cupid's chokehold

Posted originally on the Archive of Our Own at http://archiveofourown.org/works/23858473.

Rating: Explicit
Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply
Category: M/M
Fandom: Supernatural
Relationship: Dean Smith/Justin Smith
Characters: Dean Smith, Justin Smith
Additional Tags: Married Couple, Porn with Feelings, Bottom Dean Smith, Verse Justin
Smith, 'verse' is short for 'versatile' which means the character both
bottoms AND tops in this fic, Cock Cages, Sex Toys, Lace Panties
Language: English
Series: Part 13 of spn kink bingo 2020
Collections: SPN Kink Bingo 2020
Stats: Published: 2020-04-26 Words: 2,388 Chapters: 1/1
 cupid's chokehold
by hellhoundsprey

Summary

Justin’s still not finished falling in love, and it’s gonna be their five-year anniversary next
month.

2020 kink bingo square 11: caged/open back panties

Justin ain’t a man of many secrets.

He prefers to make things clear as early as possible. It’s only polite. Honesty is a rare value in
these times. He’s also rather quick to make up his mind.

Figured out, for example, back in kindergarten and after playing house for the first time,
dangling from his momma’s hand and informing her that, “I wanna be married someday,” and
she loved that, her single little gentleman aside from her three daughters and yet he didn’t
overcompensate, didn’t seem to grow up a brute, so she chirped, “Oh, sure, honey,” and he
didn’t mention it again per se (and why would he, only a child back then).

Justin’s also one of those inside-their-own-head-a-lot kinda guys. Prefers the quiet and the
orderly. Never cared much for sports except for the part when all those other boys around him
would strip down to hit the showers. Middle school answered a lot of questions.

Nobody batted an eye, not really, when Dean Smith joined them for that first of many
Thanksgivings—formally announced by Justin beforehand, of course. Biggest shock about
the entire ordeal probably had been Dean’s Cavalli, the Rolex so casually dangling from that
rich-boy wrist.

The Smiths had never cared much for formal wear outside of Sunday Mass. Couldn’t name a
brand with a knife to their throats, probably. And while Justin’s not the only queer feather in
his flock, he considers himself an entrepreneur when it comes to fashion, and life choices,
and in general.

How Dean ever chose him might have been a puzzle to his folks. How someone as
handsome, as successful and tasteful and dazzling would pick a scholarship-kid fresh outta
law school like their Justin. Their sweet little Justin, who couldn’t hurt a fly, couldn’t even
scowl at you—but, admittedly, was a bit off at times, maybe on the autism spectrum because
that’s such a common thing nowadays, isn’t it, and it would explain things, it would.

Justin’s folks don’t know everything about Justin. And that’s okay.

Justin’s head rises at the noises from down the corridor cutting through the peaceful silence
of the apartment—he likes to keep all doors open in favor of more light, more room.

“Babe?”

Justin hollers, “Office!” and feels himself smiling on instinct as he pushes his notes and
books away from himself. “Golly gosh,” he gasps to himself, a fleeting gaze at the clock,
“look at the time.”

Dean joins him before he’s finished clearing his desk for the day. Juggles dirty dishes and
three half-empty cups of tea as his husband welcome-kisses him, well-manicured hand on
Justin’s shoulder and Justin blushes awkward because he hasn’t showered, because his hair’s
probably disheveled from when he raked his hands through it the many dozen times today.

Dean always makes a point of looking—smelling—feeling—perfect.

“Welcome back.”

Dean asks, “You eat yet?” and it’s not an accusation, is soft and caring like the warm, warm
green of those eyes, the embrace of that half-a-grand cologne.

Justin’s still not finished falling in love, and it’s gonna be their five-year anniversary next
month. “I am very much famished for some dinner, Mr. Smith.”

“Excellent.” Another kiss on Justin’s mouth. “There’s a table waiting for us, Mr. Smith, so
put on something nice so I can show you off to the entire goddamn restaurant.”

Justin makes a happy noise and Dean cups his cheek for that, kisses him again, again, again.
Justin feels him smiling against his mouth.

Justin’s husband ponders, quietly, “Maybe the Sid Mashburn one, checked wool,” and
ducking away from that hand and that man to get himself ready is the hardest task Justin’s
done all day.

First emotion you get from looking at Dean Smith is: horror.

Because oh god. Oh god.

Life isn’t fair.

And oh, Jesus Christ, please look at me, notice me—or, better:

do not.

Do not see me. Do not look at me like the maggot I obviously am, next to you.

