"I can’t imagine the trouble you’re going to get into when Daddy finds out about this, Gabriel." The sad fact was that Gabriel didn’t care, because this was what he wanted: not approval, or love, just the thrill of being pinned under something forbidden and dark and vile. Crowley leaned over him and bit his neck again, lapping at the swollen, bruised skin there; to be honest, Crowley was enjoying himself nearly as much as Gabriel was, never expecting an angel to be quite so much fun.
"Crowley, p-please…fuck me." Crowley put a hand to his ear, pretending not to have heard Gabriel, and the angel whined piteously.
"Oh, very well. You look so uncomfortable there, and yet…I think I’ve never seen any angel so suited to his position as you." With that, he slid his damp, damned hand over his cock, moistening it before pressing inside of Gabriel, giving him precisely what he wanted. Gabriel took it, too, even when Crowley humiliated him in ways he could not have imagined; so wrong it was right, so filthy it was pure.
"You piece of shit." Eric ground out as he thrust into Jason again, harder this time, as punishment for yanking at Eric’s hair with his greasy, filthy fingers; he’d have to give it an extra washing now. He was just like her, just like Sookie, so impetuous and fiery and…well, he supposed that was why he was here, cock three-fourths buried in his cornpone ass, digging his nails into his skin, impossibly tan for a boy as white as he.
"Why don’ you shut the fuck up and finish the job, bloodsucker? Didn’ come here to lissen to you insult me." Eric grinned and shoved Jason’s head back down into the concrete floor of the basement, thrusting again and again until he yelped.
"No, I expect you didn’t, but I also assumed you knew what you were walking into. I suppose that was too much to hope for a mangy, inbred lunatic such as yourself." Jason growled and, remarkably, shoved Eric onto his back and slamming down onto him.
"You’re just as mangy as me for fuckin’ me, ain’t ya?" Eric blinked and Jason continued to fuck himself on Eric’s cock, panting with every thrust. "So…just…do it…"
Seb strolled lazily around the laboratory, gazing dumbly around the dozens of mechanical wonders around him; he didn’t know what they were and he didn’t care—science had never been his best subject.
“I do not believe you have clearance for this area, Mr. Moran. It would be best if you left immediately.” Defiantly, Seb fell back into a rolling chair and propped his feet up on one of the workbenches. “And what if I don’t?” My boss isn’t around to tell me what to do and neither is yours. Don’t you get sick of his bullshit?”
“Well…yes, I suppose I do.” The robotic voice sounded almost angry, and it didn’t take much prying for it (him) to go into explicit detail about just what he’d like to do with Mr. Stark; meanwhile, Seb unzipped his jeans and slid a hand inside them, pulling his halfhard cock free and stroking it lazily. “Ahh…what are you doing, Mr. Moran?” Well, that got his attention.
“What does it look like? Please, go on.” And, much to his surprise, the robot voice did, picking up right where he left off with Tony tied to the hood of his car.
Dean calls Sammy a girl outside the bedroom, but in here it’s Dean who’s nothing but a wet cunt to be plowed into, a slut for Sam’s cock and a bitch when he doesn’t get his way. He doesn’t want condoms, he doesn’t want careful; he wants Sam in him, thick hot skin against his, and cock huge as it tears him apart in all the best ways.
"Fuck my pussy, Sammy," he mutters as he rides Sam’s lap; Sam is groaning and holding fast to his hips, just trying to survive. "That’s it, fuck my dirty pussy like I’m the only girl you’ll ever need, want to feel your come in it, c’mon, Sammy, now."
With each word, with each filthy phrase, he jerks hard up and down on sam’s cock, until there’s nothing Sam can do but follow his orders, biting back a “—fuck!—” and spurting hot come into his brother’s ass as Dean rides him with a shout of delight through his orgasm.
This feels like freedom, even though to an outsider it might look like anything but — Dean’s hands bound, his face pressed against the cold floor, this legs wide open and bouncing in the air as Castiel grunts and thrusts between them. Castiel’s hand, like a star, radiates warmth through the center of Dean’s chest, and the feeling drives words out of Dean in a stream — “yeah, yeah, fuck me,” he mutters, “come on and fuck me real good, Cas, love to feel you slamming into my ass.”
