scraps, x2
At some point, I need to repost the stuff I wrote for the het/femslash meme. For now, have some scraps of stuff that most interested parties have probably already seen elsewhere. ;)
untitled Turtledove timestamp, Dean/Castiel, R:
They don't do this much. Castiel has lost his faith in the Church, but not in God, after all. But the rosary is, as Dean points out, only an ecclesiastical trapping, and if the Church is in error, then it's no blasphemy to use it where it looks best, long string of beads twisted together around Dean's wrists.
"Father," Dean breathes, word barely more than a whisper. He's shifting restlessly, sex-flush spreading down his chest, down to his navel, and he pushes his hips up when Castiel's fingers skirt the juncture of pelvis and thigh, but it is futile. Dean wanted this, this inverted crucifixion. Dean wanted to be martyred, and he will remain so until he is contrite.
Castiel leans in, the skirt of his cassock casting shadows over Dean's sweat-slick stomach, his cock where it strains against his abdomen, precome drooling from the head.
"Dean," he whispers, and Dean arches his neck, lifts his head a little off the bed in search of Castiel's mouth, but it is no good. Castiel is out of reach. "Dean," Castiel says, low and dark. "Do you repent thee of it?"
Dean takes a deep breath; bites his lower lip and shakes his head tightly, as if it pains him. As if he does it not because he wants to, but because he must. "No, Father. I won't. I won't."
"Well, then." Castiel is hard, too, but it is hidden beneath his cassock, beneath what is now, as it always, in truth, was, a pretence. "You know what I must do, Dean. I'll leave you to think about things. Come back later, and maybe you'll have changed your mind."
It is always a challenge, to stride out of the room without a backward glance, knowing that Dean is laid out like that on the bed, all smooth golden skin and kiss-bitten mouth on the edge of desperation, but it is worth it. Castiel has long steeled himself through hardships, and this one, he tells himself, as he closes the door behind him, will be worth it.
Dean always fucks back hardest when he has been truly made desperate.
*
cherie_morte : 'I JUST WANT JARED TO TAKE IT UP THE ASSSSS. ;_____________;' This is close, but no cigar (hurr hurr).
untitled J2 scrap, NC-17
"Sssh," Jensen breathes against the smooth inside of Jared's thigh. He turns his head, deliberate, stubble rasping up a rough red mark like a burn; palms Jared's legs a little wider. Jared moans, hips hitching up off the bed, nothing about him quietened or stilled, and Jensen laughs softly, one thumb dragging back over his perineum.
"Hey," he says. "What'd I tell you about keepin' quiet?" He shifts a little, shoves Jared's thighs up and back, shouldering in tighter between his legs. Spits, and it's not elegant, but it does the job, long glistening string of it making Jared hiss and twitch when it makes contact.
"Fuuuuck," he says, outright moans it, and his fingers are fisted tight in the bedclothes. Jensen half-expects to hear 'em tear. "Jen, I can't. Can't - just, please, if you're gonna."
"If I'm gonna...?" Jensen pushes, as if he doesn't know. As if he actually needs Jared to say it, instead of just wanting to hear the words trip out of his mouth, half-embarrassed and strung out and so fucking sexy. He pushes his thumb against the furl of muscle where it's tightest, just enough for it to start to yield, and then pulls back, making slow hard circles around the rim through the slick of his spit. Jared grits his teeth and groans, lifting his hips, grinding his ass up and back into the touch.
"Shit, come on," he protests, "Fuckin' - sadist - Jesus Christ, Jen, just - "
"What?" Jensen cuts in, short of breath and insistent. He pauses, shoves in, the tip of one finger just breaching Jared before he withdraws. "Come on, sweetheart - anything. Tell me."
"Shit." Jared's thrashing, now, grasping at Jensen's shoulders, at his hair. "Fuck me, okay? Sometime this week, if you - oh, fuck. Oh, fuck, yeah. Fuck."
Jensen crooks his finger up expertly; smirks to himself as he withdraws, shoves back in with two and watches the way Jared's whole body arches up off the bed, every muscle and tendon in his body straining under the skin with effort. He's got this.
