes. Even after Sam crawls out of bed and stumbles toward the bathroom for a shower, Gabriel doesn’t move, doesn’t remove himself from the haze of bliss in their post-orgasmic exhaustion. Sometimes Sam comes back to find Gabriel lazily stroking himself, fingers smearing through the hunter’s come and groaning to himself at the feeling of being so full. Sometimes Sam catches Gabriel just watching him through the open door, getting harder and harder as he waits to make Sam’s shower a pointless exercise in futility. All it takes is that sneaky little smile and a half whisper suggestion that maybe Sam should fill him up again to get Sam hard and ready for another round.
Just looking at Jensen this close is enough to get Misha hard; freckles and green eyes and perfect body, pressing into Misha’s space but never making contact. Jensen purses his lips and blows cool air against Misha’s lips, a ghost of a touch, and Misha’s cock jerks; he struggles in the handcuffs, dying to take himself in hand, to relieve the tension, but the cuffs bite at his skin, and his own helplessness is a turn-on, too. He moans, and Jensen grins wickedly; he slides down Misha’s body and continues to blow — soft against Misha’s neck, teasing against his nipple, then lingering as he trails down Misha’s stomach. Still never making contact, just touching with air. But when he gets to Misha’s cock, Jensen unpurses his lips and exhales full and warm; a rush of uncontrollable heat jolts through Misha, and his hips jerk as he comes, staining that perfect freckled face with spatters of white.
Brad shuddered against the front of Walt’s shoulder and he came hard and way too goddamn soon; his blush rocketed down from his cheeks to his neck and chest.
Walt froze, and then he laughed, tightening his arms and legs around Brad, not letting him retreat. “I know I am fucking hot, but Jesus Christ, Sergeant.”
“Shut the fuck up,” Brad mumbled into the side of Walt’s neck, but he didn’t run despite it being his first instinct in this case.
“I can pretend to be your Drill Instructor and we can do a little ass fucking boot camp, seeing as you need a little time in the PCP,” Walt snickered and wiggled his ass against Brad softening but still sensitive dick.
“What’s it going to take to shut you up? This?” Brad asked, sliding two fingers into Walt’s ass and pumping them hard.
****
PCP = Physical Conditioning Platoon, a platoon within boot camp for recruits who have failed the physical fitness test
When Castiel comes back, he comes back different; he’s a little more broken, a little more patient, a lot more communicative - and he also happens to have two great fuck-off wings sprouting from his back.
Sam can’t take his eyes off them, and when he and Castiel are working together on a case, he can’t help asking for permission to touch them.
Castiel hesitates for a moment, before taking Sam’s hand between his delicately, almost as if nervous, and bringing it to his feathers.
Castiel hisses almost the second Sam touches them, and Sam flushes at the realisation it’s a hell of a lot more intimate than brushing someone’s shoulder or back; by the time Castiel moans, Sam is already settled between the angel’s legs, and prepared to silence him with a kiss.
Sam doesn’t need to touch his own cock to come, in the end - it’s enough just to make Castiel wild and helpless, enough to have his fingers damp with the trapped oils and sweat between Castiel’s feathers, and enough to make Castiel come just as untouched as he does with the handling of his wings alone.
Sam groaned as he heard the first wet smack of lips parting, and dragged the pillow over his head smashing it down around his ears as tightly as he dared to block out the inevitable sounds as his brother escalated things in the next bed.
Sam could handle his brother’s libido, they’d grown up with absolutely zero privacy and it was either get over it or be mentally scarred —more so— for his entire life.
He could handle the thought of Dean corrupting an angel so thoroughly especially given the fact that Dean seemed willing to try out monogamy for this particular one.
He could even handle the fact that Cas was apparently a screamer, sure he couldn’t sleep through it but he could mostly block it out with the pillows.
The thing Sam could not handle were the morning afters, when only Sam and Dean left the room, and the looks from people that would follow them out.
Cas is a machine, pistoning into Dean with steady hips, his hands tight, bruising brands on Dean’s waist as Dean rocks back into him, groaning. Sam beneath them both is the opposite: all patience, no power, and full of words. “Love your face when you’re getting fucked,” he whispers, cradling Dean’s jaw with one soft hand as the other works their cocks together with each jerk of Dean’s body. “Love how much you love it when Cas fucks you hard, moaning like a whore, like you just can’t get enough of his cock.”
And Dean is moaning like a whore, louder with each filthy word, and he jerks back and forth between the two poles until his body’s in a frenzy of friction and he can do nothing but stiffen and turn to flame in his two lovers’ arms.
“Keep it on,” Tony says lazily when Steve goes to remove his shirt, and Steve’s puzzled — he’s already pantsless, Tony’s fingers have made quick work of his belt, and to keep the shirt on makes him feel a bit like an American flag atop a different kind of flagpole. But Tony’s sucking him now with purpose, and Steve couldn’t take the shirt off if he tried now — he’s too busy gasping, running his hands through Tony’s unkempt tangle of hair, and arching up into each delicious long suck and flicker of maddening tongue.
Tony takes a brief break to smile lustfully up at Steve. “You are so fucking hot in that thing,” he says, and his fingers dart up from their hold on Steve’s hips to run across the fabric. Steve’s nipples harden in anticipation, and Tony’s smile goes from merely lustful to predatory. He bends down again, and now he’s humming the national anthem as he sucks Steve off, which is either perversely flattering or just perverse — but the vibrations feel damn good, so Steve just leans back and lets Tony salute the flag.
Lucifer always digs his fingers into Gabriel’s skull, drags his face closer, jams his cock between his brother’s lips because it’s the only way to make Gabriel shut his damn mouth. It’s hard for Gabriel to snark or tease when he’s tagging on Lucifer’s cock, tears pushing at the corners of his eyes as he opens wider to try and swallow down more and more of Lucifer’s length. His own erection strains against his pants, just waiting for Lucifer to open his big mouth and give Gabriel a reason to turn the tables. It happens, it always does because Lucifer can’t stay quiet any more than Gabriel can, and that’s when it’s Gabriel’s turn. Lucifer gets to make the first move, but he doesn’t fight it anymore than Gabriel does when his little brother shoves him into the nearest flat surface and works Lucifer open with careful fingers. The best part is that Lucifer always finds himself speechless as Gabriel pounds into his ass, but Lucifer is right… the only way to shut Gabriel up is to shove something in his mouth, and that’s just too hard to accomplish while Lucifer’s being slammed into.
It’s hard to believe this started out as a joke — and that to most, it stillis, even after karaoke sessions faded to all-night conversations and casual hand-holding at breakfast the next morning. That’s all they were, conversations — and now here they are, ready to take this step, and Matt’s as heart-poundingly anxious as he was when he was a teenage virgin, still scrawny, and the cheerleader pulled off her shirt.
But Richard’s all experience, all whiskey and gravel as he whispers to Matt to come join him on the bed, and falling into his arms is easy as anything; it’s instinct once their bodies come together, flushed-hot, and when Richard’s fingers nimbly slide down his back he’s ready and aching for them to go further. He moans out a half-syllable of want, and Richard’s there with a kiss to silence him, whispering “It’s OK, kid, I’ll take good care of you.”
He doesn’t turn Matt around; they make love facing each other, Richard rocking into him slow and careful, his face a mask of agony as he tries to hold back his own desires. Matt turns full kisses up into his lips, promises him it’s OK to let go, but Richard doesn’t, not until Matt’s shuddering and coming beneath him.
ASK BOX TEMPORARILY CLOSED while we work through our 200 prompts!
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4) The world will be a little smuttier. And that's a good thing.
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