Re: Prompt: Dean/Gabriel, dirty talk (4/4)
anonymous
November 3 2011, 16:55:51 UTC
He expected Gabriel to make it rough and hard and quick, pound him into raw shattered gasps against the rough ridges of the tree roots, all weight and heat and irrefutable strength. But he did worse, devastatingly worse.
He took his time.
He was gentle and fierce and inexorable, leaving no part of Dean untouched, unloved. Hands and mouth and voice and grace, body and soul, murmuring all the time in a rough litany that pulled Dean to bits, taking out every little part that made him who he was and cradling it gently, turning it over and over in his hands and wondering at it and seeing everything, mind and body and the centre of his fucking soul. It was bright and hungry and fierce and not nice at all, on and on until Dean was trembling with the intimacy of it, raw and open and terrifying, stumbling over the responses Gabriel demanded, confessing, moaning, admitting, cursing. He didn’t let Dean keep a single part for himself, until Dean was pleading and promising and Gabriel was pressing soft open kisses along his jaw and whispering tenderness and possession as he slipped inside, one bright devastating shiver of pain on the edge of the deep thump of arousal in his gut.
And it could have gone so very, very, irreparably wrong, except that never, not for one moment, could he feel that Gabriel was not to be trusted with it. Never once did he falter in his love and his fierce acceptance of everything he touched, all of it. There was no violation. Gabriel moved, slow and devastating and too deep inside him in every way, his mouth brushing at the corners of Dean’s eyes, holding him so still he couldn’t have moved if he’d tried. Dean couldn’t do anything but plead, and he didn’t need to. Cherished and owned and taken, and it was such a goddamn relief, letting Gabriel take him there.
He fell; and as he fell, he realised with startling sudden clarity that the hands pushing bruises into his hips were the hands that had drawn a sword against Lucifer for them, caught Sam from Lucifer’s grasp as they’d tumbled toward the Pit together, buried themselves so tenderly in Castiel’s wings and coaxed relief and tears from him when they had finally persuaded each other that each had one brother left who would not leave, pulled Dean close and healed his body more times than he could count over the last year. They were hands he trusted absolutely, and hadn’t even noticed.
He came back to the slow, steady thump of his own heart. Gabriel was sprawled across his body, a messy hot weight whose carelessness was belied by the hands cradling Dean’s hip and pillowing his head, soft and tender and so very strong.
Also his hair was in Dean’s mouth.
Dean blew it out and made a martyred sound. Gabriel’s lips twitched lazily against his skin.
Dean’s brain didn’t really want to kick into gear, so he let it just ramble along at its own pace as he took stock. Kind of raw, kind of open and... not used, but definitely a bit dirty. In a good way. Not just his body, either. But mostly, overwhelmingly, he felt safe all over. Taken care of and known, inside and out. And hey, if he was going to be honest, which he might as well be under the circumstances before he tucked all the dirty laundry back into its various drawers, that was hot as all hell.
And if this sort of surrender would be anything like that for Cas… yeah, okay, Dean kind of had to really earn that. Especially given, once wings were involved, angels couldn’t really close themselves off.
He cleared his throat. “Okay, so. You made your point.”
“Don’t thank me. Just doing my job.” Only Gabriel could manage to mumble cheerfully, seriously. “Now call off Castiel, would you, tiger?”
Dean smirked faintly from under the arm flung over his face. “Already tried. You’re gonna have to do some grovelling there, big man.”
Gabriel grumbled into his shoulder.
After another minute: “And Gabriel? It’s your turn tomorrow. With wings.”
Gabriel lifted his head just a fraction, and his eyes gleamed at Dean under a cheerful, wicked flutter of eyelashes. “Turn-about’s fair play.”
Re: Prompt: Dean/Gabriel, dirty talk (4/4)
anonymous
November 3 2011, 16:58:19 UTC
(And, having just re-read the prompt after posting the last part of this, it probably doesn't actually answer the kinks your prompt was aiming for at all. Oh well. I was feverish and couldn't sleep, and this was fun to write!)