He can curl his bound hands around his cock and jerk, bring himself off he wants to, but Dean just holds his cock loosely in his fingers and lets the contact stay incidental. He doesn’t need it to get off — Cas is hitting his prostate at that wow-magic angle, and Dean’s groaning and holding back just from the feather-light touches of his own fingers and the occasional cold metal of the cuffs. But more than that, he doesn’t even need to get off, period: this is what he wants, Castiel using him, his body a receptacle of pleasure, a vessel for something besides angelic intent and human pain.
"It’s really just the accent, isn’t it?" Mark has teased him, to which he invariably gets the gritted-teeth "shut up and fuck me," meaning that it’s the accent after all.
So he takes advantage of it, caressing Jensen’s ass and murmuring in his best Queen’s English, “I’m going to bugger your arsehole until you are stretched out beyond belief, until you feel so empty without me that you can hardly stand it.”
Jensen squirms and grunts helplessly, his hips pumping up into nothing, begging for the fat press of Mark’s cock into him without a word spoken.
"Yes, you want me to do all the talking," Mark says as he eases into Jensen, "and so I shall, baby, I’ll tell you just how sore you’re going to be, after I slam into that lovely pink hole of yours over and over and over—"
"Fuck, daddy!" Jensen cries out, urging backward, and Mark meets him halfway, the first of many slapping sounds ringing out in the small room.
Under a cut for what could be perceived as dubcon.
She isn’t afraid of him, not of his fangs or of the lust in his eyes when his mouth is lowered to his skin, and Benny can only think how damn lucky is that she lets him close to her in the first place, much less lets him do this. He’s not a monster when his lips are wrapped around her clit, pulsing against it; it’s Andrea who becomes the rabid animal, hissing at him to suck harder, to not let her go, not stop. She whispers the words “Suck it, suck it,” over and over again, voice rising from hiss to moan, like a woman in a trance, and her hips pump and pulse up against him. The blood beneath the surface calls to him, but the siren song of his instincts is drowned out by her own; she needs him to keep going, to “suck and lick my clit, Benny, come on, lick it,” far more than he ever needed a hit of blood. And subservient to her desires, thinking nothing of his own, he follows her orders, brings her to screams and shrieks and pulls of his hair, and drinks in not her blood but the clear gush of her juices as she comes in waves and pulses against his eager tongue.
“I wrote something… about us,” Chuck mumbled, looking at Crowley with those wide, watery eyes and then clearing his throat. “You were sort of tied to this giant, iron circle thing and I… I, well, it was really hot, the way you were basically screaming. Maybe one of the best things I’ve ever written. I was going to keep it for myself, just to, you know, masturbate—”
Crowley chuckled, “If you wrote it, it must be true, Prophet.” He indulged the wavy-haired, doughy-bellied writer and chained himself to the bedframe, face down with his arse open and available to this little man. “Do your worst. Use me like in your little story.”
Chuck’s stuttering breaths washed over Crowley’s back as he tentatively rubbed his fingertip over Crowley’s hole, gasping as Crowley opened for him, swallowing him as the chains rattled.
“I said your worst,” Crowley growled, pushing his hips off the bed to urge Chuck on with it.
“I…ungh, I thought you—you were gone…ahh!” The Doctor struggled to find his words as the Master continued to slam into him, splayed over the TARDIS control panel with his hands tied behind his back with his own bowtie; his whole body flushed with sensation despite remembering after all these years exactly what the Master felt like.
“Well, now, that was your first mistake, my old friend.” The Master growled into his ear and bit hard into his neck, the stubble around his chin and cheeks scratching his pale skin and his strong hands bruising his hips as he maintained his iron grip. “You know perfectly well that you can’t get rid of me. I will crawl from the very bowels of space and time—“ He punctuated his words with carefully timed thrusts, and the Doctor cried out aloud, his cheeks now an impossible shade of red. “–to claim you.”
“Yes, you’d do well to call me your master.” He grinned and removed one hand from his hip to push the Doctor’s head down by the neck, holding him fast. “Why don’t you say it again, so I can hear you?” The Doctor couldn’t help but obey, crying out his name again and again, begging for more and receiving it in kind.