a/n: After a tremendously long hiatus, here's what I've got. I would apologize for my lack of consistency, but why apologize when I know it'll keep happening. It's short, sorry :(
"Just love me like you always have."
But, there's tension in his frame I'm not even sure he's aware of. Moments earlier, he sprang up from the bed,
terrified.
There are shadows in his face, desperation muddled with fear. Sam's desperate for normal, but we can't do normal yet. He's not ready for it, and neither am I. On the physical front, I'm overthinking every move I make. Paranoid I'll do something he dislikes, or set off a fragment of bad memory. I don't even want to let my boner brush against him, but he's chasing it with his hips.
I steel my nerve, as I think it'd be best to meet him in the middle. "You...you're sure?"
His hands tighten marginally on either side of my face, and he nods with a pleading, resolved expression. That he's having to
resolve himself
to do anything almost makes me refuse, but shutting him down completely could backfire. He might think of himself as damaged goods, that I'm no longer attracted to him. Obviously, the fully hard dick tenting my shorts should refute such bullshit, but he's hardly in his right mind. Marinating in worry and insecurity. A flat rejection could irreparably damage whatever confidence he's got left.
"You
have
to be honest with me, Sammy. Please, please fucking tell me if you don't like something, okay?"
"I swear."
"I won't fuck you, either."
He frowns, dropping his mouth as if to argue, but seems to think better of it. "...fine."
"Don't pout."
"I'm n--ah!"
I force my hands into action, easing them from his hips to the warmth of his inner thighs. Slightly damp from where he'd been cocooned and perspiring in his sleep, the skin of his legs pressed together. Sam accommodates the touch by spreading them wider. The muscle in his back still bunches with tension, but that doesn't necessarily spell discomfort. It could be anticipation or pleasure, I remind myself. He's flush and soft in my hands, and I have to resist clamping down. Squeezing, rolling the supple flesh between my knuckles.
Gentle, be
gentle, for fuck's sake.
Slowly, carefully flipping him onto his back in the space he'd been occupying earlier, I perch above him on hands and knees. His shirt rides up his stomach, and he's gripping the waistband of his shorts tightly. Thighs rubbing together, frizzy curls spilt across the pillow, searching for my face in the dark. It's starting to feel a lot like nervous, inexperienced newlywed sex.
Dropping my head, I drag my tongue across the skin bordering his waistband. He flinches, replacing his grip at my shoulders.
"Is this okay?"
"...yeah, 's good."
I hook my fingers into his waistband, tugging, and Sam obligingly pushes up on his heels. His chest bounces a little too quickly with curt breaths, but he seems otherwise fine. His dick is also operating at maximum capacity. Thickened, pink, and glossy where it smacks against his belly. I catch myself swallowing, because even through all the uncertainty and doubt, he makes my mouth fuckin'
water.
Miraculously, such recent trauma hasn't hindered him from maintaining an erection. Discarding his shorts in the ether, I shimmy down and prop his legs over my shoulders. The underside of his knees are feverish. Before continuing:
"--okay?"
He snaps, impatient, "fuck, yes! I said I'd tell you!"
"We're going at
my
pace. If you don't like it, I'll stop."
There's a frustrated groan, but no further complaints. It's hard to tell if he's forcing some of that eagerness, but I think most of it's genuine. Starting with the inside of his thighs, it gets easier to slow my stride. Knowing my dick won't be involved, there's nothing to rush towards. Long, dragging licks. Grazing with the flats of my teeth. Suctioning kisses. To savor and worship are privileges I sometimes take for granted, lost in my own frenzy. That vein of doubt keeps my head clear, and I'm able to catalog the electrifying stimuli coming at me from all five directions. The contrast of his skin under my hands versus the textured surface of my tongue, soft versus silky. His taste: the subtle saltiness all people excrete, but a richness unique to Sam and the products that cling to his crevices.
His scent is muddled by my saliva, and this close to his groin, it smells like nothing but sex. Visually, there's only the impression of his shape in the darkness cloaking the room, fineries lost in translation. The slice of sallow light from the bathroom turns him almost ghostlike, and all his tiny flinches and twitching motions blur together. I can feel his stomach trembling under my thumbs, thighs jumping around my ears, more than seeing any of it. I'm frustrated to miss out on his expression, but I can't bring myself to stop long enough to hit the lamp. Being somewhat hidden from scrutiny might be more comfortable for him anyway.
His pretty, sweet sounds broaden their range and grow in volume when I start working over the hot zones. Sucking one of his smooth balls into my mouth and swishing it back and forth like a jawbreaker, Sam's lower back spasms away from the bed. His nails dig into my scalp, fingers strangling fistfuls of hair, and an excited shudder zaps all the way to my tailbone.
"Mmngh! Dean, that's--!"