There’s a strictness to all of Dean Smith, from the back-combed hair to the polish of his
shoes. Lingers in the set of his overfull lips, the outside-tilt of the shells of his ears and his
legs; these imperfections that shouldn’t be worth obsessing over, but the Lord didn’t care and
somehow created him anyway.

Justin catches himself off-kilter, still. When he zooms out, forgets that they are in fact not one
person but two, that there is a separation, a ‘you’ and a ‘me’.

That Justin Smith is still Justin Smith. That Dean Smith (no relation, before) chose him,
specifically.

That Justin can stuff his entire hand down the back of those dress pants and Dean won’t kill
him for wearing out the fabric.

That there’s a ring on one of the fingers he’s got hooked up into this million-dollar CEO; that
that mouth quivers against Justin’s own as he gasps, Justin’s face secure in both of his
smooth-smooth hands, urges, “Fuck me,” and, “Fuck, please,” beautifully caught between
Justin and the wall.
Dean will throw back a flute of champagne if courtesy insists, but bourbon’s his one true
mistress. Makes him a different kind of man, unhinged and starved, and Justin wonders if
that’s what Justin himself is like when sober, around Dean.

A whimper for Justin tugging that leg tighter around his hip, grinding them together with
control he didn’t know he had until Dean. Couple of drinks in him as well and he feels those,
dwells in the heat and the fuzz, the numbness of his face.

He reprimands, “Watch the cussing,” with his tongue in that porn-mouth, but still begins the
long journey of maneuvering them into the bedroom.

(He likes to tell himself Dean’s language has bettered itself over the years, under his
influence.)

“Show me,” he sighs, his own ass and then back hitting the mattress, up on his elbows
because his husband’s a show in itself without trying.

And Lord, when he tries.

“Yeah?” says Dean, under his breath, strands of hair now finally coming loose and falling
into his eyes as his fingers work his pants open with unnecessary decadence. “You wanna
see, babe?”

Dean’s pants drop to his ankles and Justin nearly crosses himself, puts his hand between his
own legs instead.

“You like it?”

Flirted smirk; knowing bastard. Begins to pop the many buttons of his shirt as he turns
around, and Justin’s dick might still be trapped in his trousers but it sure tries to break its
chains.

He shudders, “Honey,” and Dean laughs at him, cruelly.

Dean reaches behind himself to paw at his backside. Feathers the tips of his fingers on the
far-out edges of lace, scalloped and black. Fingers along the subtle elastic throning those
dimples and Justin nearly passes out he’s scurrying out of his own slacks so fast.

More chuckles. “Thought so.”

“Shut the front door and come here, you,” and Dean doesn’t have to be told twice (of course).

Climbs him and straddles his lap and shucks out of his now-open shirt with his tongue in
Justin’s mouth. His turn to gasp when the insistence of Justin’s bare cock nearly ignores the
already-there plug; and Justin growls.

Grumbles, “Fudge berries,” without meaning it, not a rebuke in any-a way, shape or form,
since it’s so blessedly easy to retract the toy, toss it away, onto the floor, to guide himself in
there immediately.
A shared bliss; Dean’s hands in Justin’s hair and Justin smothers his face in that waxed-to-
perfection chest as they work his cock deeper up Dean’s guts with blessed, fluid movements.

Dean’s still a boy scout to this very day—always prepared.

Groans, lost, “Fuck,” with all of Justin clutched inside of him now, a steady, solid pulse and
the soft skin of his ass kisses Justin’s balls just like the lace grazes Justin’s thighs, rubs at his
happy trail.

Justin’s own pair sits snug, pulled just underneath his nuts and he gets one arm behind him,
puts the other back on that ass to rub where he’s grinding up into.

Lost in their rut and their kiss, he only ever notices Dean unbuttoning his shirt for him when
it’s already getting pushed down his arms.

A frenzy to get rid of the fabric; his shoes, his socks. He finds himself on his knees, on top
now, hips snapping relentlessly and Dean has the presence to peel his glasses off his face for
him.

Legs around him, caging him in—hands on his ass, egging him on, caressing the lace,
rubbing into his gash; all of it.

Again, “Honey,” and he gets a breathless, “Love you, too.”

A smile and a kiss before Justin rises to his knees anew, grabs Dean by the hips to lay into
him right.

Dean admitted that he had the bedroom soundproofed even prior to Justin, but those things
are in the past. Nobody but him here, now.

Love sounds from the bed, Dean’s body in two places, Justin’s mouth.

Their twenties have been behind them for a good while now, but a good marriage keeps you
young, they say.

