Note: The second half is porny, of the tattoos & piercings (obviously), public sex, oral sex, and swallowing variety. I’ve been wanting to write a tattoo/piercing kink prompt, so thank you for this. :)
This latest case takes them to the West Coast. Santa Cruz. Dean wants to gag; there are too many goddamn hippie shops around, and he's seeing the word “vegan” a little too much for his comfort.
“Hey, Santa Cruz is pretty nice,” Sam says. A small smile plays across his lips. “We used to come down here every now and then. When we wanted to go to the beach. Hour’s drive, but it was worth it.”
“Yeah whatever, just keep your fruits and nuts in your goddamn granola,” Dean mutters, and Sam shuts up. They’re close to the UC Santa Cruz campus, and Dean really doesn’t need any more reminders about how Sam fucking abandoned his family to be a goddamn nerd. He shrugs and stretches his neck. “C’mon, where can we get some real food around here?”
“Would it kill you to eat something healthy every now and then?” Sam says, pausing before a restaurant. “Some of these look pretty good.”
“Hey, if God wanted people to eat healthy, He wouldn’t have put Paula Deen on the Food Network,” Dean says. There has got to be something—
Dean stops. Finally. A sub shop. Probably won’t be as good as a greasy burger, but it’s good enough for now, and definitely beats the other restaurants flanking the shop.
The bell over the door jingles when Dean walks in, Sam trailing behind him. The girl working the counter looks straight at him, one eyebrow cocked, and Dean lets out a low whistle as Sam rolls his eyes.
“Hey there,” the girl says, her voice soft, breathy. “What can I get for you today?”
Her eyes flick over Dean, and then over Sam. Oh Hell no; Sammy’s not getting in on this.
Dean rests an elbow on the counter and flashes the girl his most charming smile. She’s wearing a low-cut top and the shortest shorts he’s ever seen. Damn. If there’s one thing the West Coast gets right, it’s definitely the babes.
“I’ll have a roast beef sub,” Dean says.
“And do you want the five-inch, or...” the girl says, then pauses. She bites her lip and shakes out her hair; it brushes against the small of her back, and Dean traces the line of her shoulder. Damn. “...the ten-inch?”
Sam lets out a Jesus-fucking-Christ-I’m-going-to-vomit-in-my-mouth sigh, but Dean ignores him. He’s gonna get some tonight for fucking sure.
Dean leans in closer and winks. “Ten inch.”
“It’s a trap, bro.”
Dean looks up, tongue ready with some kind of retort, but he freezes.
Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. He has to keep his cool. Sam doesn’t know, and he’s about to score here—except he’s not even interested in the chick anymore. It’s like someone capped a jar over her and all that flaming hotness suddenly went out. No. He’s gotta maintain this front, can’t give himself away.
But—goddamn. The guy working the grill is a fucking piece of art. He shouldn’t find him attractive—but he does, and that attraction is overwhelming.
For all the big, bad hunter he is, for all the injuries and stabs and wounds he’s taken, he’s never had the balls to get pierced, or to get tattooed. Because needles suck, and he’s not going to subject himself to that voluntarily. But on others? Yes, god yes. This guy—a tattoo crawls up his neck, emphasizing that curve, those muscles. Dean’s eyes flit over to his face, past those ridiculous (and yet oddly attractive) sideburns, and land on the jewelry beneath his lower lip, and, oh, those lips—
“Six fifty.”
Dean tears his eyes away. Right. Food. Paying for food. He fumbles for his wallet and flashes a haphazard smile at the girl before handing her a ten.
“Sorry,” he says, then sneaks a glance over at the guy again. Damn, he can even rock a nostril piercing. Usually looks dorky on guys, but this dude...
Grill guy turns around and meets Dean’s gaze, and Dean feels like he’s died on the spot. His knees feel weak. Dude’s got the most brilliant green eyes ever, and the eyeliner around them only serves to emphasize that. Damn, he’s hot even when he’s flashing Dean that sneer. Or maybe that’s why he’s hot. Either way—
Grill guy tosses his spatula into the air and catches it.
“What, you never seen a guy with extra holes through his head?” he says.
