Fic: My Mirrored Room, My Secret Life (Dean/Cas, NC-17)
Title: My Mirrored Room, My Secret Life
Pairing: Dean/Cas (2014!Dean/2014!Cas)
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: Lies!
Prompt: '2014!Cas has gotten into a lot of new things over the past few years. His newfound worldliness helped him discover just what it meant when Dean's breathing went all funny during sex when Cas's hand was on his throat/weight was on his back/gave him an order. Now, dominating him during sex is just something they do.' Posted here.
"You carry a lot of tension in your shoulders," Cas says, conversationally. "You need to learn to relax, Dean. Unwind sometimes, you know?"
Dean says nothing, but then, Cas doesn't expect him to. They both know that. His hands are bound at the small of his back with a length of rope that rasps at the skin, and the position thrusts his shoulder blades up and out painfully, like thwarted stubs of wings. The floor of Cas's little hut is hard and unyielding under his knees, and yet, these are comforting pains, somehow, compassionate hardships. Cas controls them, after all. It is out of Dean's hands.
Cas's stubble at his temple rasps a little, too, like the rope does, a sandpaper promise. Dean wants to lift his face into the touch, but that isn't how this works: there are no decisions for him to take in this room, no plans for him to make, no strategies to orchestrate. This is Cas's domain, and Dean is subject to his benevolent rule. His eyes remain unwavering on the floor, face unmoving as Cas kisses it, tongues a line of heat along one cheekbone.
"Beautiful," Cas says, and the wonder in his voice makes it almost credible. Dean does feel beautiful here, on his knees before the only higher power he knows.
Cas is hard in his pants when he straightens up again, the line of his cock pressing out the soft fabric at his crotch. Saliva starts to collect under Dean's tongue like some kind of Pavlovian reaction as Castiel simply stands there, hands at his sides, swelling under Dean's eyes.
"Dean," he says, eventually, "look at me." His hand finds Dean's cheek, heel of it cradling the jut of his jaw, and Dean melts into the invitation, making himself malleable as any storefront mannequin.
"Look at you." Cas's mouth is quirked up at one corner, soft and pink amidst the dark beginnings of beard. "You want this, don't you?" He gestures downward, and his hand is still unfairly soft, not a soldier's hand at all. The silver in him may be tarnishing, but Dean will never believe that all the grace of Castiel is gone. He needs to disbelieve it.
Dean watches him steadily, resisting the urge to turn his face into the cup of Cas's palm. Cas's smile widens, and his free hand comes to rest at the waistband of his pants, teasing hook of his thumb.
"I asked you a question." His thumb inches down a little, hitching the fabric lower, and his eyes are still and unblinking. "Do you want this, Dean?" And then he pauses, knowing Dean too well, always; knowing that here is not for questions or decisions for Dean to take. "I want you to tell me you want it. Tell me you want my cock."
Dean's throbbing in his jeans, now, heat of him pressing insistently against the zipper, and the growl in Cas's voice sets an answering sound coiling out of his own throat. "Want it," he says, tongue moving stiffly, as if immobilised by the sudden rush of lust.
"That's my boy," Cas says. His voice is perfectly, enviably calm again as he drags the front of his trousers lower, cock shoving up toward the waistband until the crown emerges, glistening at the slit. "What do you want, Dean?"
There's still shame pooling in Dean's mouth with the spittle as he gasps out, "Your cock, Cas," but the clutch in his stomach overrides it, the perfect heat of being stabled, being held. He'd never done this before Cas, before an inadvertent pressure on his windpipe made his cock jerk, yes, replayed in a thousand dreams thereafter. But then, it's the well of trust that makes it everything, that lifts the weight - for a moment, for an hour - from his shoulders, and he never had that before Cas, either.
Like this, on his knees, Dean is nothing if not absolutely safe, even the minuscule task of opening his mouth undertaken by someone else. Cas thumbs at his lips almost casually, and Dean has only to loosen his jaw, only his tongue moving, eager, of its own unaided accord. Cas's voice, when he speaks, is still steady, but his shoulders hitch a little as his fingers cradle the base of his cock, angling the tip of it toward Dean's mouth.
"You love this," Cas tells him, the tone of it flat and unquestioning, and he taps at the swell of Dean's lower lip with his cock. Dean can smell him, now, feel the slick of precome smearing against his mouth where Cas is touching it, and his salivary glands feel like they've gone into overdrive. Wordlessly, he opens his mouth a little wider, soft sound of encouragement in the back of his throat, and Cas's breath hitches, cock jerking forward so that Dean can press his tongue at last to its tip.