Re: Prompt: Dean/Gabriel, dirty talk (4/4)
anonymous
November 3 2011, 22:29:19 UTC
Yes - apparently trying to write actually dirty talk makes me intensely uncomfortable. That, I did not foresee. Which is a little unfortunate, given the title of your prompt - and consequently of the fic, though if I ever own up to it as an outtake of a verse I'm currently writing I'll probably rename it anyway. But, apologies if it wasn't what you were hoping for. I shall blame the fever.
Re: Prompt: Dean/Gabriel, dirty talk (4/4)whit_meruleNovember 28 2011, 21:22:32 UTC
I wasn't going to claim this one, but I just wrote another which was far too long for the comments and needed just to be posted in a regular journal entry. So, I may as well 'fess up to both at once. Slightly revised, over here.
He took his time.
He was gentle and fierce and inexorable, leaving no part of Dean untouched, unloved. Hands and mouth and voice and grace, body and soul, murmuring all the time in a rough litany that pulled Dean to bits, taking out every little part that made him who he was and cradling it gently, turning it over and over in his hands and wondering at it and seeing everything, mind and body and the centre of his fucking soul. It was bright and hungry and fierce and not nice at all, on and on until Dean was trembling with the intimacy of it, raw and open and terrifying, stumbling over the responses Gabriel demanded, confessing, moaning, admitting, cursing. He didn’t let Dean keep a single part for himself, until Dean was pleading and promising and Gabriel was pressing soft open kisses along his jaw and whispering tenderness and possession as he slipped inside, one bright devastating shiver of pain on the edge of the deep thump of arousal in his gut.
And it could have gone so very, very, irreparably wrong, except that never, not for one moment, could he feel that Gabriel was not to be trusted with it. Never once did he falter in his love and his fierce acceptance of everything he touched, all of it. There was no violation. Gabriel moved, slow and devastating and too deep inside him in every way, his mouth brushing at the corners of Dean’s eyes, holding him so still he couldn’t have moved if he’d tried. Dean couldn’t do anything but plead, and he didn’t need to. Cherished and owned and taken, and it was such a goddamn relief, letting Gabriel take him there.
He fell; and as he fell, he realised with startling sudden clarity that the hands pushing bruises into his hips were the hands that had drawn a sword against Lucifer for them, caught Sam from Lucifer’s grasp as they’d tumbled toward the Pit together, buried themselves so tenderly in Castiel’s wings and coaxed relief and tears from him when they had finally persuaded each other that each had one brother left who would not leave, pulled Dean close and healed his body more times than he could count over the last year. They were hands he trusted absolutely, and hadn’t even noticed.
He came back to the slow, steady thump of his own heart. Gabriel was sprawled across his body, a messy hot weight whose carelessness was belied by the hands cradling Dean’s hip and pillowing his head, soft and tender and so very strong.
Also his hair was in Dean’s mouth.
Dean blew it out and made a martyred sound. Gabriel’s lips twitched lazily against his skin.
Dean’s brain didn’t really want to kick into gear, so he let it just ramble along at its own pace as he took stock. Kind of raw, kind of open and... not used, but definitely a bit dirty. In a good way. Not just his body, either. But mostly, overwhelmingly, he felt safe all over. Taken care of and known, inside and out. And hey, if he was going to be honest, which he might as well be under the circumstances before he tucked all the dirty laundry back into its various drawers, that was hot as all hell.
And if this sort of surrender would be anything like that for Cas… yeah, okay, Dean kind of had to really earn that. Especially given, once wings were involved, angels couldn’t really close themselves off.
He cleared his throat. “Okay, so. You made your point.”
“Don’t thank me. Just doing my job.” Only Gabriel could manage to mumble cheerfully, seriously. “Now call off Castiel, would you, tiger?”
Dean smirked faintly from under the arm flung over his face. “Already tried. You’re gonna have to do some grovelling there, big man.”
Gabriel grumbled into his shoulder.
After another minute: “And Gabriel? It’s your turn tomorrow. With wings.”
Gabriel lifted his head just a fraction, and his eyes gleamed at Dean under a cheerful, wicked flutter of eyelashes. “Turn-about’s fair play.”
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Slightly revised, over here.
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