A moment to catch his breath, and it’s so easy to break. To have Dean’s fingers dancing along
the sensitive back of his neck and to mouth at that nipple with his cock all buried and warm
and slick; to slur, “Need it.”

A knowing click of tongue.

Dean hums, “Just where you left it.”

Takes another while to dislodge himself from that Heaven, and he feels more drunk back on
his feet, staggers towards their loyal drawers. Justin considers the toy Dean clearly referred
to, but he ends up grabbing one of the new ones and a bottle of lube to go with it.

Working from home has its perks. Regarding their spending, maybe not so much. But Dean’s
not complained about Justin’s shopping so far.
Not even Dean’s cussing can wipe the grin from Justin’s face right now.

“Thought you’d like it,” he teases, back on the bed and slathering one of the two silicone
ends already.

Dean’s still all flushed face and heaving chest, legs splayed wide, uncaring, presenting the
grower-not-shower he’s locked away behind the laced panties and a good amount of stainless
steel.

Asks, generously, “You need some help with that?”

It’s Justin’s time to scoff, now.

Dean grins. “Fucking slut.”

“No such thing. I’m married.”

“Fucking slut, married to a fucking slut.”

Justin warns, “I was gonna give you one of these, y’know,” and Dean laughs, all angelic. Pets
at the baby-gape of his hole and Justin grumbles because he can’t reason with this.

Justin positions himself onto his back, the dildo in one hand and the other fingering what
must merely be a fraction of the amount Dean sat through dinner with up his ass.

A cocked eyebrow, when he cares to look.

“Sure you don’t need help?”

“You don’t have to.”

“Maybe I wanna,” says Dean, is already crawling between Justin’s legs.

Peels those panties further aside, doesn’t exactly wait for him to pull his fingers out to stuff
two of his own in there, along with his face.

“Oh gee. Oh, gosh.” Justin’s hands come up to cover his face. “You’re, I—I thought you
didn’t, uhm, I mean…”

“You didn’t ask,” berates Dean, just a quick breath before he dives back in and has Justin’s
cock drooling over his lower belly anew in no time.

They’re good at sex with each other. They discuss things and are open and all that, but maybe
because of that, Justin didn’t quite grasp the whole chastity thing when Dean brought it up.
Because what’s the point with them being married and free to do whatever? But Justin’s no
prude, so he nodded, sure, of course, if that’s what you want?

The double dildo was more of a nod towards their shared love for anal and an option for both
of them to have their cake and eat it, too, rather than a broad hint.
Honest.

Pressure against his now slightly less tense asshole. Justin’s skin crawls in that wicked way
edging on uncomfortable, of dirty-bad-wrong.

“You had dibs on the bigger one, yeah?” and Dean knows him too, too well.

The toy breaches him, doesn’t hesitate to push on, all guided by Dean’s gym-sculpted arm,
under the ministration of those hooded eyes, the absent lick of a lip.

Murmured, “There you go,” and Justin exhales too-tight, bites back a whimper.

It’s heartbreaking how familiar they are with each other. How soft Justin can be around Dean,
how secure he knows he is, how well-kept and loved and doted on and spoiled.

“Need it so deep, don’t you?” and Justin nods, mindlessly, eyes and dick so fucking wet and
there’s a flash of ego now, of how nice it would be to just lie back like this and let Dean fuck
him. “Keep these out of the way, would you?”

Justin’s fingertips find the lace Dean guides him towards, pulls them aside. Moans upon the
toy drawing back, pushing back in, further now.

“F—fiddlesticks.”

“Hurts?”

“Yeah,” and, “good,” unashamed but his throat pulls tight nevertheless, together with his
stomach, his guts. A deep moan—Dean picks up the pace.

“Still gonna need some inches for myself, though.”

“Yeah. Yes.” Justin gulps for air, for his own spit. “Get, uh, sh-sould we…?”

Dean answers the question by hauling Justin’s leg over his head to join the other, so that
Justin can gather his knees underneath himself, and that’s that.

His vision’s blurry even with this little distance but Justin watches between his legs
nevertheless—the slope of Dean’s body settling in right behind him, the added pressure on
the toy lodged deep inside of him forcing it even further now, the breathless little sounds
from his husband as he threads the available end of the toy inside himself.

Justin rocks back on it and Dean slurs, “God,” fist still quivering around the middle part and
Justin folds his hand over there, too, just for the leverage.

Doesn’t take much to push them so close their fists are sandwiched tight between them.

It’s—a lot. “Fuck, do it. Do it, baby, please.”

Dean is one heck of a pillow princess, if you let him.

And Justin’s just a good husband.
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