Castiel likes it when Dean is needy in bed; not that needy is a word he’d ever use to describe Dean in any other circumstance. Alone in the darkness with whispered words and shared breaths, though, it’s different. Dean’s body twists beneath Castiel’s, the air punched out of his lungs with each hard thrust, in the form of nonsense words and unintelligible noises. His fingernails dig into Castiel’s triceps and scratch down his back to urge him deeper, deeper, deeper. Always closer.
Even as Dean’s breath comes shallow and ragged, he moans for more, harder, faster. Castiel’s body is pulled taut with the effort of giving Dean what he needs, fingers wrapped over the tops of his shoulders to hold him in place and cock buried, grinding, pulling out and pushing in again. His muscles protest, sweat rolls down the dip of his spine and drips from his face onto Dean’s. Still Dean begs for more. Wordlessly, he begs with his lips and teeth on Castiel’s neck and shoulder, with the roll of his hips up to meet each of Castiel’s bone-jarring thrusts.
In the heat of breath and sweat-slick bodies with Dean growling expletive-laced encouragement in his ear, something twists in Castiel’s gut. Something sharp and hot like molten lead. He sucks a deep breath and pours every ounce of energy he can muster into the push of his cock into the tight clench of Dean’s body. Dean stops breathing and shoves his hand between them to frantically fist his own cock, his whole body coiling around the sound Castiel knows is on its way.
Fucking hard and quick and erratic and hanging on by the thinnest of threads, Castiel lets his toes curl and his breath come in panted huffs against Dean’s lips. At the last possible second, he kisses Dean, tonguefucking at the same rhythmless pace of his hips and catching the rumbling cry of pleasure that accompanies the wet heat of come between his stomach and Dean’s. He fucks Dean soundly through his orgasm, following close behind with a twist of his hips and his cock buried once more.
Dean’s nails dig into Castiel’s back again, pulling him as close as is humanly possible while they bite at one another’s lips and give halfhearted nuzzles and breathless kisses. Castiel lets his weight drop on Dean, hips still bucking reflexively as orgasmic aftershocks twist up his spine and through his ribs to squeeze his pounding heart. It’s hot and close and Dean’s grip on Castiel shows no sign of loosening anytime soon; not that Cas minds staying pressed against his even-more-affectionate-than-usual lover. After all, he likes it when Dean is needy in bed.
Oh, gosh, thank you, Anon. I’m glad the stories brighten your day. *u*
It’s probably not particularly helpful, but the only tip I really have is write.
Close your eyes, visualize what you want to write, then describe what you see. Find a 30-day challenge that has nothing to do with your own ideas and write them. Don’t worry about not being a good writer because quite literally the only way you’ll ever improve is by writing. If there’s a certain aspect that trips you up (I used to have a ton of trouble with accidentally swapping POV from one character to another), google it and figure out how to do it better. Talk to other writers about specifics if you need specific advice (someone asked me the other day how I approach writing kissing scenes).
The thing is, you can fix just about anything once you get it out on the page. Grammar, punctuation, characterization, too many hands, forgetting where someone’s leg was, remembering halfway through rereading the story that they were actually standing up instead of lying down. You can fix all of that after the fact, but only if you write it first.
So, yeah, that’d be my advice. Write, write, write. <3
"I’m exhausted," Dean groans as he all but falls into the rock hard motel bed. After being conscious for nearly two days chasing down a vampire nest, even the lumpy mattress is a godsend.
Castiel is close behind, dragging himself into bed with Dean without so much as a word, eyes half-closed already. As all too often happens, the second Dean is in bed, a ghost of all the adrenaline of the past two days courses through his body, wetting his palms with sweat and sending his heart racing like there’s danger fresh and close. He reaches for Castiel, who willingly closes the six inches of mattress between their bodies.
With every sense heightened, the press of Castiel’s lean body and the wet heat of his breath on Dean’s neck are nearly unbearable. He clears his throat and shifts to try to minimize the impact of Castiel’s nearness; when that fails, he tries to mentally put himself in an ice-cold shower to try to stop the stirring of his cock. He feels like an overexcited teenager when he mutters an embarrassed, “Sorry.”