"My God, Dean," Cas says. He isn't given to blasphemy, even now. He's never quite gotten over his tendency towards literal speech, and Dean supposes that it simply seems illogical to him, pointless, to utter the name of a power he knows to be gone. Sometimes, though, when they're like this, Cas will say it, and Dean finds that he likes it, for reasons he barely dares consider. Like this, Dean can almost forget - the Croats, Lucifer, Sam, everything. It's strangely pleasing to think that, maybe, this can make Cas forget, too.
"Open your mouth," Cas says. "Wider."
It doesn't even occur to Dean to consider disobeying as Cas pushes into his mouth, thick heat and sour taste of him pressing, heavy and smooth, over his tongue. Occasionally, alone in his bed with the aftertaste of a skirmish keeping him awake, he thinks about this, wonders what it makes him. When he's here, though, resisting isn't an option. Cas commands, and he obeys.
The thing is that Cas is always right; that's part of what Dean loves about him. He does love this, Cas's thumb hooked under his jaw, fingers cradling the back of his skull, holding Dean upright as he fucks his mouth. He loves the taste of Cas, the heavy push of him at the back of his throat; the way his muscles flutter and clench around him when his gag reflex kicks in. Above him, Cas makes tight little sounds and Dean sucks harder, tongue nudging up against his underside, wanting more of it, chasing Cas's pleasure.
"Dean," Cas says, and his head lolls back in appreciation, long throat working as his hips snap forward. Only for a moment, though - Cas loves to look at him; knows, too, that Dean loves to be looked at.
"Perfect like this," Cas says; grits his teeth and rams deep, the force of it tearing at the corners of Dean's eyes. "Your pretty little mouth around my cock, Dean, look at it. Mouth like that on a man, should be - fuck - illegal - and you fucking love it, don't you? You fucking - love it - "
He gets disjointed, always, near the end, and Dean's dick swells at the sound of it, Cas's thick voice getting thicker in his own throat, cock getting thicker as it leaks in Dean's. It's wet, now, so wet, spit and precome making each thrust slick and messy, strings of wetness drooling from the corners of Dean's mouth. Dean moans, deep and rough and it's unintentional, but Cas is so perfect like this, thrusts erratic as he shivers towards his climax in Dean's mouth.
"Dean," Cas gets out, and it's broken, barely a breath of the word. Dean sucks at him, hard and firm and Cas cries out; bucks backward, and Dean groans his disappointment for a moment as Cas slips fully out of his mouth, cock full and glistening and ready.
Then Cas whispers, "Look at me," and understanding takes root in Dean's stomach, a fluttering heat that leaps like butterflies as his eyes find Cas's. Pointedly, he opens his mouth a little wider: puts out his tongue.
Cas comes apart with a moan like dying, like fury, pulsing out his completion in sticky strings of heat. Dean's covered in it, his cheeks, his lips, his eyelashes; he swallows what he can and then curls out his tongue again, seeking more. Cas's breath hitches, cock spurting out pearly little aftershocks of come as Dean licks his lips, tonguing at what he can reach, his own breath short and quickening in his chest.
"Jesus Christ," Cas says, weakly; but Dean is too strung out with heat to say anything at all.
Cas is on his knees within a minute, one hand snaking around Dean's waist as the other finds the fastenings of his jeans. "Dean," he's murmuring, breathlessly, frantic little twitches of his fingers as he fumbles for Dean's cock. "God, Dean, you look so fucking beautiful," and Dean shouldn't love it, the spatter-wax sensation of Cas's come all over his face, but there is no God to help him, and he does, he fucking does. He's almost trembling by the time Cas gets his dick out of his pants, pulsing in his hand, and his wrists are aching but Cas's fingers are too clever and quick for him to care.
"Come on," Cas is saying, thumb flicking over the head, smearing strings of slickness back down over Dean's length. "Come on, I got you, that's it - come on, Dean, come for me," and that does it; sets his back arching as he comes in long pulses, the cry ripped from his mouth something wordless and fierce.
The aftermath is nothing but white noise. It's often that way. Cas unfastens his hands, rubs at the red marks on his wrists. Dean is dimly aware of Cas's mouth, at his wrists, at his lips. Washcloth, passing over his face. Cas's hands, lowering him.
"You're safe," Cas tells him, and it's a lie, but Dean can believe him, with the taste of Cas's come still sour in his throat and his head still buzzing with sex and possession. This is why he does it, he knows. This is what he needs.
"You're safe," Cas tells him, stroking gentle fingers through his hair.
