Fic: Spread (Sam/Dean, NC-17)
I wrote this one on my iPhone on the bus to work, like a boss. *\o/* Some old lady kept looking at my screen. I hope she enjoyed it.
Fic: Spread
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: NC-17
Words: ~700
Prompt/Summary: Originally here, for the prompt: Sam's perfectly happy to let Dean sit on his face as he rims him for hours. It's so fucking sexy how much Dean gets off on it, his hands clenching the headboard as he shudders. So...rimming porn.
A year ago, Dean wouldn't have allowed this. The thought makes Sam laugh, open-mouthed and damp against Dean's hole, because -- well. That little trill of sound is enough to make Dean torque his hips and cry out, because he loves this. He really, really fucking loves it, and the full-body, helpless way in which this manifests is enough to set Sam's blood thundering through him in urgent, hot-cold pulses, wanting more. Wanting to hear the high, keening sounds Dean makes when Sam gets his tongue past that tight ring of muscle and into his body; wanting to feel the way his back arches, thighs splaying sluttily wide as he thrusts himself down against Sam's face. In plain speech, Dean's a dirty fucking whore for this, and that's quickly made it Sam's favourite thing.
Dean's hands are clenched, white-knuckled, on the headboard, a death-grip that holds him upright even while it slams iron into plaster with every ragged piston of his hips. They've been at this forever, Dean panting and twisting and trying to fuck himself on Sam's tongue, and he's sweat-damp with it, the small of his back, his hipbones slipping in Sam's grip. Dean's whining for it, now, trying to get closer, and when Sam palms his thighs to pull them wider, pull him down, he finds them sweat-slick too, the long muscles jumping with exertion.
Fuck, Dean. Sam still can't get over it, his gun-toting, whisky-swilling big brother falling apart so entirely for this, Sam's thumbs spreading him wide and Sam's tongue in his ass. It's filthy-hot and incredible, and all Sam can think as he wraps a hand around Dean's thigh to haul him closer is that he's drunk on it, for it, wants to fuck Dean with his fingers and eat him out like a girl until Dean doesn't even know his own name.
Dean seems to be pretty much down with this plan. At least, that's what Sam's getting from the sounds he's making, the way his dick slaps wetly against his stomach with every hard thrust down. Sam pumps his own hips up, fucking against nothing, and Dean all-out wails as Sam gets his thumbs inside of him, pulling him open for Sam's mouth. The violent jerk of his body is like electric shock, and the next thing Sam knows, there's a string of precome drooling down from Dean's cock, a hot wet touch against Sam's temple, and that's -- fuck.
"Sam," Dean pants, the word wrenched out of him, and God, his fucking voice. Sex-raw, like it's been dragged roughly over hot coals. Dean's usually pretty vocal in bed, but when they do this, Sam's name is about the most he can manage, and only then when he's desperate. He's shifting faster, now, hips making little figure eights like he's trying to screw himself down onto Sam's tongue, get him deeper. His dick blurts another pulse of slick; he wants to come, Sam knows. He wants to come, and two fingers will do it, one touch to his dick.
Pity for Dean, then, that Sam's happy where he is, cock and balls one tight, thumping ache as he sucks at Dean's rim, tongues between his thumbs and as far inside as he can get. Like this, with his own spit and Dean's precome and Dean's sweat all over his face; with Dean cursing and clenching and rocking above him, Sam is in total control. He can make Dean come, come harder than a fucking freight train without a touch to his dick, and he will -- but not yet.
"Fuck, Sam," Dean hisses, breathless, and Sam would take pity if it wasn't so fucking hot. He lets one hand slip away from Dean to palm his own cock briefly, smearing slick down the shaft, and moans against Dean's hole, savours Dean's responsive cry.
Sam's in no hurry to finish this. They have all night, after all.
Fic: Spread
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: NC-17
Words: ~700
Prompt/Summary: Originally here, for the prompt: Sam's perfectly happy to let Dean sit on his face as he rims him for hours. It's so fucking sexy how much Dean gets off on it, his hands clenching the headboard as he shudders. So...rimming porn.
A year ago, Dean wouldn't have allowed this. The thought makes Sam laugh, open-mouthed and damp against Dean's hole, because -- well. That little trill of sound is enough to make Dean torque his hips and cry out, because he loves this. He really, really fucking loves it, and the full-body, helpless way in which this manifests is enough to set Sam's blood thundering through him in urgent, hot-cold pulses, wanting more. Wanting to hear the high, keening sounds Dean makes when Sam gets his tongue past that tight ring of muscle and into his body; wanting to feel the way his back arches, thighs splaying sluttily wide as he thrusts himself down against Sam's face. In plain speech, Dean's a dirty fucking whore for this, and that's quickly made it Sam's favourite thing.
Dean's hands are clenched, white-knuckled, on the headboard, a death-grip that holds him upright even while it slams iron into plaster with every ragged piston of his hips. They've been at this forever, Dean panting and twisting and trying to fuck himself on Sam's tongue, and he's sweat-damp with it, the small of his back, his hipbones slipping in Sam's grip. Dean's whining for it, now, trying to get closer, and when Sam palms his thighs to pull them wider, pull him down, he finds them sweat-slick too, the long muscles jumping with exertion.
Fuck, Dean. Sam still can't get over it, his gun-toting, whisky-swilling big brother falling apart so entirely for this, Sam's thumbs spreading him wide and Sam's tongue in his ass. It's filthy-hot and incredible, and all Sam can think as he wraps a hand around Dean's thigh to haul him closer is that he's drunk on it, for it, wants to fuck Dean with his fingers and eat him out like a girl until Dean doesn't even know his own name.
Dean seems to be pretty much down with this plan. At least, that's what Sam's getting from the sounds he's making, the way his dick slaps wetly against his stomach with every hard thrust down. Sam pumps his own hips up, fucking against nothing, and Dean all-out wails as Sam gets his thumbs inside of him, pulling him open for Sam's mouth. The violent jerk of his body is like electric shock, and the next thing Sam knows, there's a string of precome drooling down from Dean's cock, a hot wet touch against Sam's temple, and that's -- fuck.
"Sam," Dean pants, the word wrenched out of him, and God, his fucking voice. Sex-raw, like it's been dragged roughly over hot coals. Dean's usually pretty vocal in bed, but when they do this, Sam's name is about the most he can manage, and only then when he's desperate. He's shifting faster, now, hips making little figure eights like he's trying to screw himself down onto Sam's tongue, get him deeper. His dick blurts another pulse of slick; he wants to come, Sam knows. He wants to come, and two fingers will do it, one touch to his dick.
Pity for Dean, then, that Sam's happy where he is, cock and balls one tight, thumping ache as he sucks at Dean's rim, tongues between his thumbs and as far inside as he can get. Like this, with his own spit and Dean's precome and Dean's sweat all over his face; with Dean cursing and clenching and rocking above him, Sam is in total control. He can make Dean come, come harder than a fucking freight train without a touch to his dick, and he will -- but not yet.
"Fuck, Sam," Dean hisses, breathless, and Sam would take pity if it wasn't so fucking hot. He lets one hand slip away from Dean to palm his own cock briefly, smearing slick down the shaft, and moans against Dean's hole, savours Dean's responsive cry.
Sam's in no hurry to finish this. They have all night, after all.