Dean lets out a little breathy laugh, then mentally kicks himself. Keep your cool. Keep your cool. “’Course I have.”
“Didn’t your momma tell you not to stare? It’s rude.”
“My mom’s dead, jerk,” Dean says, flashing him a sarcastic grin. The others look up with a jolt, as if waiting for the punchline. Dean’s heart beats wildly against his ribs. Part of him finds their shocked expressions hilarious, and part of him kicks himself for possibly killing whatever chance he might have with punk dude.
Except—wait, no, he doesn’t want to have a “chance” with punk dude, except, well, he does—
“Yeah, well, so’s mine,” grill guy says, winking at Dean, and Dean might just need a new change of pants. “Watch who you’re calling a jerk, jerk.”
“Priestly, stop scaring away our customers,” the blonde behind the computer says. Dean cocks an eyebrow.
“Priestly? The hell kind of name is that?”
Priestly frowns and turns back to the grill, scowling.
“Three fifty’s your change,” the counter girl says, her smile a little forced. Dean nods and pockets the change. Sam elbows him and elicits a yelp from Dean.
“Do you have to be such a dick all the time?” he hisses, and Dean shrugs.
“Whatever,” he says. He slides into a counter seat. Maybe if he puts on an angry enough face, he can pretend he’s glaring at Priestly instead of totally checking him out.
❧
That roast beef sub might possibly have been the most delicious sandwich Dean’s ever had, but that’s not really why he’s back here hanging out like a creep in the alley by the sub shop at closing time, is it?
He gulps.
That older guy—the owner?—leaves. Dean steps out from the alley once he’s gone. He’s really, really not sure why he’s doing this, why he feels such a strong urge—a need—to see that guy again. Maybe he can make some sort of excuse. Play tough and say that he was out for some late-night munchies and wanted to grab another sub, because hey, that’s not too far from the truth.
The door closes with a jingle. Priestly twists the key and locks the door.
“Closed?” Dean says. He walks up to him, acting as nonchalant as he can, even though he can feel his fingers tingling and his cheeks burning. Thank God it’s dark.
“Yep. Sorry,” Priestly says as he straightens up and pockets the key. He eyes Dean, and Dean wants to take a step back, but he holds his ground. Priestly rolls his eyes. “Look, if you’re looking to get some with Tish, she’s already left, and she’s already found some other tool. You’re not any kind of special.”
“I don’t want to—” Dean says, then frowns, the words caught in his throat. Fuck, he has no problem telling women that he wants to fuck them, and hard, but with guys, it’s always been more difficult. He’s come to terms with the fact that, yeah, he wants to and occasionally does bang guys, but that doesn’t make this any easier.
Priestly glares daggers at Dean. God, he sucks at this.
“Look,” he says, advancing on Dean and jabbing a finger at Dean’s chest. “I’m tired of macho dicks like you giving me crap because of the way I look. So I look a little different; so fucking what. I don’t give you shit; don’t give me any shit.”
“Calm your fucking tits,” Dean spits. Priestly’s all up in his personal space now. Dean hopes and prays to whatever might be running this thing that Priestly doesn’t look down, because Dean’s pants have suddenly gotten very, very tight.
Dean takes a breath, and then the words tumble out of him before he can stop them.
“I’m not fucking judging you. In fact, I think you’re fucking hot as hell, okay?”
Priestly narrows his eyes.
“Look, asshole, if this is some kind of joke—” Priestly lets out a little snort. “I’m really not in the mood to put up with this kind of crap.”
But his words trail off, and his breaths come out a little more shallow. They’re the exact same height. Dean stares into Priestly’s eyes; they catch spots of light even in the darkness, the green laid over with a wash of blue night.
“You’re not joking,” Priestly says after a moment.
“I never joke about who I want to fuck,” Dean says, smirking. A moment passes between them.
Fuck it, Dean thinks, then pulls Priestly into the alley. He slams Priestly up against the wall and kisses him. Normally he’d give a fuck about doing this in public, but it’s dark, and everywhere’s closed; no one’s going to see.