"I know," Dean says, and closes his eyes.
Pairing: Dean/Cas (2014!Dean/2014!Cas)
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: Lies!
Prompt: '2014!Cas has gotten into a lot of new things over the past few years. His newfound worldliness helped him discover just what it meant when Dean's breathing went all funny during sex when Cas's hand was on his throat/weight was on his back/gave him an order. Now, dominating him during sex is just something they do.' Posted here.
"You carry a lot of tension in your shoulders," Cas says, conversationally. "You need to learn to relax, Dean. Unwind sometimes, you know?"
Dean says nothing, but then, Cas doesn't expect him to. They both know that. His hands are bound at the small of his back with a length of rope that rasps at the skin, and the position thrusts his shoulder blades up and out painfully, like thwarted stubs of wings. The floor of Cas's little hut is hard and unyielding under his knees, and yet, these are comforting pains, somehow, compassionate hardships. Cas controls them, after all. It is out of Dean's hands.
Cas's stubble at his temple rasps a little, too, like the rope does, a sandpaper promise. Dean wants to lift his face into the touch, but that isn't how this works: there are no decisions for him to take in this room, no plans for him to make, no strategies to orchestrate. This is Cas's domain, and Dean is subject to his benevolent rule. His eyes remain unwavering on the floor, face unmoving as Cas kisses it, tongues a line of heat along one cheekbone.
"Beautiful," Cas says, and the wonder in his voice makes it almost credible. Dean does feel beautiful here, on his knees before the only higher power he knows.
Cas is hard in his pants when he straightens up again, the line of his cock pressing out the soft fabric at his crotch. Saliva starts to collect under Dean's tongue like some kind of Pavlovian reaction as Castiel simply stands there, hands at his sides, swelling under Dean's eyes.
"Dean," he says, eventually, "look at me." His hand finds Dean's cheek, heel of it cradling the jut of his jaw, and Dean melts into the invitation, making himself malleable as any storefront mannequin.
"Look at you." Cas's mouth is quirked up at one corner, soft and pink amidst the dark beginnings of beard. "You want this, don't you?" He gestures downward, and his hand is still unfairly soft, not a soldier's hand at all. The silver in him may be tarnishing, but Dean will never believe that all the grace of Castiel is gone. He needs to disbelieve it.
Dean watches him steadily, resisting the urge to turn his face into the cup of Cas's palm. Cas's smile widens, and his free hand comes to rest at the waistband of his pants, teasing hook of his thumb.
"I asked you a question." His thumb inches down a little, hitching the fabric lower, and his eyes are still and unblinking. "Do you want this, Dean?" And then he pauses, knowing Dean too well, always; knowing that here is not for questions or decisions for Dean to take. "I want you to tell me you want it. Tell me you want my cock."
Dean's throbbing in his jeans, now, heat of him pressing insistently against the zipper, and the growl in Cas's voice sets an answering sound coiling out of his own throat. "Want it," he says, tongue moving stiffly, as if immobilised by the sudden rush of lust.
"That's my boy," Cas says. His voice is perfectly, enviably calm again as he drags the front of his trousers lower, cock shoving up toward the waistband until the crown emerges, glistening at the slit. "What do you want, Dean?"
There's still shame pooling in Dean's mouth with the spittle as he gasps out, "Your cock, Cas," but the clutch in his stomach overrides it, the perfect heat of being stabled, being held. He'd never done this before Cas, before an inadvertent pressure on his windpipe made his cock jerk, yes, replayed in a thousand dreams thereafter. But then, it's the well of trust that makes it everything, that lifts the weight - for a moment, for an hour - from his shoulders, and he never had that before Cas, either.
Like this, on his knees, Dean is nothing if not absolutely safe, even the minuscule task of opening his mouth undertaken by someone else. Cas thumbs at his lips almost casually, and Dean has only to loosen his jaw, only his tongue moving, eager, of its own unaided accord. Cas's voice, when he speaks, is still steady, but his shoulders hitch a little as his fingers cradle the base of his cock, angling the tip of it toward Dean's mouth.
"You love this," Cas tells him, the tone of it flat and unquestioning, and he taps at the swell of Dean's lower lip with his cock. Dean can smell him, now, feel the slick of precome smearing against his mouth where Cas is touching it, and his salivary glands feel like they've gone into overdrive. Wordlessly, he opens his mouth a little wider, soft sound of encouragement in the back of his throat, and Cas's breath hitches, cock jerking forward so that Dean can press his tongue at last to its tip.
