Tricking (1/3)
Title: Tricking
Beta: Beta-read by Soncnica
Summary:
He lowers his lids, looks dreamily into his glass filled with amber liquid and even all the way through the crowded room it’s visible for everyone who's looking that the flirt’s still on under his long lashes.
Author:marlowe78
Rating: PG-13? PG-17? (these ratings confuse me...)
Word count: 5.795
Spoilers: none
Warnings: Nothing's what it seems to be! Language. And... There are certain things that might bother you. I really, really don't want to tell you, but if you need to make sure, look here for complete Warnings I can say this much without spoiling the read: NO gore, NO violence, NO rape.
Disclaimer: I sadly don't own the Winchesters, any rights to them and I'm very disappointed that I don't get paid for writing fiction. This is fiction. Nothing's real.
a/n: I wrote this some time ago, in my mother-tongue. It was one of those that grab you and shake you and won't stop bothering you until it's finished. I HAD to write it, after seeing this and that and every image in between.
Since I am quite pleased with it (which doesn't happen very often with my German fics...dunno why), I translated it.
******************
A fast smile, a spark in his eyes - a hint of tongue that travels over the lips. The target’s never let out of his view, nearly swallowed by his bedroom eyes. He lowers his lids, looks dreamily into his glass filled with amber liquid and even all the way through the crowded room it’s visible for everyone who's looking that the flirt’s still on under his long lashes. When the object of his endeavour stands, Dean slips from his stool too. With a slight sway of his hips that has the eyes of every female patron in this dirty gin-mill on him and nevertheless doesn’t look in the least feminine, and a very subtle, nearly invisible ‘come with me’ that’s hinted by the incline of his head he leaves the bar. Following the scruffed-up sign to the rest-rooms. To the emergency exit.
He sits in a corner, his back to the wall. In front of him his third beer, behind him nothing but the big mirror that someone hung up to make the place look classy. If it was clean, it might even have worked. Behind him only said mirror and the big, half-dead potted plant, which in its short, rotten life probably hasn’t seen more than a few hours of daylight. And with which he has more in common than with most people in this joint. Not only the fucking lack of sunshine. This sad rubber tree has probably gotten more liquid tonight than ever before. He hopes it likes beer.
He sees the expectant smile, already filled with lust and anticipation of something new, unknown. Something exciting. He empties his half-full glass with one hearty draught and follows the two, a belch and a fast grip to his crotch showing interested onlookers that his tank is full and needs to be drained for the next round. Not that anyone’s interested. No-one seems to have recognized the silent dialogue at the other end of the bar anyway. Except those that had their eyes on Dean before, undressed his slender, muscular body in their minds already and are now looking disappointedly back into their drinks, saving those images in their head for some private wet dreams and never fulfilled fantasies.
After giving them enough of a headstart, he too takes the narrow corridor to the can, where at the end the door to the back-yard is ajar. He sneaks closer, lithe and silent. He is hunting now, feeling naked without his gun in the back of his jeans, but bullets aren’t necessary tonight. If something’ll go wrong, he has his knife within reach, sharp as a scalpel.
He’s at the door, silent voices drifting in, whispers full of lust. He knows what he’s going to do, what he should do right now. But curiosity is a curse, so he stays, hand outstretched, prepared to intervene if something happens. If the plan backfires.
Through the small clearance between door and frame he recognizes Dean against the wall, the target in front of him, against him! A huge, white hand glides down his ribs, one finger after another playfully following the contours of his pectorals through the thin fabric of his plain, grey T, wandering to the well-toned, flat stomach. In the pale shine of the yard-light, he sees the kittenish, mischievous grin on Dean’s face, lips slightly parted and even though he can’t see it in this light he knows about the sparkle in those green eyes. Knows that no-one can resist it.
“God you’re unbelievable. So… so warm. So…” The man has already lost the ability to form an entire sentence, his eyes glued to the sinful lips and it won’t take much, only… there, the tongue is playing again. Paired with the slight lift of one eyebrow and the stranger moans from the depths of his massive body.
“Please, …please…”
He hears the husky plea, and there it is again, that feeling. It had been slumbering the whole evening in his depths, awoken now that he sees Dean like this: able to entice these moans and groans with only one slow gaze.
