“Giddy-up,” Irvine drawls in his low voice, eyes hooded and looking completely bored with the situation, even as his fingers tug on the leash attached to Squall’s collar, pulling his head down in encouragement.
Squall lets his head bow down as he shifts, widening his knees to get a good balance as he slowly sinks down on Irvine’s dick, pausing for just a second when it’s fully in him to appreciate the feel of it.
Irvine lets out a pleased hum but doesn’t try to move at all, he’s already made it clear that Squall will be doing all the work tonight, and Squall can’t find any fault with that plan of action.
He splays his hands out over Irvine’s firm chest, right thumb resting in the divot of a scar, and begins to move, shifting himself up and down the cowboy’s hard dick, rocking just enough on the down stroke to press against his prostate wishing he had Irvine’s hands on his hips so he could spare one hand to touch himself.
Picking up speed, Squall groans, his thighs beginning to burn from the effort of doing all the work, Irvine hisses, his eyes shut tight and brow furrowed as he holds himself back from moving as Squall rides him until he comes untouched.
The pool table is hard and unforgiving on Dean’s back, and the slam of Ash fucking himself on Dean —hard and relentless— doesn’t help one damn bit, not that he’s going to complain about it, not with Ash tight and hot around him.
“Never figured, ah, shit,” Dean hisses as Ash drops down, his own hips rising to push his cock in deep, “never figured you for a two beer queer.”
“Ain’t like that,” Ash manages to say, broad hands splaying out over Dean’s covered chest to get more leverage as he picks up the pace, changing the angle until Dean’s cock is hitting him right and he’s groaning loudly.
“Don’t need anything to appreciate a good fuck, man,” Ash laughs out, his voice going choppy as his breathing becomes labored.
Dean has nothing to say to that, so he lets his head fall back onto the pool table and puts all his energy into meeting Ash thrust for thrust until hot stripes of come hit his chest and the tightening of Ash’s hole sends him over as well.
Tony slides his legs together, eases from a straddle up into a crouch, dragging the tip of Steve’s cock along the bottom edge of his thighs. Steve lets out a moan and clutches the pillows with white-knuckled hands, muttering, “Tony, come on… have a heart.”
Shaking his head, Tony glides forward another few inches; “oh, no,” he says, “I’ve been waiting for this way too long just get it over with.” But he’s settling down now, taking in the head and first inch of Steve’s cock, and as he goes he lets out a delirious sigh, then narrates it inch by inch — “that’s it, that’s right, just as big as I imagined inside my tight ass—” that makes the insane burn and squeeze of it even more intense. Sparks are flying before Steve’s eyes, and he arches up, filling Tony in a single stroke, and Tony’s wide-eyed “fucksobig” cry breaks through the air and nearly drives them both off the edge before they’ve even started.
Dean’s muscles ripple, his abs curling and tightening as he bounces up and down. Sam runs his hands over Dean’s pumping thighs, muttering encouragements, the heat of Dean’s velvet skin burning into his palms with each stroke. And Dean’s all power and furnace inside, ass sliding slickly down and around Sam’s cock, clenching and relaxing with each inhalation and exhalation. Sweat pours like oil down his skin and beads hang off the long fringe of his eyelashes as he looks down at Sam. There’s adoration in those eyes, like Dean’s the one who has the great view, but Sam knows there’s nothing in the world that could match what he’s seeing right now.
Dean can’t wait to see how this looks; he halfway wants to skip past the actual having sex bit and go straight to the video feed. Of course, he also halfway wants this to never end, but he feels that way every time he goes to bed with Cas: the feel of Cas’s ribs beneath his fingers, the stretch of his torso and the tightening of his legs around Dean’s waist, the way he gasps between kisses and groans Dean’s name.
It’s all overwhelming to feel and experience, and Dean feels as though he’s simultaneously seeing it all from his own perspective and that of the camera — this shot will be beautiful from the side, he thinks, even though the sight of Cas arching above him and riding his cock couldn’t be more perfect from its current vantage point. And maybe that’s why it all feels twice as intense, too — when his hand slips around Cas’s erection and pumps it, he can feel Cas’s pleasure spike as though it’s happening inside him, and he’s lost to that moment, his own body contorting, head tipping back and eyes closing. He isn’t watching when Cas comes, when his own body breaks into convulsions, but he hears the long, broken moan Cas gives at that moment, and he’s damn glad that’s going to be preserved for posterity.