"For what?" Castiel doesn’t lift his head when he asks, each word spoken soft and throaty against Dean’s neck. He does move enough to drape one leg over Dean’s hip and close the last inch between their bodies.
A thrill shoots up Dean’s spine like an electric spark at the press of Castiel’s half-hard cock against his own through their underwear. He swallows hard and clears his throat again, a reflex. His palm is still sweaty when he lets it settle on Castiel’s muscular thigh, the way his skin drags against Castiel’s worthy of another shivery thrill as he slowly slides it to Castiel’s boxer-clad hip. Cas offers a pleased, soft hum, his leg tightening and his lips finding Dean’s for a lazy kiss even as Dean’s fingers twist in the loose fabric of Castiel’s boxers.
Another kiss follows, then another; each slower and sleepier than the last. As the adrenaline ghosts recede, the press of Castiel’s body slips easily from exciting to comfortable. In the cool safety of their shared space in the tiny edge-of-town motel room, Dean takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly against Castiel’s jaw. Cas shivers almost imperceptibly and sighs, then tucks his head under Dean’s chin.
“‘Night, Cas,” Dean whispers, a fresh wave of exhaustion washing over him as his fingers relax and his hand settles comfortably on Castiel’s hip.
“‘Night,” Castiel murmurs sleepily, his breath soft and even and warm as the last of the tension drains from his muscles.
There’s no reason to be quiet, really; no one to wake if they’re not. Still, Castiel’s lips are pressed to the curve of Dean’s ear, his voice a ragged whisper as he pleads “more, Dean” and “please touch me”. Never one to deny Castiel anything, Dean reaches between their bare bodies and takes both their cocks in one hand as he steadies himself on the other elbow and rolls his hips downward.
Castiel’s harsh breaths turn to soft whimpers when Dean squeezes, the heads of their cocks sliding together. More whispers fill Dean’s head, a chorus of frantic “yes" and "please”. The desperate words and the sinuous arch of Castiel’s body beneath his light a white-hot fire in the pit of Dean’s belly, need that sends his hips stuttering erratically and tightens his chest as they both fuck off-rhythm into the slick circle of his fingers.
"I’m so close," Dean growls, his lips brushing Castiel’s earlobe. Cas shudders and twists and grabs two handfuls of Dean’s ass to pull him down harder. After another struggling breath, Dean adds, "Wanna feel you come, Cas."
A panted moan breaks from Castiel’s lips and Dean knows he can’t hold off much longer. With clenched teeth, he closes his eyes, listening to the choked off whimpers stifled against his shoulder as Castiel’s legs tangle with his own for leverage, his thrusts into Dean’s fist short and quick. Cas barely gets the whispered “close” out before his body tightens and his cock thickens in Dean’s hand.
A splash of hot come into the space between their bodies and Castiel’s grunts of pleasure against the side of his neck tips Dean over the edge close behind. He ruts down, stroking their cocks together with trembling fingers as he finds Castiel’s lips for a searing kiss between broken groans. Dean thrusts, hard and quick, grinding and squeezing his cock as the fire breaks from his belly up his spine and down his legs, his own come a hot, sticky addition to Castiel’s mess.
Castiel’s reverently whispered “Dean, Dean" almost gets lost in mix of harsh breath and Dean’s not-so-quiet moans; his hands are clumsy as they move up Dean’s back and to his face. In the dim glow of the alarm clock, all Dean can see is Castiel’s sated smile and ruffled hair as he whispers, "Cas.”
Castiel is walking through the bunker unawares, his mind working over a particularly cryptic Enochian rock etching when Dean strikes. He comes out of nowhere; the full force of his muscular frame slamming Castiel’s back against the concrete wall so hard it knocks the breath right out of him. His first reaction is a panicked twist in his gut, fists half-clenched as he tries to assess the threat, body reeling from the rough handling.
Before he’s caught his breath, though, rough hands are grabbing at the button on his jeans and trying to untuck his shirt at the same time. Dean’s green gaze is wide and dark and locked on his own. Castiel’s panic subsides to confusion, but he doesn’t have a chance to say anything before Dean’s lips descend on his in a hard, head-spinningly fierce kiss. It’s all so sudden, Dean’s tongue teasing and testing, the kiss stealing away what little air Castiel has managed to hang onto.