“Shhhhh” Dean shushes the man, moves slowly along the wall. It’s just a hint of movement but enough to lift the shirt a little, show a little naked skin. He sees the white hand land on the tight stomach muscles, a light golden-brown taint because of the long summer spent outside. The pale appendage is like a beacon in this light. He sees the muscles tighten, goose-bumps rising along the forearm raising the fine, reddish-gold hairs. The stranger doesn’t notice. That feeling in his chest squeezes his heart so tight, he fears it’ll burst and give him away.
“Hold it, not so fast” Dean’s voice is smoky, enticing. Not a hint of insecurity, of unease. His hand rests on the man’s chest, holding him away. Not far away, though. Skilfully playful he lets it glide lower.
“Please, I… I… Oh God” The white fingers wander over the belt buckle, lower. Not quite tenderly they caress the jeans in front, carefully gliding between Dean’s thighs. The second hand grips the right wrist, pressing it against the bricks. Not hard, not brutal but full of intent. An involuntary sound of discomfort from Dean when the knuckles scratch along the rough brick-wall, fast twisted into a satisfied rumble. Not recognizable for strangers, for people not able to speak Dean. If there is anyone who does. Sometimes, he isn’t sure he understands him.
He should act now. That was the plan. He… fascinated he watches the face he knows so well, better than his own. Searches for unease and…fear. Some hint that this is not what the stranger bargained for. He feels the aching burn deep in his stomach.
He knows where that hand is, knows what it does. And now that he looks closely he can see it in Dean’s features. The stranger is gone, in his own, private heaven. Wouldn’t even notice if the object of his desires suddenly sprouts wings. But he sees it, recognizes the fine tick in the corners of the eyes, the teeth on - already in? - the lower lip. The target rubs his pelvis against Dean’s thigh, his dick against Dean’s crotch. The flabby lips are on Dean’s neck and he hears whispered words, nothingness, nonsensical phrases. A grip of the head, lips meeting Dean’s. Adams-apple jumps in desire and now this white sausage-fingers grip the belt and…
“What the fuck is going on here?”
Part 2
Beta: Beta-read by Soncnica
Summary:
He lowers his lids, looks dreamily into his glass filled with amber liquid and even all the way through the crowded room it’s visible for everyone who's looking that the flirt’s still on under his long lashes.
Author:marlowe78
Rating: PG-13? PG-17? (these ratings confuse me...)
Word count: 5.795
Spoilers: none
Warnings: Nothing's what it seems to be! Language. And... There are certain things that might bother you. I really, really don't want to tell you, but if you need to make sure, look here for complete Warnings I can say this much without spoiling the read: NO gore, NO violence, NO rape.
Disclaimer: I sadly don't own the Winchesters, any rights to them and I'm very disappointed that I don't get paid for writing fiction. This is fiction. Nothing's real.
a/n: I wrote this some time ago, in my mother-tongue. It was one of those that grab you and shake you and won't stop bothering you until it's finished. I HAD to write it, after seeing this and that and every image in between.
Since I am quite pleased with it (which doesn't happen very often with my German fics...dunno why), I translated it.
******************
A fast smile, a spark in his eyes - a hint of tongue that travels over the lips. The target’s never let out of his view, nearly swallowed by his bedroom eyes. He lowers his lids, looks dreamily into his glass filled with amber liquid and even all the way through the crowded room it’s visible for everyone who's looking that the flirt’s still on under his long lashes. When the object of his endeavour stands, Dean slips from his stool too. With a slight sway of his hips that has the eyes of every female patron in this dirty gin-mill on him and nevertheless doesn’t look in the least feminine, and a very subtle, nearly invisible ‘come with me’ that’s hinted by the incline of his head he leaves the bar. Following the scruffed-up sign to the rest-rooms. To the emergency exit.
He sits in a corner, his back to the wall. In front of him his third beer, behind him nothing but the big mirror that someone hung up to make the place look classy. If it was clean, it might even have worked. Behind him only said mirror and the big, half-dead potted plant, which in its short, rotten life probably hasn’t seen more than a few hours of daylight. And with which he has more in common than with most people in this joint. Not only the fucking lack of sunshine. This sad rubber tree has probably gotten more liquid tonight than ever before. He hopes it likes beer.
