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stripytightsFic: Ignore the Setting Sun
Fandom Supernatural
Pairing Castiel/Victor Henriksen
Rating: R
Length: 2187
Content Notes: handjob, mild frot
Summary: Same 'verse as 'In the Darkening Day.' Castiel smokes, and Victor watches him.
Fic Notes: written for Porn Battle for the prompt 'smoking'
Victor watches Cas pull a cigarette from the battered pack of Camels, and light up, and snorts a little at the sight. "Not very hardcore," he says dryly. "Off the wacky-baccy already?"
Dean overhears him and arches an eyebrow. "Wacky-baccy," he says, and Victor kind of thinks Dean's amused, but he can't be sure anymore. Dean occasionally smiles, but it's weird to watch, like it's all off kilter. "Nobody calls it wacky-baccy anymore," he says, and this tiny grin flickers over his face. For a moment he looks ten years younger, and Victor's reminded of the man who'd laughed in his face while chained up in a prison cell. But that man had been tied to his brother, looped with the same chain, close enough to touch. That man isn't Dean not anymore. The smile is already fading, and Dean's loping forward to the head of their little group, counting heads as he goes, gun easy in his hand like an extension of him, like Sam had once been.
Cas watches him go, and there's something there in his eyes, dark and brooding. He doesn't turn it off when he looks at Victor, and he's caught by that gaze for a moment before he blinks away. "We should get back to camp man," he says, and Cas nods and takes a last deep inhale before he flicks the remaining smouldering butt away, and strides off after the rest. Victor watches the sullen indomitable spark flare on the ground, then steps on it hard, grinds it into the dirt, and makes his way back to camp alone.
The perks of being known by Dean Winchester before this all started, and by being the third best forager in camp means that Victor is entitled to a room of his own. Perhaps less of a room and more of a cupboard, but it has a bed, and four walls and just enough space that if he wanted he could kneel down and pray, heels wedged against the door, face in the scratchy blankets. This option has not yet been availed of. Victor sleeps here, comes here when he wants to be alone. When he wants company he seeks out Castiel.
Now though it's Castiel who lets himself in, and stands there and watches Victor with the same clear eyed thoughtfulness he brings to all their interaction, like Victor is a puzzle to be worked out. It's all nonsense Victor thinks. He's Connect Four, not the NYT cryptic crossword, and from where he's lying on the bed with a copy of Cosmo on his chest that Alison had lent him in exchange for a loan of his razor, Castiel looks like he should be able to figure that out at least.
Victor shifts to one side, and Castiel takes the hint, flows forward easily and lies down beside him, breathes in deep and exhales like he's taking a hit from an imaginary joint. He fills every space like the slow drip of water, and pressed hip to hip like this, Victor thinks it should feel weirder. Or even a little weird at all.
It doesn't. Somewhere between seeing a little girl skin people alive, and blowing the head off a Croatoan for the first time he lost the ability to be surprised. Now he half turns, and lets Cas press in close. He smells like cigarettes, like the faint staleness of tobacco left too long. Underneath there is the deeper greener stink of weed, and the beginnings of sweat. He used to smell a little like ozone, metallic overlay on skin with no scent at all. Beside him now Cas is solid bone and muscle, and Victor can't resist resting a hand on his hip, feeling the sharp jut of bone underneath.
The first time had been the easiest he thinks. Going back again and again, that had been hard, each time a giving, a mite more of his past flaking away as though he's scratched too hard and long at it. Cas still sometimes talks, convulsively like he wants to note down his words on Victor's skin forever, sink it in deep, but now he touches as well, smooths over, digs in then sooths small hurts with his clever tongue. Victor isn't sure what drags him back soonest- the words, or how good it feels to have them wiped clean.
"Can I smoke." Castiel says, words bright and sharp in the gloom. It's not a question or a request, nor yet a demand. It's just words, and Castiel sits up and fishes out the bent packet. He has no self control, Victor thinks with no judgement. How can there be judgement, when Victor has seen it trickle away, unable to survive without hope. There are two left in the packet, and Castiel swipes one, lights it with a match, cherry redness flaring briefly in the dark room. Outside the sky is grey, will soon be black. Castiel breathes out the smoke, and the result fills the room.