"My God, Dean," Cas says. He isn't given to blasphemy, even now. He's never quite gotten over his tendency towards literal speech, and Dean supposes that it simply seems illogical to him, pointless, to utter the name of a power he knows to be gone. Sometimes, though, when they're like this, Cas will say it, and Dean finds that he likes it, for reasons he barely dares consider. Like this, Dean can almost forget - the Croats, Lucifer, Sam, everything. It's strangely pleasing to think that, maybe, this can make Cas forget, too.
"Open your mouth," Cas says. "Wider."
It doesn't even occur to Dean to consider disobeying as Cas pushes into his mouth, thick heat and sour taste of him pressing, heavy and smooth, over his tongue. Occasionally, alone in his bed with the aftertaste of a skirmish keeping him awake, he thinks about this, wonders what it makes him. When he's here, though, resisting isn't an option. Cas commands, and he obeys.
The thing is that Cas is always right; that's part of what Dean loves about him. He does love this, Cas's thumb hooked under his jaw, fingers cradling the back of his skull, holding Dean upright as he fucks his mouth. He loves the taste of Cas, the heavy push of him at the back of his throat; the way his muscles flutter and clench around him when his gag reflex kicks in. Above him, Cas makes tight little sounds and Dean sucks harder, tongue nudging up against his underside, wanting more of it, chasing Cas's pleasure.
"Dean," Cas says, and his head lolls back in appreciation, long throat working as his hips snap forward. Only for a moment, though - Cas loves to look at him; knows, too, that Dean loves to be looked at.
"Perfect like this," Cas says; grits his teeth and rams deep, the force of it tearing at the corners of Dean's eyes. "Your pretty little mouth around my cock, Dean, look at it. Mouth like that on a man, should be - fuck - illegal - and you fucking love it, don't you? You fucking - love it - "
He gets disjointed, always, near the end, and Dean's dick swells at the sound of it, Cas's thick voice getting thicker in his own throat, cock getting thicker as it leaks in Dean's. It's wet, now, so wet, spit and precome making each thrust slick and messy, strings of wetness drooling from the corners of Dean's mouth. Dean moans, deep and rough and it's unintentional, but Cas is so perfect like this, thrusts erratic as he shivers towards his climax in Dean's mouth.
"Dean," Cas gets out, and it's broken, barely a breath of the word. Dean sucks at him, hard and firm and Cas cries out; bucks backward, and Dean groans his disappointment for a moment as Cas slips fully out of his mouth, cock full and glistening and ready.
Then Cas whispers, "Look at me," and understanding takes root in Dean's stomach, a fluttering heat that leaps like butterflies as his eyes find Cas's. Pointedly, he opens his mouth a little wider: puts out his tongue.
Cas comes apart with a moan like dying, like fury, pulsing out his completion in sticky strings of heat. Dean's covered in it, his cheeks, his lips, his eyelashes; he swallows what he can and then curls out his tongue again, seeking more. Cas's breath hitches, cock spurting out pearly little aftershocks of come as Dean licks his lips, tonguing at what he can reach, his own breath short and quickening in his chest.
"Jesus Christ," Cas says, weakly; but Dean is too strung out with heat to say anything at all.
Cas is on his knees within a minute, one hand snaking around Dean's waist as the other finds the fastenings of his jeans. "Dean," he's murmuring, breathlessly, frantic little twitches of his fingers as he fumbles for Dean's cock. "God, Dean, you look so fucking beautiful," and Dean shouldn't love it, the spatter-wax sensation of Cas's come all over his face, but there is no God to help him, and he does, he fucking does. He's almost trembling by the time Cas gets his dick out of his pants, pulsing in his hand, and his wrists are aching but Cas's fingers are too clever and quick for him to care.
"Come on," Cas is saying, thumb flicking over the head, smearing strings of slickness back down over Dean's length. "Come on, I got you, that's it - come on, Dean, come for me," and that does it; sets his back arching as he comes in long pulses, the cry ripped from his mouth something wordless and fierce.
The aftermath is nothing but white noise. It's often that way. Cas unfastens his hands, rubs at the red marks on his wrists. Dean is dimly aware of Cas's mouth, at his wrists, at his lips. Washcloth, passing over his face. Cas's hands, lowering him.
"You're safe," Cas tells him, and it's a lie, but Dean can believe him, with the taste of Cas's come still sour in his throat and his head still buzzing with sex and possession. This is why he does it, he knows. This is what he needs.
"You're safe," Cas tells him, stroking gentle fingers through his hair.
"I know," Dean says, and closes his eyes.