Dean runs his tongue along Priestly’s lower lip and then deepens the kiss. Priestly stiffens for a moment, then relaxes into Dean, letting his lips part; his own tongue darts out, and Dean trembles as the smooth metal of Priestly’s tongue barbell runs along his own tongue. Dean runs his hands down Priestly’s sides, and he smirks against Priestly’s lips as Priestly shivers.
He pulls away from Priestly, his eyes half-lidded.
“What else do you have pierced?” he murmurs, and Priestly smirks back at him.
“I’ll let you find out,” he says, his voice low, soft. Dean laughs and nips at Priestly’s neck, savoring Priestly’s sharp intake of breath.
“All right,” Dean says. He pulls Priestly further into the alley, shrouding them both with a deeper darkness. He snakes a hand up Priestly’s shirt, tugging it up to reveal a naked navel; he presses a finger against each of Priestly’s ribs, then traces his hand down between Priestly’s pecs. He spreads his palm out under the muscle, then touches up and brushes a thumb against Priestly’s nipple, grinning as he feels steel balls on either side. He gives Priestly’s nipple a little pinch, and Priestly throws his head back.
“There’s one,” Priestly says. Dean slips his other hand under Priestly’s shirt and brushes against the other nipple, finding another barbell; he rolls Priestly’s nipples between his fingers, and Priestly bites his lip.
“Two,” Dean murmurs.
“There’s more,” Priestly says, looking down and cocking an eyebrow at Dean. “And a little bit of art for you too.”
Hands trembling, Dean tugs Priestly’s shirt up. The tattoo on his neck extends down to his chest, a swirl of black curves and shapes that twists and follows the lines of his chest, ending in a flourish beneath his ribs.
“Fuck,” Dean whispers. He sees another twist of black emerging from Priestly’s waistband, opposite the chest and neck piece. Dean lets Priestly’s shirt fall, then gets on his knees and undoes Priestly’s belt, unbuttons his jeans and tugs down Priestly’s zipper. He lets Priestly’s pants fall to the ground; his briefs hang low on his hips. A blackwork scorpion curves around Priestly’s hip, tail poised up Priestly’s side, its body hugging the bone of Priestly’s pelvis, its claws out.
Dean glances up. Priestly’s looking down at him, a grin on his face, clearly pleased with Dean’s attention.
Dean smiles and hooks both thumbs underneath Priestly’s waistband.
“Got any surprises here?”
“Wanna find out?”
“Fuck yeah I want to find out.”
He pulls down Priestly’s briefs, and Priestly’s cock pops free. Dean’s heart skips a beat. He counts a Prince Albert and three frenum piercings. Priestly reaches down and runs his hand through Dean’s hair.
“Well? You like?”
Dean doesn’t say anything in response—only runs his tongue in one long stroke along the underside of Priestly’s cock, savoring the bump of the barbells, the chill of the steel gone cold in the night air. He pauses and swirls his tongue over the tip of Priestly’s cock, flicks at the ring before going down on Priestly.
Priestly tugs gently at Dean’s hair. Dean keeps his rhythm slow at first, coaxing little sighs out of Priestly as he does; Priestly ruts gently at Dean, and Dean shivers as the barbells run along his tongue, push past his lips. He glances up at Priestly, watches as Priestly’s mouth opens in a quiet moan; the streetlight glints off his earrings.
Dean brings a hand up and grips Priestly’s cock, savors how hard it is; he picks up the pace, his strokes getting faster and shorter. His hand moves together with his mouth; he braces himself with his other hand, his fingers digging into Priestly’s thigh. Priestly releases Dean’s hair, his hands wandering up to twist at his nipples. He thrusts harder at Dean.
“Fuck,” Priestly breathes. “Your name. Tell me your name.”
Dean pulls back from Priestly’s cock, keeping his lips tight until the head slides out.
“Dean,” he says, grinning up at him. Priestly threads his fingers through Dean’s hair again and pulls him back toward his cock. Dean obliges and takes Priestly in again; Priestly grinds against him, his head falling to the side, exposing his tattoo, and Dean can feel his own cock twitching.
“Dean,” Priestly moans. “Dean. Dean. Fuck.”
Bolts of pleasure shoot through Dean. He flicks his tongue at the jewelry, pauses a fraction of a second to linger over Priestly’s frenulum; he takes Priestly in deeper, squeezes harder with his hand. He can feel Priestly’s thigh tensing, his grip on his hair getting harder and more urgent.
