random yaoi

Close To ayour Skin

Title: Close To Your Skin
Author: coffeebuddha
Rating: NC-17/FRAO
Characters/Pairings: Dean/Castiel
Word Count: 2034
Disclaimer: Nothing belongs to me.
Contains: Wings, completely plotless porn.
Summary: Cas has a mouth made for sin and Dean's never exactly been good at that whole 'resisting temptation' thing.
Notes: Written for a prompt left by opetine here. Title taken from the lyrics of Neon Trees' 'Your Surrender'.

***

Cas has cocksucker lips, all pale, pretty pink and soft, supple give. Lips that beg to be fucked open and stretched wide. Lips that are already gorgeous and could only be improved by being blood flushed and kiss swollen and spit slicked. The stubble around them should be a turn off, because, yeah, he's not really into dudes and he was pretty burned--literally and figuratively--by that one experience with a bearded lady in Kentucky, but it's not exactly the deal breaker he would have thought it would be. Because, okay, stubble, no tits, and, yeah, dick, but then there's that mouth, which has the phrase 'exception to the rule' written all over it.

In short, Cas has a mouth made for sin and Dean's never exactly been good at that whole 'resisting temptation' thing.

His back hits the wall hard enough that the picture of a puppy frolicking with a duckling hanging a few feet away rattles and nearly falls. The breath explodes out of his lungs in a hiss--his ribs are at least bruised, if not actually cracked, from their last hunt and there's an oldish cut under his ribs that pulls uncomfortably against its stitches--but he has an armful of clinging, mostly naked angel, who's sucking an epic sized mark into the underside of Dean's jaw and has a lube-slicked hand shoved halfway down the front of his pants, so...yeah, he's not exactly about to start complaining.

Cas' shirt is pushed off his shoulders, caught at his elbows, and when Dean tugs on it, trying to get it off, he makes a small, impatient noise, like it's too much trouble to pull his hand away from where it's cupping Dean's dick for the two seconds it'll take to strip it off of him. Dean yanks harder and a small thrill of glee goes through him when he feels the fabric start to give, then tear under his fingertips. The shirt splits most of the way down the back, a long, jagged tear from just under the collar to the hem, and Dean gathers handfuls of fabric and pulls until a seam in the collar snaps. Cas drops his head to Dean's shoulder and pants against his sweaty skin as the ruined shirt flutters down to hang from his wrists.

The heel of his hand presses down harder, a long, slow grind against the underside of the head of Dean's cock, and Dean looks over Cas' shoulder, down the long, unblemished line of his back. Looks at how smooth and soft the skin is, how it's flushed pink in patches that shouldn't look nearly as alluring as they do and has a sheen of sweat, and he wants to mark it, scar it. Do something to leave a sign of what they're doing, something that proves this is real. He digs his nails in and drags them down, presses hard enough that the flesh goes even whiter, then blood rushes in and paints lines of Dean's ownership under his skin in pale red.

Cas shudders, arches under his touch, his head tipping back on a strangled moan, and Dean has just enough time to feel smug about that before there's a faint rustling, then a pop like someone uncorking a bottle of champagne. And then Dean pretty much gives up on thinking, because holy fuck.

Wings.

They're not as massive as Dean would have assumed from the glimpses of shadows he'd caught, but they still seem plenty big enough stretched out like this in his small, dingy motel room. He doesn't know what he was expecting--probably something white and fluffy, because, let's face it, even having his own personal angel isn't quite enough to drive the ingrained image of cherubs out of his head--but it wasn't this...this oil spill in wing form. At first glance they seem black, darker than a moonless, starless night, but there are entire rainbows caught in the depths, bursting forth with slick, gleaming colors when Dean tilts his head and sees the dim light from the bare bulb dangling from the ceiling play over them. Dean swallows hard and buries his fingers in the inky feathers, and it's like touching a live wire; his skin crackles with the sensation, the hair on his arms standing straight up, and he wants. Cas freezes at the first touch of his fingertips, a high whine slipping from between his suddenly slack lips and his blue eyes rolling back, and that right there is pretty much the best thing in the history of ever, Dean decides.