Random Destiel Fic
Pleaaaaaase ignore.
His breath is expelled in a short, harsh gasp as he’s slammed back against the wall. It’s rough under his palm as they scrape along the brick, and he has about half a moment to think about it before there’s a mouth on his, insistent and demanding. He knows these lips, feels the catch of stubble against his cheek, the tongue licking a leisurely line across his mouth, and he parts his own lips on an almost satisfied sigh. The tongue slides into his mouth, in sure strokes against his own, and he can’t help the short huff of a moan that catches in the back of his throat. There are hands on his shirt, pulling, scrabbling, catch and release in the thin cotton and he breaks the kiss as his head slams back against the wall.
The hands fisting in his shirt fumble with his jeans, ripping the zip down with inhuman force, and then he groans out loud as there’s a hand in his jeans, gripping him hard. It’s rough and calloused, but it slides along his cock with a measure of knowledge, and he has to stop himself bucking up into the touch.
There’s a voice in his ear, growling low and husky and he can’t help the way his voice curls into a whimper when that hand is replaced by a mouth. His hips twitch, he can’t help it, but then they’re slammed against the wall again, bruises pressed into his skin by those fingers and he does moan again.
He wonders what a sight they’d make, the fresh swell of hickeys stringing along his neck, mouth swollen, bitten red, and the pants pooling around his ankles as he’s slowly sucked off. If it’s anything as hot as being in that image is, well-
It’s pooling in his stomach, and he can’t, he just, the mouth tightens, even further if possible, teeth grazing lightly across the heated flesh and he slams his head back again. There’s a low whine in the back of his throat, choked off syllables and half-formed words of curses as a hand slides around to cup his balls and he’s gone and that should probably be embarrassing but as his vision whites out, he really doesn’t care.
The mouth is biting as his neck again, stubble rough and unforgiving and Dean finally lets his knees give way a little.
“Dean.” Cas’ voice is a heavy, dark rumble in his ear, laden with things Dean won’t dissect, except the heavy note of urgency and Dean’s answering grin is positively evil.
His breath is expelled in a short, harsh gasp as he’s slammed back against the wall. It’s rough under his palm as they scrape along the brick, and he has about half a moment to think about it before there’s a mouth on his, insistent and demanding. He knows these lips, feels the catch of stubble against his cheek, the tongue licking a leisurely line across his mouth, and he parts his own lips on an almost satisfied sigh. The tongue slides into his mouth, in sure strokes against his own, and he can’t help the short huff of a moan that catches in the back of his throat. There are hands on his shirt, pulling, scrabbling, catch and release in the thin cotton and he breaks the kiss as his head slams back against the wall.
The hands fisting in his shirt fumble with his jeans, ripping the zip down with inhuman force, and then he groans out loud as there’s a hand in his jeans, gripping him hard. It’s rough and calloused, but it slides along his cock with a measure of knowledge, and he has to stop himself bucking up into the touch.
There’s a voice in his ear, growling low and husky and he can’t help the way his voice curls into a whimper when that hand is replaced by a mouth. His hips twitch, he can’t help it, but then they’re slammed against the wall again, bruises pressed into his skin by those fingers and he does moan again.
He wonders what a sight they’d make, the fresh swell of hickeys stringing along his neck, mouth swollen, bitten red, and the pants pooling around his ankles as he’s slowly sucked off. If it’s anything as hot as being in that image is, well-
It’s pooling in his stomach, and he can’t, he just, the mouth tightens, even further if possible, teeth grazing lightly across the heated flesh and he slams his head back again. There’s a low whine in the back of his throat, choked off syllables and half-formed words of curses as a hand slides around to cup his balls and he’s gone and that should probably be embarrassing but as his vision whites out, he really doesn’t care.
The mouth is biting as his neck again, stubble rough and unforgiving and Dean finally lets his knees give way a little.
“Dean.” Cas’ voice is a heavy, dark rumble in his ear, laden with things Dean won’t dissect, except the heavy note of urgency and Dean’s answering grin is positively evil.