mickeym

Title: A Necklace Made of Need
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: NC-17
Words: ~700
Warnings/Spoilers: Breathplay
Summary: It's nights like tonight that the need rises up, a hunger so dark, so thick, there's no pushing it away.
A/N: Apparently my muse only comes out of hiding when I need to go to bed. Go figure. Anyway! Had a nice, long, eventful chat with

cormallen earlier tonight, in which I said something to the effect of, "breathplay, it's the new black in kink, for fandom". She assured me that wasn't the case at all, and there wasn't enough of it, and so basically, I'm blaming this on her. Thanks, Alex. :P Hope y'all enjoy :)

It explodes up out of you every so often, no warning, just bam, the need to remind him – remind both of you – who he is. Who he belongs to.

He's been yours since the night he was put into your arms. You sold your soul for him; he gave it back to you.

It's nights like tonight that the need rises up, a hunger so dark, so thick, there's no pushing it away. The only thing you can do is give in to it, let it roll through you until it consumes both of you.

Sam doesn't give in easily, even when it's something he wants, too. You always see the shadows of doubt, of guilt, lurking there behind his eyes. Shading his smiles. The only time those shadows and shades disappear is when you've fucked him senseless, sweat and come streaking both your bodies. Then his smiles are nothing but joy, relief; his eyes showing love and hunger, need for you. For what you'll give him.

He rides you easily, body twisting, turning, moving so smoothly above yours that sometimes you lose yourself in watching him. Miles of sleek, tanned skin with muscles rippling beneath. You stroke all that skin, fingers touching, teasing, learning him. Flat nipples harden beneath your fingertips when you rub over them; hard little points begging for more. You pinch and pull on them until Sam writhes on you, then you pull and twist them some more.

His throat beckons, and you lean in, biting down and sucking heat to the surface, holding it until he whimpers for you. You do it again, and a third time, leaving bruises that bloom red-purple. Sam shudders when you press your fingertips into them, digging in to feel the heat, the life rushing just beneath the surface.

"Harder," he whispers, throat moving against your fingers.

You smile and stroke them lightly, watching as he narrows his eyes. He opens his mouth to say it again and you press harder, closing your fingers around his throat. Each stutter of breath in and out makes the skin ripple against your hands, palms pressing inward.

"Like that?" You ask, but you already know; see the answer in his eyes, wild and hot, desperate. Your cock throbs inside him, pounding in time with his pulse beneath your hands. Always in synch, but especially now, needing and wanting the same thing.

Sam coughs once, a broken-off sound, abortive attempt to swallow, and you squeeze a little tighter. He can still breathe, but he has to work for it, now. His hands on your chest mirror yours on his throat, and you know you'll have matching bruises come morning, in the shape of crescent moons, where his fingernails cut into your skin.

"Jerk yourself off," you tell him, caressing his pulse point with your thumbs. Carotid artery, you think, a pressure point to bring unconsciousness. "Stroke your dick for me, Sammy. Lemme see you come."

He shudders again, body moving sinuously, effortlessly as he works himself. You watch his face carefully, feel the way his muscle slowly tense, orgasm so, so close now. You're barely holding on, yourself, a hair's breadth away from driving up and up and up into his body until you spill hot and thick inside him.

He pants your name, trembling over you, and you squeeze harder, tighter, imagining the bruises he'll have in the morning. Sam whines, a high, needy sound, and clenches around your dick, body shaking as he comes, thick spatters of white striping his stomach and your chest. You squeeze again and watch his eyes roll back as he gives in, lets go, takes it all. He tightens around you again, shaking and quivering, and pleasure boils up inside you, searing you until nothing else exists but that moment.

You come back to yourself feeling utterly relaxed, completely spent. Sam's lax against you, on you, and you rub his throat gently, kissing him until he draws in a long, shaky breath and kisses you back.

"Gonna be sore tomorrow," you tell him, licking at his mouth, teasing with little nips and soothing laps of your tongue.

"Worth it," he says hoarsely, and lifts one of your hands up. He brings it up to his throat and you rest it there, fingers loosely fitted, lightly touching.

~fin~