The “blanket,” Castiel didn’t get, but he admits later that he kind of liked the hat, and when Dean wears it to a Texas bar to get information on a case (complete with cowboy boots and a half-grin that sat crooked on his face), Castiel has to lean over and whisper several things in Dean’s ear that make it very hard to concentrate on the case at hand.
Back at the motel, Castiel’s dragging Dean’s clothes off while kissing him hungrily, but he never goes for the hat, and Dean realizes about halfway through the forcible strip-search that Cas wants him to keep it on. “Damn,” he whispers, and knocks Cas to the bed, stretching himself over the length of Cas’ body and moaning as they trade kisses and rub themselves together in a handsy, hot, slow buildup.
Cas whispers, “Ride me, cowboy,” and Dean’s too worked up to find it as hilarious as he surely will later.
In another two minutes that’s just what he’s doing, holding on to his hat with one hand while the other grasps hard at Castiel’s wrist for leverage as his hips pump on Castiel’s and his gut churns with the feeling of Cas huge and hot inside him’ when Cas comes with it’s a shout, and if Dean can’t quite manage a “yippie-ki-yay,” he at least lets out something approximating a “yee-haw” at the very end.
Ash’s knuckles scrape the green felt as he takes fistfuls of Gabriel’s wings and makes him holler. Gabriel tries to throw him like a bucking bronco, but Ash is too good at this (and too tight) to be tossed; he rides each buck upward of the archangel’s hips with a cowboy’s whoop on his lips, sending electrical jolts through both their bodies.
This had started out as a joke, something about putting your balls on the table and checking out someone’s cue stick and someone else’s corner pocket, but it wasn’t long before Ash realized he was more than good with taking whatever debaucherous gifts his new friend was willing to give. Gabriel is fucking glorious in the sack, all filthy words, and his wings curl upward and caress Ash’s back as he rides him, feathers tickling along his spine.
Gabriel is close now, Ash can tell from the way his hips twitch and his moans every time Ash takes another fistful of feathers; with a yippie-ki-yay, Ash jerks forward on the cock that’s deep inside him and rides until they’re both blown sky-high.
There aren’t words for the pressure, the stars that flash before his eyes as he pistons himself up and down. Dean’s stuck in incoherent moans, whimpers that don’t even sounds like his voice, letting himself go and just feeling the flashes of sensation that dig deep into his belly and fly out toward his toes. But Sam has words aplenty for him, words like “Ride my cock like a whore, because that’s what you are, Dean, aren’t you? You’re my fucking cockslut of a brother, and you just want to ride me so hard you’re coming for days.” And he does, Jesus, fuck, he really does, and Dean goes just as hard as he can, until the pleasure and the pressure are shaking him apart and he’s practically in pieces on the floor.
Jensen’s hands cinch on Misha’s waist, but he doesn’t have to do any heavy lifting; Misha’s playing the cowboy better than Jensen could have hoped a New England boy could do. His thighs flex, pumping him up and down, and his whole body arches back as he pants, his chest rises and falls, and he works himself. It’s incredible to watch him, to get to touch the solid pillars of his torso and legs, and Jensen bites his lip to keep himself from going off too soon, because Misha feels just as incredible as he looks. He’s been well-slicked, and he’s loose, but fuck if Misha isn’t squeezing, just subtly, enough to drive Jensen insane. Oh, Misha’s riding him all right, in more ways than one, and Jensen stares up through lust-blown eyes and tries not to miss a second.
Newton was the name of a famous scientist, and Bishop a man of God, but it was Newton who worshiped his creator on dark nights like these, when the two of them were the only signs of life in a darkened lab in a crumbling universe. The Secretary took what he wanted, and he had no signs of tenderness for Newton beyond a brief stroke of the top of his head as Newton feverishly worked himself atop his creator’s body. It was Newton’s most fervent desire to give as fully as Walter Bishop had given to him, and if this was how, he was happy to do it. Each kiss and sucking welt laid into the Secretary’s body, each jerk as he rode Walter with his legs wrapped tightly around his waist - these were insufficient payback for giving Newton the power he now held. He gasped, keened and moved his reconstructed body until Walter had spilled inside him, savoring the wholeness and warmth that, but for Walter, he would never have the chance to feel again.