Good,
I hope. He might pop my head off with his thighs if I stop and ask now. Not that I want to stop, or even can. My dick feels like an overfilled water balloon smothered between my lower stomach and the bedspread, and it isn't long before whatever I'm doing is less fellatio, more bad table manners. Digging my face between the dough of his cheeks, mouthing at his hole until it softens from that stiff purse and gives under the spearhead of my tongue. Feeling his insides clench around the tip of my tongue blanks out my mind, as I can't help but imagine that very sensation encasing my cock. The only thing to shock me to my senses is the sudden screaming in my chest, my lungs withering from a prolonged lack of air. I hadn't noticed, but Sam's actively wrapped his legs around my head to keep it in place.
Once free from the tangle of limbs, I gasp, "try'na suffocate me?"
"No--! Just, keep...going,
please."
I don't miss the implication, where he wants things to 'go', but I...shouldn't. No,
won't.
I won't. Even if my balls feel three sizes too big and the veins winding my dick are on the verge of
popping, Jesus.
"You sure, baby?"
That time, it's just to get on his nerves. Teasing is normal, and while it undoubtedly pisses him off, it's also something he's craving. Sam lifts onto his elbows, scowling fiercely. His dark brows make a heavy 'v' over the catlike glint of his eyes. Waspish, he threatens violence with only my name,
"Dean."
That hardline tone works as intended, as bringing Sam to orgasm suddenly feels like a hallowed mission handed down by God. The most important duty of my life. I
love
when he bosses me around, and doing so means he's relatively comfortable. He isn't feeling pressured or forcing himself to proceed. Grinning, without announcement, I flatten my tongue to the base of his cock and sweep upwards. Sam's appreciative sigh lands squarely in my dick, stoking the hotbed in my gut. His broken, breathy exclamation of 'yes, yes--!' nearly flushes my conviction down the fuckin' pipes.
Playful tonguing quickly becomes an effort to house all of Sammy's dick in the clench of my throat. My fellating talents don't measure up to his, but what I lack in skill, I compensate with raw enthusiasm. Sensitive as he is, his body's like a snapped powerline writhing in the road. Thighs intermittently gripping my temples, waist twisting between my hands, fingers tangling in my hair, back jerking from the bed. Sam falling apart like this makes me feel powerful, proud, and
so fucking grateful.
He trusts me in this intimate, corporeal way so soon after it's been weaponized against him. I'm not stupid enough to think he's
fine
, or that the shadows he'll cast in coming days won't be a little darker and heavier.
But, I'm allowed to appreciate the moment.
He gets tense and skittish, attempting to rip away from the intense reaction catalyzing in his stomach. The tip of his cock scrapes salt into the back of my throat, and I'm determined to hold it there through his looming orgasm.
"Dean, Dean, wait--! I'm--! Fuck, fuck!"
He's like a bow about to snap on its target, strung up tightly around my head and neck. When he cums, I barely taste it, just a phlegmy thickness in my throat. His cock pulses against my windpipe, and Sam's scattered sob is a distant thing towards the headboard. If I wasn't a man of superior stamina, I'd have made a mess of the blankets. I almost wish that were the case, as I'm hard enough to spring a pained, Looney Tunes-esque tear. Rearing back on my heels, I crush my dick through the front of my shorts. If I don't apply
some kind
of pressure, I'll lose what little cool I've got left. Sam continues to shake and gasp through the aftermath, and he's like a pretty, pale provocation straight from Perdition.
In a move that's very nearly more than I can handle, he shimmies down the mattress and locks his forearms beneath his knees. He draws them towards his chest, completely exposing one of the only two holes I want to plug with my dick. Soft, smooth, pink,
wet. Jesus fucking Christ--
"Dean, come on..." He begs, raspy.
Whatever he thinks he can handle, he
can't.
"Bathroom--!" Barely an articulate human language, but I'm off the bed and cloistered behind the bathroom's door before either of us can process it. I distantly catch Sam's 'hey, wait!' before the door snatches on the latch. Ripping the shower's cold spigot, I shove into the stall immediately after water bursts from the head. I'm not unaccustomed to cold showers, but it's one of those experiences that's never not horrible at first. The icy spray is a blistering shock, and it burns for a long time before anything gets numb. I grit my teeth to keep from chattering, but no amount of straining stops the tremble.
Miserable as it is, the drastic measure works as intended. My head clears, my dick wilts. Putting my face directly in the brunt of the showerhead's blast, I spit against the water that tries to drown me. Goddamnit, that was
too close.
It doesn't matter how eager or willing he's pretending to be, or even if it's genuine. Consensual sex won't white-out what happened to him, and whether he wants to or not, he needs to work through it in slow, healthy ways. We both do. My dick might be capable of grand feats, but I can't/won't fuck the trauma out of him. I'd be the lowest of the low to take advantage of his desperation in that way, even if my body's operating on some serious conditioning.
I try to remind myself everything worked out as best as it possibly could, but