*
So, there's that. Also, having just watched all the vids from A6, I'm now 800% more in love with Jared than I was yesterday, and that was already a hell of a lot. So. Yep.
untitled Turtledove timestamp, Dean/Castiel, R:
They don't do this much. Castiel has lost his faith in the Church, but not in God, after all. But the rosary is, as Dean points out, only an ecclesiastical trapping, and if the Church is in error, then it's no blasphemy to use it where it looks best, long string of beads twisted together around Dean's wrists.
"Father," Dean breathes, word barely more than a whisper. He's shifting restlessly, sex-flush spreading down his chest, down to his navel, and he pushes his hips up when Castiel's fingers skirt the juncture of pelvis and thigh, but it is futile. Dean wanted this, this inverted crucifixion. Dean wanted to be martyred, and he will remain so until he is contrite.
Castiel leans in, the skirt of his cassock casting shadows over Dean's sweat-slick stomach, his cock where it strains against his abdomen, precome drooling from the head.
"Dean," he whispers, and Dean arches his neck, lifts his head a little off the bed in search of Castiel's mouth, but it is no good. Castiel is out of reach. "Dean," Castiel says, low and dark. "Do you repent thee of it?"
Dean takes a deep breath; bites his lower lip and shakes his head tightly, as if it pains him. As if he does it not because he wants to, but because he must. "No, Father. I won't. I won't."
"Well, then." Castiel is hard, too, but it is hidden beneath his cassock, beneath what is now, as it always, in truth, was, a pretence. "You know what I must do, Dean. I'll leave you to think about things. Come back later, and maybe you'll have changed your mind."
It is always a challenge, to stride out of the room without a backward glance, knowing that Dean is laid out like that on the bed, all smooth golden skin and kiss-bitten mouth on the edge of desperation, but it is worth it. Castiel has long steeled himself through hardships, and this one, he tells himself, as he closes the door behind him, will be worth it.
Dean always fucks back hardest when he has been truly made desperate.
*
cherie_morte : 'I JUST WANT JARED TO TAKE IT UP THE ASSSSS. ;_____________;' This is close, but no cigar (hurr hurr).
untitled J2 scrap, NC-17
"Sssh," Jensen breathes against the smooth inside of Jared's thigh. He turns his head, deliberate, stubble rasping up a rough red mark like a burn; palms Jared's legs a little wider. Jared moans, hips hitching up off the bed, nothing about him quietened or stilled, and Jensen laughs softly, one thumb dragging back over his perineum.
"Hey," he says. "What'd I tell you about keepin' quiet?" He shifts a little, shoves Jared's thighs up and back, shouldering in tighter between his legs. Spits, and it's not elegant, but it does the job, long glistening string of it making Jared hiss and twitch when it makes contact.
"Fuuuuck," he says, outright moans it, and his fingers are fisted tight in the bedclothes. Jensen half-expects to hear 'em tear. "Jen, I can't. Can't - just, please, if you're gonna."
"If I'm gonna...?" Jensen pushes, as if he doesn't know. As if he actually needs Jared to say it, instead of just wanting to hear the words trip out of his mouth, half-embarrassed and strung out and so fucking sexy. He pushes his thumb against the furl of muscle where it's tightest, just enough for it to start to yield, and then pulls back, making slow hard circles around the rim through the slick of his spit. Jared grits his teeth and groans, lifting his hips, grinding his ass up and back into the touch.
"Shit, come on," he protests, "Fuckin' - sadist - Jesus Christ, Jen, just - "
"What?" Jensen cuts in, short of breath and insistent. He pauses, shoves in, the tip of one finger just breaching Jared before he withdraws. "Come on, sweetheart - anything. Tell me."
"Shit." Jared's thrashing, now, grasping at Jensen's shoulders, at his hair. "Fuck me, okay? Sometime this week, if you - oh, fuck. Oh, fuck, yeah. Fuck."
Jensen crooks his finger up expertly; smirks to himself as he withdraws, shoves back in with two and watches the way Jared's whole body arches up off the bed, every muscle and tendon in his body straining under the skin with effort. He's got this.
*
So, there's that. Also, having just watched all the vids from A6, I'm now 800% more in love with Jared than I was yesterday, and that was already a hell of a lot. So. Yep.