Dean strokes back up, this time lingering on the tip of Priestly’s cock. He loops his tongue around the ring there and tugs gently as he suckles at the head; Priestly quakes, and a soft, throaty ah escapes past his lips.
“You like that?” Dean says, keeping the ring between his teeth. He pulls gently and keeps sucking; Priestly bites his lip and lets out a soft, whimpering moan that practically undoes Dean. Priestly presses the back of his head against the wall behind him, his chest rising and falling with his breaths, before he looks back down, his eyes half-lidded and glazed over with lust.
“Yeah,” Priestly says, his voice coming out barely above a whisper. Dean dares to tug a little harder, and the shudder that runs down Priestly from head to toe tells him it wasn’t too much.
“Good,” Dean says, and a surge of confidence, of power runs through him. He’s the one kneeling, like some kind of devotee worshipping a god, but ultimately, he has control over Priestly—can bring him pleasure, can take it away at his whim.
“Don’t stop,” Priestly says, his voice thin, pleading, and Dean grins. He gets back to it—licks, sucks; tugs, squeezes. He builds the pace up faster, harder, more urgent.
“Dean.”
Priestly bends over slightly, his jaw clenched, his breaths shallow to the point where he stops breathing entirely.
“I’m gonna come.”
Dean hums a response against Priestly’s cock, and that’s enough to send him over the edge—Priestly yanks Dean’s hair, drives himself deep into Dean, and releases white-hot against Dean’s tongue. His body jerks a couple more times before he falls still, his breaths heavy.
Dean pulls away from Priestly and swallows, his tongue darting out to lick the last couple of drops leaking from the tip.
Priestly lets out a laugh.
“That was amazing.”
Dean comes up and cups Priestly’s face in his hands. He kisses him, more softly this time, lets Priestly taste himself on Dean’s tongue. Dean pulls away and smiles.
“Wanna show me what you can do with that tongue?”
“And everything else, jerk,” Priestly says, then winks. “C’mon. My place.”
FILL: “In which there are two Jensen Ackles” | NC-17 | Dean Winchester (SPN) / Boaz Priestly (TI
Mirrors: AO3, LJ
This latest case takes them to the West Coast. Santa Cruz. Dean wants to gag; there are too many goddamn hippie shops around, and he's seeing the word “vegan” a little too much for his comfort.
“Hey, Santa Cruz is pretty nice,” Sam says. A small smile plays across his lips. “We used to come down here every now and then. When we wanted to go to the beach. Hour’s drive, but it was worth it.”
“Yeah whatever, just keep your fruits and nuts in your goddamn granola,” Dean mutters, and Sam shuts up. They’re close to the UC Santa Cruz campus, and Dean really doesn’t need any more reminders about how Sam fucking abandoned his family to be a goddamn nerd. He shrugs and stretches his neck. “C’mon, where can we get some real food around here?”
“Would it kill you to eat something healthy every now and then?” Sam says, pausing before a restaurant. “Some of these look pretty good.”
“Hey, if God wanted people to eat healthy, He wouldn’t have put Paula Deen on the Food Network,” Dean says. There has got to be something—
Dean stops. Finally. A sub shop. Probably won’t be as good as a greasy burger, but it’s good enough for now, and definitely beats the other restaurants flanking the shop.
The bell over the door jingles when Dean walks in, Sam trailing behind him. The girl working the counter looks straight at him, one eyebrow cocked, and Dean lets out a low whistle as Sam rolls his eyes.
“Hey there,” the girl says, her voice soft, breathy. “What can I get for you today?”
Her eyes flick over Dean, and then over Sam. Oh Hell no; Sammy’s not getting in on this.
Dean rests an elbow on the counter and flashes the girl his most charming smile. She’s wearing a low-cut top and the shortest shorts he’s ever seen. Damn. If there’s one thing the West Coast gets right, it’s definitely the babes.
“I’ll have a roast beef sub,” Dean says.
“And do you want the five-inch, or...” the girl says, then pauses. She bites her lip and shakes out her hair; it brushes against the small of her back, and Dean traces the line of her shoulder. Damn. “...the ten-inch?”