When Victor kisses him, Castiel tastes dirty and deep and the still unfamiliar want runs through his veins. Castiel tosses the cigarette still burning onto the floor, and Victor rolls him over to stamp it out, until Castiel rolls him back and pins him with sharp hands against the bed, fingers tightening painfully on his wrists, deep enough to bruise. Victor pushes back hard, jams a knee into Cas's stomach listens for the painful grunt, and twists himself free. His wrists ache deep, not for the first time. Castiel knows his own strength and has watched it fade to a shadow of what it was, and when he uses it, it sends a curling tendril of heat through Victor that he can't quantify or name though he'll never lie back and take it. That's not in his bones or his blood that still flows through neatly regulated veins.
Cas is watching him again; as opaque and blank as he has even been, and when this time he bends to kiss Victor, it's gentler than it should be, and his fingers are soft as they slide over his jawline, fit neatly into the hinge of his jaw, latent strength behind it. Victor struggles to sit upright, lets his legs fall apart so Cas can kneel between them, and kiss him deeper again, until it's almost unlike a kiss at all, just pressed up close, teeth and tongue and the awkward hollowing of Cas's back under Victor's hands like he's not fully built or formed. He slides up the t-shirt, lets his hand follow the curve of his spine, pass over each slight bump until he rests his fingers between Cas's shoulderblades, feels the unsteady pump of his heart through skin too thin.
Then as though artifice is stripped away between them, Castiel is pulling off his t-shirt, skin pale and sickly enough that even in the gloom Victor can see it, as though Castiel has been left in the dark too long and grown to adapt. Victor nips the taut flesh of his abdomen, leans his head against him for a second to breath in deep, and Castiel fumbles in his haste to pull off Victor’s t-shirt. He’d taken off the Kevlar when he arrived back, stripped down out of the layers that were the only thing between him and a Croatoan bite, and Castiel seems to appreciate that, at any rate he’s silent as they yank their pants off fully. Better to go naked if an attack comes than have your legs tied.
“Do you want the light on?” he mumbles. He likes the dark, secret safeness of their touch, Cas likes the light as though being a real boy means he has to face up to every truth.
“Leave it off,” Cas says, and Victor gives a convulsive half thrust upwards against the empty air at the foreign strange heat in his voice. Cas has never sounded like this before, he thinks and a queer ache accompanies the thought, until it’s replaced by Castiel kissing him again, naked and warm pressed up against him, and Victor yanks him down, until they’re side by side on the bed, goosepimples rising in the cold air except where they touch. Castiel is like a furnace, heat pouring off him, and it takes time for Victor to realise that it’s not natural.
“You’re ill,” he says, should probably stop touching him if that’s the case. It’s too enticing though, dry burn of warmth against his own skin, he catches himself palming restlessly down the starkness of Castiel’s back, over and over again.
“Not ill,” Castiel says, and his voice drowns in the stillness between them, swallowed in the cold dry air, and the words are left unsaid. Victor doesn’t need to hear them to understand. Castiel is falling, tumbling at ever increasing speeds, his grace leeching from him so slowly, so swiftly. “This body,” Castiel murmurs anyway. “It burns.”
Victor has no words to give him in reply, just traces of sorrow in the quiet movement of his mouth, kisses imprinted on Castiel’s neck and face and shoulders. You teach me compassion he thinks and does not say. You teach me fear. A lesson learned too well already, hammered in deeper. He can feel himself hard, aching for the touch of Cas against him always, curls his own hand around the length of Cas’s dick and rocks slowly, drags his hand down and up again, in a rhythm that would be too slow for most men but that has Cas sighing quietly. Victor doesn’t know if he’s making this faster, if with every stroke of his hand, every kiss he sends Castiel tumbling further, bleeds him a little drier of what was once his. He doesn’t know and he can’t care not at this moment. He carries enough of a burden already.
They’ve done nothing but this- mutual handjobs and blowjobs- words and concepts that belong to the time before, that come together under the one word of closeness. He sometimes wonders, on the nights that Cas tries to talk to Dean, tries to get through that blank darkness, what it would be like to have more. To push deeper into Cas, anchor him from the inside out and shudders at the thought, then comes guiltily all over his fist. He doesn’t suggest it, since he has no doubt that Castiel would oblige. On rarer nights he wonders how it would feel to have Cas take him like that, splayed against the bed, eyes squeezed shut and he feels the molten heat of arousal quenched by the memory of Lilith and her crew taking what they pleased.