The part of Castiel’s brain that’s always on the lookout for danger, the little instinctual compass that points toward what passes for appropriate behavior scratches at the base of his skull, pushing him to try to inch toward the bedroom door with Dean in tow. Dean obviously has other ideas; his thigh is pressed up hard between Castiel’s, grinding against his cock as they share another breathless kiss and then another. Cas doesn’t think he’s ever gotten so hard so fast - as far as he can think, that is.
It’s all over when Dean’s fingers finally slip under Castiel’s shirt; rough-skinned and strong and grabbing at the bare skin of his waist to push him harder into the wall. Without the ability to breathe or think, he reaches up and grabs Dean’s face in both hands, pulling him into a deeper kiss, bitten lips and slowburn tonguefucking and growls of pleasure that never leave the safety of their locked lips. Dean’s fingertips dip below the waistband of Castiel’s jeans, drawing an impatient, choked off little moan from Castiel’s lips.
When Dean breaks off, his lips absent for a scant second before finding Castiel’s neck, Cas is pretty sure he’s gonna explode with the need for relief from the press of Dean’s thigh. His fingers twist in Dean’s hair, the fact that they’re in the middle of the hallway where they could be caught at any moment completely forgotten as he gasps for air and tries to coax Dean to his knees. A sudden flood of desperate need surges up from the pit of Castiel’s stomach when Dean doesn’t budge, lips and tongue instead working at the tender skin of Castiel’s throat until his breath comes in half-voiced whimpers.
Castiel is trembling, pulled tight with anticipation by the time Dean pulls away, struggling to breathe while he straightens his own clothes. He licks his lips, letting his gaze settle on Castiel’s, then smirks and turns to walk away; back off in the direction of the kitchen. Cas stands, dazed and shivering and trying to catch his breath as he watches Dean swagger away, hips swaying distractingly. His cock aches, his underwear is soaked with precome, and his head is still clouded with the desire to drag Dean to the bedroom; but, his legs are too rubbery to follow through.
Just before Dean turns the corner at the end of the hallway, he calls back over his shoulder in a singsong (if completely breathless and wrecked) voice, “That’s repayment for interrupting my shower this morning.”
There are three things Dean will deny until his dying day: that he sorta kinda likes bubblegum pop if he’s in the right mood, that he accidentally dented the Impala when he was twelve and not supposed to be driving it at all, and that he really enjoyed wearing Rhonda Hurley’s panties.
Well, the last one he’ll deny to everyone except Castiel. He probably never would have told him, either, except he’d forgotten the way drinking tequila loosens his tongue and it had kind of slipped out somewhere after his ninth or tenth shot. When he’d remembered the next morning, he’d been mortified. Cas didn’t say anything about it, though, and Dean just thanked his lucky stars that his little confession had gone completely unnoticed.
At least he thought it had until today - a full three weeks later - when he randomly found a little white box tied with a black ribbon on his bed. He’d thought little of it when he first saw it two hours ago since Castiel often leaves gifts no matter how often Dean tells him it’s unnecessary. There wasn’t time to open the box when he saw it and even if there had been, it would’ve been the last thing he expected.
He picks up the box and turns it over, looking for any markings that would give away the contents; there’s nothing, average white cardboard tied with unremarkable black ribbon. Dean sits on the edge of the bed as he unties the ribbon and pulls off the lid. Inside he finds black tissue paper carefully folded around whatever is inside. It looks professional and it’s his first hint that this isn’t like anything Castiel has given him before, so maybe his heart beats a little faster as he pulls the tissue paper back to reveal what’s beneath.
It takes a moment to realize what he’s looking at; in fact, it’s not until he picks up what’s inside that he knows. The panties are folded just as carefully as the paper over them. They’re also pink and satiny with a thin black ribbon just beneath the top elastic that comes together in a neat bow at the front. Dean’s ears burn hot the second the impact of what he’s holding hits him, his mouth suddenly dry and his stomach doing funny things that make him squirm on the edge of his bed.