Sam lets out a Jesus-fucking-Christ-I’m-going-to-vomit-in-my-mouth sigh, but Dean ignores him. He’s gonna get some tonight for fucking sure.
Dean leans in closer and winks. “Ten inch.”
“It’s a trap, bro.”
Dean looks up, tongue ready with some kind of retort, but he freezes.
Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. He has to keep his cool. Sam doesn’t know, and he’s about to score here—except he’s not even interested in the chick anymore. It’s like someone capped a jar over her and all that flaming hotness suddenly went out. No. He’s gotta maintain this front, can’t give himself away.
But—goddamn. The guy working the grill is a fucking piece of art. He shouldn’t find him attractive—but he does, and that attraction is overwhelming.
For all the big, bad hunter he is, for all the injuries and stabs and wounds he’s taken, he’s never had the balls to get pierced, or to get tattooed. Because needles suck, and he’s not going to subject himself to that voluntarily. But on others? Yes, god yes. This guy—a tattoo crawls up his neck, emphasizing that curve, those muscles. Dean’s eyes flit over to his face, past those ridiculous (and yet oddly attractive) sideburns, and land on the jewelry beneath his lower lip, and, oh, those lips—
“Six fifty.”
Dean tears his eyes away. Right. Food. Paying for food. He fumbles for his wallet and flashes a haphazard smile at the girl before handing her a ten.
“Sorry,” he says, then sneaks a glance over at the guy again. Damn, he can even rock a nostril piercing. Usually looks dorky on guys, but this dude...
Grill guy turns around and meets Dean’s gaze, and Dean feels like he’s died on the spot. His knees feel weak. Dude’s got the most brilliant green eyes ever, and the eyeliner around them only serves to emphasize that. Damn, he’s hot even when he’s flashing Dean that sneer. Or maybe that’s why he’s hot. Either way—
Grill guy tosses his spatula into the air and catches it.
“What, you never seen a guy with extra holes through his head?” he says.
Dean lets out a little breathy laugh, then mentally kicks himself. Keep your cool. Keep your cool. “’Course I have.”
“Didn’t your momma tell you not to stare? It’s rude.”
“My mom’s dead, jerk,” Dean says, flashing him a sarcastic grin. The others look up with a jolt, as if waiting for the punchline. Dean’s heart beats wildly against his ribs. Part of him finds their shocked expressions hilarious, and part of him kicks himself for possibly killing whatever chance he might have with punk dude.
Except—wait, no, he doesn’t want to have a “chance” with punk dude, except, well, he does—
“Yeah, well, so’s mine,” grill guy says, winking at Dean, and Dean might just need a new change of pants. “Watch who you’re calling a jerk, jerk.”
“Priestly, stop scaring away our customers,” the blonde behind the computer says. Dean cocks an eyebrow.
“Priestly? The hell kind of name is that?”
Priestly frowns and turns back to the grill, scowling.
“Three fifty’s your change,” the counter girl says, her smile a little forced. Dean nods and pockets the change. Sam elbows him and elicits a yelp from Dean.
“Do you have to be such a dick all the time?” he hisses, and Dean shrugs.
“Whatever,” he says. He slides into a counter seat. Maybe if he puts on an angry enough face, he can pretend he’s glaring at Priestly instead of totally checking him out.
That roast beef sub might possibly have been the most delicious sandwich Dean’s ever had, but that’s not really why he’s back here hanging out like a creep in the alley by the sub shop at closing time, is it?
He gulps.
That older guy—the owner?—leaves. Dean steps out from the alley once he’s gone. He’s really, really not sure why he’s doing this, why he feels such a strong urge—a need—to see that guy again. Maybe he can make some sort of excuse. Play tough and say that he was out for some late-night munchies and wanted to grab another sub, because hey, that’s not too far from the truth.
The door closes with a jingle. Priestly twists the key and locks the door.
“Closed?” Dean says. He walks up to him, acting as nonchalant as he can, even though he can feel his fingers tingling and his cheeks burning. Thank God it’s dark.