It doesn’t dissuade him from examining the concept in the privacy of his head, taking apart the images until he can see their bare bones twined with his darkened thoughts. Now though he contents himself with jerking off Cas, so slowly it frustrates even him and eventually he pushes up close and frots against him, dick against dick and Cas presses back, hand joining Victor’s around their cocks, the smallest movements registering, Cas’s hot damp breath on his mouth, his hand jerking them slowly together, eyes open even in the dark, then his hand slides between Victor’s legs, holds his balls for a second rolls them a little, slides fingers wet with pre-come against the small space between his balls and his asshole, and Victor jerks at the sensation, thrusts harder and sharper against Cas, hand trapped in between them working overtime at milking the sensation.
When Cas comes, it slicks the way between them easier, and Victor can slide against Cas’s stomach now, a little wet and slick easing the way between them so much easier, and he can’t hold out for long, too keyed up from the excursion earlier in the day, and the taste of Cas sealed permanently on him, and he comes, stuttering against Cas until he’s shaking in the dark. They lie like that for long minutes, until Victor has the presence of mind to wipe them down with a sock he’s now going to have wash by hand. Waste not, want not.
He holds up the covers, and Cas rolls underneath, flings a strong arm over him and Victor lets the suffocating warmth pen him in, then ducks over and fumbles through his jacket at the end of the bed. Tosses Cas the new pack of cigarettes. “Snagged them for you today,” he says, and tries not to imagine the subtle curl of smoke down Cas’s lungs, blackening them, his heart beating sluggishly. They'll never live that long he thinks.
"Ah," says Castiel, and he sounds surprised. "The traditional prison gift."
It takes Victor too long to realise it's a joke. "Is this a prison?" he asks. Realises how stupid that is. Of course this is a prison for Cas. He's trapped in human meat forever, glued to earth and utterly alone.
Cas doesn't answer for a long moment, just curls around Victor, cigarettes held loosely in one hand. “Addictions can be pleasant,” he says, and in it’s own way it’s an answer.
Fandom Supernatural
Pairing Castiel/Victor Henriksen
Rating: R
Length: 2187
Content Notes: handjob, mild frot
Summary: Same 'verse as 'In the Darkening Day.' Castiel smokes, and Victor watches him.
Fic Notes: written for Porn Battle for the prompt 'smoking'
Victor watches Cas pull a cigarette from the battered pack of Camels, and light up, and snorts a little at the sight. "Not very hardcore," he says dryly. "Off the wacky-baccy already?"
Dean overhears him and arches an eyebrow. "Wacky-baccy," he says, and Victor kind of thinks Dean's amused, but he can't be sure anymore. Dean occasionally smiles, but it's weird to watch, like it's all off kilter. "Nobody calls it wacky-baccy anymore," he says, and this tiny grin flickers over his face. For a moment he looks ten years younger, and Victor's reminded of the man who'd laughed in his face while chained up in a prison cell. But that man had been tied to his brother, looped with the same chain, close enough to touch. That man isn't Dean not anymore. The smile is already fading, and Dean's loping forward to the head of their little group, counting heads as he goes, gun easy in his hand like an extension of him, like Sam had once been.
Cas watches him go, and there's something there in his eyes, dark and brooding. He doesn't turn it off when he looks at Victor, and he's caught by that gaze for a moment before he blinks away. "We should get back to camp man," he says, and Cas nods and takes a last deep inhale before he flicks the remaining smouldering butt away, and strides off after the rest. Victor watches the sullen indomitable spark flare on the ground, then steps on it hard, grinds it into the dirt, and makes his way back to camp alone.
The perks of being known by Dean Winchester before this all started, and by being the third best forager in camp means that Victor is entitled to a room of his own. Perhaps less of a room and more of a cupboard, but it has a bed, and four walls and just enough space that if he wanted he could kneel down and pray, heels wedged against the door, face in the scratchy blankets. This option has not yet been availed of. Victor sleeps here, comes here when he wants to be alone. When he wants company he seeks out Castiel.
Now though it's Castiel who lets himself in, and stands there and watches Victor with the same clear eyed thoughtfulness he brings to all their interaction, like Victor is a puzzle to be worked out. It's all nonsense Victor thinks. He's Connect Four, not the NYT cryptic crossword, and from where he's lying on the bed with a copy of Cosmo on his chest that Alison had lent him in exchange for a loan of his razor, Castiel looks like he should be able to figure that out at least.
