Anonymous asked: SPN, Castiel/Naomi/Balthazar, pet!play. Castiel is Naomi’s best and favourite pet, but Balthazar still has a lot to learn.
Behind a cut for dubcon and power games.
Behind a cut for dubcon and power games.
The sharp pricks of sensation — pins and needles splaying out across his nerves — ran across Steve’s palm as he watched the skin of Bruce’s ass redden. This didn’t come to Steve naturally; he could kick the can of any enemy, but doing the things that Bruce wanted done to his body… Steve was better in the aftermath of it all, soothing the aching muscles and sore skin that their roughness always made. And, really, how was he supposed to resist Bruce on his knees with those soft eyes looking up at him, pleading and begging until Steve gave in and gave him a measure of pain with the pleasure they both got from this. Sliding into Bruce, grinding him into the bed while his thumbs and fingers left white circles of pressure across the flaming skin of Bruce’s ass, was a comfort for both of them; something easy to soothe them both, something gentle as Steve’s arms wrapped around Bruce and held him closer. Pins and needles were replaced by the soft huffs of pleasure that came across Steve’s hand as he stroked his thumb across Bruce’s full lips.
Eleven saw the two of them approach, his former selves, and he couldn’t help but squirm in his excitement; it wasn’t often that the laws of time and space could be flaunted for meetings such as this, for how should it be possible that a man can meet himself once, let alone twice—and at the same time? But he didn’t question it, he couldn’t, for he loved his own company more than anything else; if he were to investigate it, he might find some reason to end it, and he couldn’t. They knew him better than anyone—his ninth form was forceful, hardened by his sorrow and rage, and he would push Eleven into the mattress, reminding him of his failures and punishing him accordingly with his teeth—sunk into his skin—and his hands—rudely smacking his tender skin. Ten, on the other hand, comforted him in ways that Nine could not, whispering to him “It wasn’t your fault, you couldn’t help it, I’m so sorry…” as he pushed inside of him, kissing the freckles on his back, the nape of his neck. And when the two came together, both stretching him to his limit, he found himself wanting to cry each time from the perfect, blissful rightness of it, for a man should not be separated from his better parts.
The huge man hissed through the leather hood when Moriarty’s palm connected with his ass, a bright red hand print showing up on the man’s pale skin.
Chuck took a step backward, sputtering, “Oh, I— I didn’t quite know what you meant when you said horse riding, I guess?” The man’s massive cock was fully hard and dripping to the floor beneath him; he arched and flexed his back, shaking his head from side to side and then meeting Chuck’s eyes directly.
A smile spread across Moriarty’s face like liquid. “I think you Americans might have a different term for what I have in mind,” he said, his voice curling around Chuck like a great hand pulling him close. Moriarty slid against Chuck and carefully unzipped Chuck’s jeans in a fluid motion, slipping his warm palm inside and slowly jerking Chuck’s hardening dick. “I think you might call this a donkey show.”
Chuck’s eyes went painfully wide as he imagined the hooded man’s cock splitting him open, fear mingling with curiosity as Moriarty awaited Chuck’s answer, still expertly stroking with a cat’s smile upon his lips.
Sherlock wasn’t particularly surprised by Moriarty’s proposal, but he was intrigued: after all, having one’s nemesis offer themselves to you wasn’t something that happened everyday, but Moriarty had done just that, and for all his pretense of disinterest, when he had taken out the chains and ropes Sherlock had found it very hard to resist the temptation…so he didn’t. Now, Jim laid tied to the bed, slack-jawed and panting as Sherlock smacked his ass again and again with the palm of his hand, a doubled-over belt, his riding crop…anything and everything he could think of. His cock was hard in his trousers—an unfamiliar sensation—but he continued, almost entranced at the movement of Jim’s body beneath his ministrations and the sounds that escaped his lips.
“You see, Sherlock?” Jim whispered through swollen lips, upturned into a malicious grin. “You ARE just like me…you just need the opportunity.” Sherlock stilled, his face stark white, and he reared back and slapped Moriarty again, much harder than usual, trying to blot out that terrible truth; Moriarty just smiled.
Under a cut for what could be perceived as dubcon.
Despite what either of them may or may not have wanted, Crowley and Aziraphale had changed each other…but certainly not for the worse, for things had never been better between them, particularly in the sack. Aziraphale’s changes had been more obvious—a hundred years ago he would have never trussed Crowley up to the bedpost and fucked him blind, but just last week he had pulled off his tie and done just that, smacking his ass and smiling insufferably the whole time. Crowley, on the other hand, had really surprised him; rather than mocking and jibing him the entire night, as was his custom, he had whispered something into his ear, something just out of his range of hearing. He had quickly gone back to nailing him against the refrigerator, but afterward, he laid his head in Aziraphale’s lap and sighed contentedly, stroking his thigh. It was only the next day, when Crowley repeated himself in an embarrassed fluster over coffee that Aziraphale learned exactly what he had said; yes, things had changed, but certainly for the better.
“Just hit me. I want you to,” Walt said from his position laying across Ray’s bony lap; Ray had to be feeling his erection digging into his leg, because Walt really fucking wanted a spanking. He knew it was kind of not the usual thing for a Marine to want his ass reddened, especially not by one of his brothers, but Walt just did not give a flying fuck; he wanted to feel the sting of it and the heat, and he wanted it to be Ray that did it.
“Yeah, but no. I’ll fuck you or suck you off or pinch your tits. Whatever else you want,” Ray replied.
Walt squirmed, rubbing his dick against Ray’s leg restlessly. “Come on, dude. Please?” Walt raised his eyebrows and made the sappiest begging face he could muster.
“Jesus Christ. Fine,” Ray said, and slapped Walt’s bare skin five times in rapid succession like he thought he’d just get it over with and Walt would change his mind… he didn’t and as the tingling warmth ran from his ass to his dick, Ray quietly said, “Fuck, you look good like this.”
It’s not like either of them thought it would be when they started down this road, but it works for them, so damn well, and they can hardly wait until they’re naked and together — they can hardly wait for the spanking to begin.
The flesh of Castiel’s palms against Dean’s ass are a bright spot of color, and he hisses and begs, “Yes, yes, more, harder, Cas, please.” By the time they’re done, he can’t stop grinning, and when he climbs into Castiel’s lap to kiss him, the itching sore redness makes him want to laugh.
"You’re so good," Castiel whispers hotly, "you take your spankings so well," and when his fingers whisper against Dean’s hole, Dean squirms and grins even harder, burying his head in Castiel’s shoulder to hide his smile. Castiel chuckles warmly, repeats "Good boy," and takes the nipping kisses Dean leaves there as they both start to move together, grinding until they’re both groaning too hard to keep smiling or laughing — but there will be more laughter afterward.
They weren’t really that much different in age, but Phil knew how he came across: tidy, respectable, mature. The suit helped matters, and it was only a matter of days after Hawkeye was recruited that he was looking at Phil with a needy look in his eyes… it only took a few more weeks for Phil to figure out what the look actually meant (when Clint pulled him aside, kissed him silly, and then explicitly said exactly what he’d like from Phil).
Oh. Ok. Phil could do this, telling himself it was all in the service of SHIELD and keeping its agents functioning and happy, but really knowing he wanted in Clint’s pants just as much as Clint wanted him there.
He pulled Clint over his knee, his ass poised right under Phil’s right hand and his erection hard to ignore as it pressed into Phil’s thigh. “Have you been a bad boy, Clint?” he asked, not waiting for an answer before he reddened Clint’s skin.