“Yep. Sorry,” Priestly says as he straightens up and pockets the key. He eyes Dean, and Dean wants to take a step back, but he holds his ground. Priestly rolls his eyes. “Look, if you’re looking to get some with Tish, she’s already left, and she’s already found some other tool. You’re not any kind of special.”
“I don’t want to—” Dean says, then frowns, the words caught in his throat. Fuck, he has no problem telling women that he wants to fuck them, and hard, but with guys, it’s always been more difficult. He’s come to terms with the fact that, yeah, he wants to and occasionally does bang guys, but that doesn’t make this any easier.
Priestly glares daggers at Dean. God, he sucks at this.
“Look,” he says, advancing on Dean and jabbing a finger at Dean’s chest. “I’m tired of macho dicks like you giving me crap because of the way I look. So I look a little different; so fucking what. I don’t give you shit; don’t give me any shit.”
“Calm your fucking tits,” Dean spits. Priestly’s all up in his personal space now. Dean hopes and prays to whatever might be running this thing that Priestly doesn’t look down, because Dean’s pants have suddenly gotten very, very tight.
Dean takes a breath, and then the words tumble out of him before he can stop them.
“I’m not fucking judging you. In fact, I think you’re fucking hot as hell, okay?”
Priestly narrows his eyes.
“Look, asshole, if this is some kind of joke—” Priestly lets out a little snort. “I’m really not in the mood to put up with this kind of crap.”
But his words trail off, and his breaths come out a little more shallow. They’re the exact same height. Dean stares into Priestly’s eyes; they catch spots of light even in the darkness, the green laid over with a wash of blue night.
“You’re not joking,” Priestly says after a moment.
“I never joke about who I want to fuck,” Dean says, smirking. A moment passes between them.
Fuck it, Dean thinks, then pulls Priestly into the alley. He slams Priestly up against the wall and kisses him. Normally he’d give a fuck about doing this in public, but it’s dark, and everywhere’s closed; no one’s going to see.
Dean runs his tongue along Priestly’s lower lip and then deepens the kiss. Priestly stiffens for a moment, then relaxes into Dean, letting his lips part; his own tongue darts out, and Dean trembles as the smooth metal of Priestly’s tongue barbell runs along his own tongue. Dean runs his hands down Priestly’s sides, and he smirks against Priestly’s lips as Priestly shivers.
He pulls away from Priestly, his eyes half-lidded.
“What else do you have pierced?” he murmurs, and Priestly smirks back at him.
“I’ll let you find out,” he says, his voice low, soft. Dean laughs and nips at Priestly’s neck, savoring Priestly’s sharp intake of breath.
“All right,” Dean says. He pulls Priestly further into the alley, shrouding them both with a deeper darkness. He snakes a hand up Priestly’s shirt, tugging it up to reveal a naked navel; he presses a finger against each of Priestly’s ribs, then traces his hand down between Priestly’s pecs. He spreads his palm out under the muscle, then touches up and brushes a thumb against Priestly’s nipple, grinning as he feels steel balls on either side. He gives Priestly’s nipple a little pinch, and Priestly throws his head back.
“There’s one,” Priestly says. Dean slips his other hand under Priestly’s shirt and brushes against the other nipple, finding another barbell; he rolls Priestly’s nipples between his fingers, and Priestly bites his lip.
“Two,” Dean murmurs.
“There’s more,” Priestly says, looking down and cocking an eyebrow at Dean. “And a little bit of art for you too.”
Hands trembling, Dean tugs Priestly’s shirt up. The tattoo on his neck extends down to his chest, a swirl of black curves and shapes that twists and follows the lines of his chest, ending in a flourish beneath his ribs.
“Fuck,” Dean whispers. He sees another twist of black emerging from Priestly’s waistband, opposite the chest and neck piece. Dean lets Priestly’s shirt fall, then gets on his knees and undoes Priestly’s belt, unbuttons his jeans and tugs down Priestly’s zipper. He lets Priestly’s pants fall to the ground; his briefs hang low on his hips. A blackwork scorpion curves around Priestly’s hip, tail poised up Priestly’s side, its body hugging the bone of Priestly’s pelvis, its claws out.
Dean glances up. Priestly’s looking down at him, a grin on his face, clearly pleased with Dean’s attention.