Victor shifts to one side, and Castiel takes the hint, flows forward easily and lies down beside him, breathes in deep and exhales like he's taking a hit from an imaginary joint. He fills every space like the slow drip of water, and pressed hip to hip like this, Victor thinks it should feel weirder. Or even a little weird at all.
It doesn't. Somewhere between seeing a little girl skin people alive, and blowing the head off a Croatoan for the first time he lost the ability to be surprised. Now he half turns, and lets Cas press in close. He smells like cigarettes, like the faint staleness of tobacco left too long. Underneath there is the deeper greener stink of weed, and the beginnings of sweat. He used to smell a little like ozone, metallic overlay on skin with no scent at all. Beside him now Cas is solid bone and muscle, and Victor can't resist resting a hand on his hip, feeling the sharp jut of bone underneath.
The first time had been the easiest he thinks. Going back again and again, that had been hard, each time a giving, a mite more of his past flaking away as though he's scratched too hard and long at it. Cas still sometimes talks, convulsively like he wants to note down his words on Victor's skin forever, sink it in deep, but now he touches as well, smooths over, digs in then sooths small hurts with his clever tongue. Victor isn't sure what drags him back soonest- the words, or how good it feels to have them wiped clean.
"Can I smoke." Castiel says, words bright and sharp in the gloom. It's not a question or a request, nor yet a demand. It's just words, and Castiel sits up and fishes out the bent packet. He has no self control, Victor thinks with no judgement. How can there be judgement, when Victor has seen it trickle away, unable to survive without hope. There are two left in the packet, and Castiel swipes one, lights it with a match, cherry redness flaring briefly in the dark room. Outside the sky is grey, will soon be black. Castiel breathes out the smoke, and the result fills the room.
When Victor kisses him, Castiel tastes dirty and deep and the still unfamiliar want runs through his veins. Castiel tosses the cigarette still burning onto the floor, and Victor rolls him over to stamp it out, until Castiel rolls him back and pins him with sharp hands against the bed, fingers tightening painfully on his wrists, deep enough to bruise. Victor pushes back hard, jams a knee into Cas's stomach listens for the painful grunt, and twists himself free. His wrists ache deep, not for the first time. Castiel knows his own strength and has watched it fade to a shadow of what it was, and when he uses it, it sends a curling tendril of heat through Victor that he can't quantify or name though he'll never lie back and take it. That's not in his bones or his blood that still flows through neatly regulated veins.
Cas is watching him again; as opaque and blank as he has even been, and when this time he bends to kiss Victor, it's gentler than it should be, and his fingers are soft as they slide over his jawline, fit neatly into the hinge of his jaw, latent strength behind it. Victor struggles to sit upright, lets his legs fall apart so Cas can kneel between them, and kiss him deeper again, until it's almost unlike a kiss at all, just pressed up close, teeth and tongue and the awkward hollowing of Cas's back under Victor's hands like he's not fully built or formed. He slides up the t-shirt, lets his hand follow the curve of his spine, pass over each slight bump until he rests his fingers between Cas's shoulderblades, feels the unsteady pump of his heart through skin too thin.
Then as though artifice is stripped away between them, Castiel is pulling off his t-shirt, skin pale and sickly enough that even in the gloom Victor can see it, as though Castiel has been left in the dark too long and grown to adapt. Victor nips the taut flesh of his abdomen, leans his head against him for a second to breath in deep, and Castiel fumbles in his haste to pull off Victor’s t-shirt. He’d taken off the Kevlar when he arrived back, stripped down out of the layers that were the only thing between him and a Croatoan bite, and Castiel seems to appreciate that, at any rate he’s silent as they yank their pants off fully. Better to go naked if an attack comes than have your legs tied.
“Do you want the light on?” he mumbles. He likes the dark, secret safeness of their touch, Cas likes the light as though being a real boy means he has to face up to every truth.
“Leave it off,” Cas says, and Victor gives a convulsive half thrust upwards against the empty air at the foreign strange heat in his voice. Cas has never sounded like this before, he thinks and a queer ache accompanies the thought, until it’s replaced by Castiel kissing him again, naked and warm pressed up against him, and Victor yanks him down, until they’re side by side on the bed, goosepimples rising in the cold air except where they touch. Castiel is like a furnace, heat pouring off him, and it takes time for Victor to realise that it’s not natural.