He sees the expectant smile, already filled with lust and anticipation of something new, unknown. Something exciting. He empties his half-full glass with one hearty draught and follows the two, a belch and a fast grip to his crotch showing interested onlookers that his tank is full and needs to be drained for the next round. Not that anyone’s interested. No-one seems to have recognized the silent dialogue at the other end of the bar anyway. Except those that had their eyes on Dean before, undressed his slender, muscular body in their minds already and are now looking disappointedly back into their drinks, saving those images in their head for some private wet dreams and never fulfilled fantasies.
After giving them enough of a headstart, he too takes the narrow corridor to the can, where at the end the door to the back-yard is ajar. He sneaks closer, lithe and silent. He is hunting now, feeling naked without his gun in the back of his jeans, but bullets aren’t necessary tonight. If something’ll go wrong, he has his knife within reach, sharp as a scalpel.
He’s at the door, silent voices drifting in, whispers full of lust. He knows what he’s going to do, what he should do right now. But curiosity is a curse, so he stays, hand outstretched, prepared to intervene if something happens. If the plan backfires.
Through the small clearance between door and frame he recognizes Dean against the wall, the target in front of him, against him! A huge, white hand glides down his ribs, one finger after another playfully following the contours of his pectorals through the thin fabric of his plain, grey T, wandering to the well-toned, flat stomach. In the pale shine of the yard-light, he sees the kittenish, mischievous grin on Dean’s face, lips slightly parted and even though he can’t see it in this light he knows about the sparkle in those green eyes. Knows that no-one can resist it.
“God you’re unbelievable. So… so warm. So…” The man has already lost the ability to form an entire sentence, his eyes glued to the sinful lips and it won’t take much, only… there, the tongue is playing again. Paired with the slight lift of one eyebrow and the stranger moans from the depths of his massive body.
“Please, …please…”
He hears the husky plea, and there it is again, that feeling. It had been slumbering the whole evening in his depths, awoken now that he sees Dean like this: able to entice these moans and groans with only one slow gaze.
“Shhhhh” Dean shushes the man, moves slowly along the wall. It’s just a hint of movement but enough to lift the shirt a little, show a little naked skin. He sees the white hand land on the tight stomach muscles, a light golden-brown taint because of the long summer spent outside. The pale appendage is like a beacon in this light. He sees the muscles tighten, goose-bumps rising along the forearm raising the fine, reddish-gold hairs. The stranger doesn’t notice. That feeling in his chest squeezes his heart so tight, he fears it’ll burst and give him away.
“Hold it, not so fast” Dean’s voice is smoky, enticing. Not a hint of insecurity, of unease. His hand rests on the man’s chest, holding him away. Not far away, though. Skilfully playful he lets it glide lower.
“Please, I… I… Oh God” The white fingers wander over the belt buckle, lower. Not quite tenderly they caress the jeans in front, carefully gliding between Dean’s thighs. The second hand grips the right wrist, pressing it against the bricks. Not hard, not brutal but full of intent. An involuntary sound of discomfort from Dean when the knuckles scratch along the rough brick-wall, fast twisted into a satisfied rumble. Not recognizable for strangers, for people not able to speak Dean. If there is anyone who does. Sometimes, he isn’t sure he understands him.
He should act now. That was the plan. He… fascinated he watches the face he knows so well, better than his own. Searches for unease and…fear. Some hint that this is not what the stranger bargained for. He feels the aching burn deep in his stomach.
He knows where that hand is, knows what it does. And now that he looks closely he can see it in Dean’s features. The stranger is gone, in his own, private heaven. Wouldn’t even notice if the object of his desires suddenly sprouts wings. But he sees it, recognizes the fine tick in the corners of the eyes, the teeth on - already in? - the lower lip. The target rubs his pelvis against Dean’s thigh, his dick against Dean’s crotch. The flabby lips are on Dean’s neck and he hears whispered words, nothingness, nonsensical phrases. A grip of the head, lips meeting Dean’s. Adams-apple jumps in desire and now this white sausage-fingers grip the belt and…
“What the fuck is going on here?”
Part 2