Larry turned and looked at Freddy across the bench seat of the car; he ruffled his boy’s hair and then reached across him to open the glovebox.
“See what’s in there? Pick which one you want,” Larry said, trying to keep them on the road long enough to find a fleabag motel; but driving with a sudden boner was making concentrating on the road hard.
Freddy looked over at him with a wide grin, turning back to choose from the lollipops or the handcuffs — honestly this was gonna be a hard choice for the kid — with the color rising on the skin of his neck in a way that made Larry want to reach out and put his palm around the back of it.
There was no way that Daddy could say no to his boy when he asked for both (pretty please) and he didn’t think a little spoiling was gonna hurt, especially not when Freddy took it so hard and so good, wrapping his tongue around that lollipop the whole fucking time.
“I do love blondes,” Roman sneered, trailing the riding crop along Eric’s shoulders and then Jason’s as they knelt before him with their hands bound. “There’s something so… simple about them.”
Jason felt the rumble of Eric’s insubordinate growl before it exploded into the room, and he felt the zip of Roman’s hand through the air as he slapped Eric’s cheek. Eric’s face whipped to face Jason, and the smirk played at Eric’s lips like he wanted this all along, like he wanted Roman to make them fight and struggle while he fucked them.
Jason couldn’t help it; the sight of Eric baiting Roman like he was a nightcrawler on a hook was making Jason’s dick stand up, ‘cause he kinda wanted to feel that little whip hit him while he had Roman’s dick up his ass.
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.
Sam in the panties is long and lean and smooth everywhere, and Dean’s mouth is watering to cover every inch of that body with his mouth - to suck through the thin cloth at the protrusion of Sam’s cock, to work his mouth against Sam’s nipple until Sam’s screaming, to grind against Sam’s thigh until he’s leaving a trail of sticky pre-come there.
Sam’s moaning after the first kiss, his body arching against Dean’s, his hands fighting the cuffs with jerks and twists of wrist, and by the time Dean’s worked his way down to Sam’s neck, Sam’s begging openly to get touched.
"Not yet, Sammy, not yet, be good," Dean admonishes, and finally drops to that one delicious pebbled nipple; the other, soft, goes hard against his tongue, and Sam thrashes on the bed beneath him, the soft satin of the panties sliding obscenely against Dean’s erection like the siren call of temptation.
Dean kisses down Sam’s stomach, fixes his teeth around the elastic band, and pulls back — then lets it snap, and Sam gasps with the sharpness of it, then with the wet heaviness of Dean’s breath against his covered cock.
He breaks down — “Dean, God, please, please, Dean,” and Dean can’t stand it anymore — he pushes his own cock against that silky heaven, the warm hardness of his brother’s cock mixing with the fabric’s smooth softness to drive him crazier and crazier with each grind.
"You look good like this," Sam says, head tilted to the side as he stares thoughtfully down, like a bored patron pleasantly surprised by an interesting piece of art in a gallery of mediocre work, "really fucking good."
Sam adjusts his grip in Lucifer’s hair and uses it to hold his head back as he tries harder to make the devil gag on his dick, it is a pretty sight and it feels fantastic, those lips wrapped around his dick, the slick heat surrounding him as he shoved all the way in, and those eyes!
Pure, wrath looks up at him and Sam knows that it’s only the paralyzing fury of those emotions that hasn’t led to his dick being bitten off, yet, and close behind it is a hunger that Sam can only imagine in the most abstract way.
Sam knows that he has very little time to take what he wants from Lucifer before that wrath ebbs enough to allow action, knows how little it will take for Lucifer to break the wards that’d only been guaranteed to hold a creature like him for seconds, he knows that Lucifer’s retaliation will be swift and brutal, he knows it all and he doesn’t give a flying fuck about any of it.
Sam grins as he buries himself deep in Lucifer’s throat and comes with a satisfied groan, knowing that whatever comes next —as the metal cuffs melt off the man’s wrists— will be just as good if not better.
“Hands behind your back, kid,” Brad said, pressing Nate over the hood of his cruiser; Nate’s hot breath left a wash of fog just past his lips as he obeyed Brad’s order.
Brad leaned over him, running his hands over Nate’s sides, his legs, the insides of his thighs… “What’s this? Are you packing?” Brad’s palm cupped Nate’s growing hardness from between his legs.
Nate shrugged, the motion restrained by the cuffs on his wrists. “Guy’s gotta make do out here… Officer,” he purred, pressing onto his toes and giving Brad a better grip.
“You can put those away,” Neal said, and at least Sam had the dignity to redden slightly when he put his fake badge back in his pocket. “The only one here walking the straight and narrow is Peter.”
“Hey, I’m not so—” Peter halted himself abruptly and reddened even more than Sam; he fiddled with his handcuffs while Neal beamed at him, his tongue darting out to wet his lips.
“Well then,” Dean smirked. “So you two are—” and he made a finger into circled fingers motion, tongue pushing against the inside of his cheek; he whistled for good measure.
“That’s it,” Peter growled, “hands behind your backs. We’re taking you down.”
“Ooh, kinky,” Dean and Neal said together, and all four of them gave something up during the “interrogation.”
“Where’d you get these?” Mike asked as he let Neal click the handcuffs closed around his wrists, tethering him to Neal’s bed.
Neal gave him one of those devious smiles and replied, “I have my sources.”
Knowing Neal, a little sleight of hand had liberated these from Peter’s belt when the four of them had met for a working dinner an hour and a half ago; Mike wondered if Peter would guess what they were being used for when he realized they were gone… and what he’d do about it. Mike had no memory of this kind of thing violating any federal statutes, but then again he also had rapidly diminishing higher brain function as Neal slid down onto him. The sight of Neal’s cock bouncing between them as his tight warmth surrounded Mike’s dick made Mike tug at the cuffs; Neal’s lips curved up into another of those smiles.
A/N: This could be interpreted as verging on dubcon (with prisoner/captor implications), so I’m putting it under a cut.