“You’re ill,” he says, should probably stop touching him if that’s the case. It’s too enticing though, dry burn of warmth against his own skin, he catches himself palming restlessly down the starkness of Castiel’s back, over and over again.
“Not ill,” Castiel says, and his voice drowns in the stillness between them, swallowed in the cold dry air, and the words are left unsaid. Victor doesn’t need to hear them to understand. Castiel is falling, tumbling at ever increasing speeds, his grace leeching from him so slowly, so swiftly. “This body,” Castiel murmurs anyway. “It burns.”
Victor has no words to give him in reply, just traces of sorrow in the quiet movement of his mouth, kisses imprinted on Castiel’s neck and face and shoulders. You teach me compassion he thinks and does not say. You teach me fear. A lesson learned too well already, hammered in deeper. He can feel himself hard, aching for the touch of Cas against him always, curls his own hand around the length of Cas’s dick and rocks slowly, drags his hand down and up again, in a rhythm that would be too slow for most men but that has Cas sighing quietly. Victor doesn’t know if he’s making this faster, if with every stroke of his hand, every kiss he sends Castiel tumbling further, bleeds him a little drier of what was once his. He doesn’t know and he can’t care not at this moment. He carries enough of a burden already.
They’ve done nothing but this- mutual handjobs and blowjobs- words and concepts that belong to the time before, that come together under the one word of closeness. He sometimes wonders, on the nights that Cas tries to talk to Dean, tries to get through that blank darkness, what it would be like to have more. To push deeper into Cas, anchor him from the inside out and shudders at the thought, then comes guiltily all over his fist. He doesn’t suggest it, since he has no doubt that Castiel would oblige. On rarer nights he wonders how it would feel to have Cas take him like that, splayed against the bed, eyes squeezed shut and he feels the molten heat of arousal quenched by the memory of Lilith and her crew taking what they pleased.
It doesn’t dissuade him from examining the concept in the privacy of his head, taking apart the images until he can see their bare bones twined with his darkened thoughts. Now though he contents himself with jerking off Cas, so slowly it frustrates even him and eventually he pushes up close and frots against him, dick against dick and Cas presses back, hand joining Victor’s around their cocks, the smallest movements registering, Cas’s hot damp breath on his mouth, his hand jerking them slowly together, eyes open even in the dark, then his hand slides between Victor’s legs, holds his balls for a second rolls them a little, slides fingers wet with pre-come against the small space between his balls and his asshole, and Victor jerks at the sensation, thrusts harder and sharper against Cas, hand trapped in between them working overtime at milking the sensation.
When Cas comes, it slicks the way between them easier, and Victor can slide against Cas’s stomach now, a little wet and slick easing the way between them so much easier, and he can’t hold out for long, too keyed up from the excursion earlier in the day, and the taste of Cas sealed permanently on him, and he comes, stuttering against Cas until he’s shaking in the dark. They lie like that for long minutes, until Victor has the presence of mind to wipe them down with a sock he’s now going to have wash by hand. Waste not, want not.
He holds up the covers, and Cas rolls underneath, flings a strong arm over him and Victor lets the suffocating warmth pen him in, then ducks over and fumbles through his jacket at the end of the bed. Tosses Cas the new pack of cigarettes. “Snagged them for you today,” he says, and tries not to imagine the subtle curl of smoke down Cas’s lungs, blackening them, his heart beating sluggishly. They'll never live that long he thinks.
"Ah," says Castiel, and he sounds surprised. "The traditional prison gift."
It takes Victor too long to realise it's a joke. "Is this a prison?" he asks. Realises how stupid that is. Of course this is a prison for Cas. He's trapped in human meat forever, glued to earth and utterly alone.
Cas doesn't answer for a long moment, just curls around Victor, cigarettes held loosely in one hand. “Addictions can be pleasant,” he says, and in it’s own way it’s an answer.
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no subject
Date: 2013-01-28 12:07 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-01-28 10:57 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-01-28 06:47 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-01-28 10:59 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-01-29 07:15 am (UTC)It's still got that ache to it, too. I love the little thing of Castiel not stubbing out his cigarettes, just abandoning them; there's a carelessness there that says a lot about how he is, these days. And Victor, putting them out behind him...
Gorgeous stuff.
no subject
Date: 2013-01-29 02:08 pm (UTC)