Dean smiles and hooks both thumbs underneath Priestly’s waistband.
“Got any surprises here?”
“Wanna find out?”
“Fuck yeah I want to find out.”
He pulls down Priestly’s briefs, and Priestly’s cock pops free. Dean’s heart skips a beat. He counts a Prince Albert and three frenum piercings. Priestly reaches down and runs his hand through Dean’s hair.
“Well? You like?”
Dean doesn’t say anything in response—only runs his tongue in one long stroke along the underside of Priestly’s cock, savoring the bump of the barbells, the chill of the steel gone cold in the night air. He pauses and swirls his tongue over the tip of Priestly’s cock, flicks at the ring before going down on Priestly.
Priestly tugs gently at Dean’s hair. Dean keeps his rhythm slow at first, coaxing little sighs out of Priestly as he does; Priestly ruts gently at Dean, and Dean shivers as the barbells run along his tongue, push past his lips. He glances up at Priestly, watches as Priestly’s mouth opens in a quiet moan; the streetlight glints off his earrings.
Dean brings a hand up and grips Priestly’s cock, savors how hard it is; he picks up the pace, his strokes getting faster and shorter. His hand moves together with his mouth; he braces himself with his other hand, his fingers digging into Priestly’s thigh. Priestly releases Dean’s hair, his hands wandering up to twist at his nipples. He thrusts harder at Dean.
“Fuck,” Priestly breathes. “Your name. Tell me your name.”
Dean pulls back from Priestly’s cock, keeping his lips tight until the head slides out.
“Dean,” he says, grinning up at him. Priestly threads his fingers through Dean’s hair again and pulls him back toward his cock. Dean obliges and takes Priestly in again; Priestly grinds against him, his head falling to the side, exposing his tattoo, and Dean can feel his own cock twitching.
“Dean,” Priestly moans. “Dean. Dean. Fuck.”
Bolts of pleasure shoot through Dean. He flicks his tongue at the jewelry, pauses a fraction of a second to linger over Priestly’s frenulum; he takes Priestly in deeper, squeezes harder with his hand. He can feel Priestly’s thigh tensing, his grip on his hair getting harder and more urgent.
Dean strokes back up, this time lingering on the tip of Priestly’s cock. He loops his tongue around the ring there and tugs gently as he suckles at the head; Priestly quakes, and a soft, throaty ah escapes past his lips.
“You like that?” Dean says, keeping the ring between his teeth. He pulls gently and keeps sucking; Priestly bites his lip and lets out a soft, whimpering moan that practically undoes Dean. Priestly presses the back of his head against the wall behind him, his chest rising and falling with his breaths, before he looks back down, his eyes half-lidded and glazed over with lust.
“Yeah,” Priestly says, his voice coming out barely above a whisper. Dean dares to tug a little harder, and the shudder that runs down Priestly from head to toe tells him it wasn’t too much.
“Good,” Dean says, and a surge of confidence, of power runs through him. He’s the one kneeling, like some kind of devotee worshipping a god, but ultimately, he has control over Priestly—can bring him pleasure, can take it away at his whim.
“Don’t stop,” Priestly says, his voice thin, pleading, and Dean grins. He gets back to it—licks, sucks; tugs, squeezes. He builds the pace up faster, harder, more urgent.
“Dean.”
Priestly bends over slightly, his jaw clenched, his breaths shallow to the point where he stops breathing entirely.
“I’m gonna come.”
Dean hums a response against Priestly’s cock, and that’s enough to send him over the edge—Priestly yanks Dean’s hair, drives himself deep into Dean, and releases white-hot against Dean’s tongue. His body jerks a couple more times before he falls still, his breaths heavy.
Dean pulls away from Priestly and swallows, his tongue darting out to lick the last couple of drops leaking from the tip.
Priestly lets out a laugh.
“That was amazing.”
Dean comes up and cups Priestly’s face in his hands. He kisses him, more softly this time, lets Priestly taste himself on Dean’s tongue. Dean pulls away and smiles.
“Wanna show me what you can do with that tongue?”
“And everything else, jerk,” Priestly says, then winks. “C’mon. My place.”