As he goes to put the box aside, he notices the not-so-carefully folded white piece of paper that was beneath the panties. He takes the time to spread his new panties out on his thigh to admire before doing anything else, his chest filled with a mix of curiosity and worry when he finally reaches for the paper. With shaky fingers, he unfolds it, thankful to find Castiel’s neat script inside instead of handwriting that belongs to a stranger. By the time he finishes reading the short note..
I hope you like these as they were the closest thing I could find to your description of Rhonda Hurley’s panties. The saleswoman refused to try to guess your size when I showed her how wide your hips are with my hands so I don’t know if they’ll fit. She said you can exchange them if they don’t but only if they’re unworn. I am eager to see you in them.
..he’s positive the blush that started at the tops of his ears has reached at least his ankles. And, nervous butterfly backflips in his stomach aside, he can’t wait to show his new panties off for Castiel.
Once upon a time, Jensen found down time with Misha more than a little excruciating. The expectation that he would sit quietly - or worse, meditate - filled him with an overwhelming need to fill up the empty space with words. Any words; important words and meaningless alike, he just needed to say something since the alternative was being alone with his thoughts.
As time has gone by, though, he’s come to appreciate the quiet. A stolen moment settled side-by-side on the late summer grass just as the sun is beginning to set has restorative properties Jensen never would have dreamed of. It’s even better, though, when his knee brushes Misha’s ever so slightly as they breath in and out and in again together in a steady rhythm, unbothered by the bustling city around them.
If Jensen were the kind of man who believed in meant to be, that’s exactly what he’d call this. There’s no other word for the calm and quiet that settle in the center of his chest and flow in and out with each deep breath or the hum of well-being that tangles through his body while he sits on the bare earth. He smiles to himself sometimes, pressing his knee just a little harder against Misha’s and letting himself sink into oneness with the ground beneath him. It’s good, this feeling that’s definitely not meditation; it is right and wonderful and it’s always such a shame to have to leave it behind for the tug of the real world.
Jensen always knows when he’s been too long without Misha’s touch.
It’s a need that sets in bone deep, like an ever-building itch he can’t quite reach no matter how many times he jerks off in the shower or just before he falls asleep. It’s the feeling that makes him stand a little closer than is strictly necessary when they’re running lines and that makes his breath catch when Misha’s fingers brush his innocently as they walk side by side.
It’s the live wire twisted around his spine on a daily basis and makes him take notice when Misha’s shirt rides up to expose a quarter-inch of tanned belly; and, the slow burning want that makes him need to walk away for a fresh bottle of cold water while he tries to force himself to think of anything else. It’s ten cold showers in a week; each one leaving his teeth chattering and his cock still rock hard.
It’s the tightness of anticipation in his stomach when he knows that tonight is the night they can find a little peace and quiet and scratch the itch and it’s the way he can’t quite breathe while he’s staring at the clock because Misha should have been here two minutes ago. It’s the way he jumps when the doorbell rings and the way he barely gets Misha inside before he pounces.
It’s in the yanking of fabric that dares stand in his way and the slow drag of his fingers over Misha’s ribs when he finally gets that fabric out of the way. It’s desperate kisses and ill-advised words and a thrill through his body when they finally make it to the bed, naked and needing and pressed from shoulder to ankle to soothe the skin hunger they share. It’s a slow build, all night, never more than six inches apart, falling asleep as the sun’s coming up still tangled together and oblivious to the time.
Jensen always knows when he’s been too long without Misha’s touch because it’s everything he never thought he wanted and everything he knows he can’t go without anymore.
Oh, gosh, thank you, Anon. <3
The best tip I can give is to always remember that there’s so much more to a kiss than what’s going on with their mouths. Where are they (completely private, in danger of being caught, etc.)? What position are they in? Where are their hands? How much space is between their bodies? What kind of kiss is it: just a kiss or the kind that’s gonna lead to more? How does the person whose perspective you’re writing from feel? Is s/he relieved or happy or turned on or.. ? Is it a “good morning” or an “I’m glad you didn’t die” or an “I want you naked right this second” kiss?
When I write kissing scenes, I try to be really specific about everything. The atmosphere and the way they feel and everything that’s going on outside of just their lips and tongues because the whole package is what makes a kiss a kiss. I hope this helps!