Once a Nerd Ch. 10

Unintentionally, I made Dean's modest wish come true.

After popping the plug out of my sore, sensitive ass, it was the barest of bare minimum clean-up efforts. Wiping the excess moisture from my lower body, halfheartedly scrubbing the mess from the sheet, I collapsed in bed with heavy-hung lids, forgetting to end the call. Dean was performing his own lacking clean-up, so it was quiet on the other side of the phone save for some soft scuffling. Without bothering to check the logs, I know he didn't end it either. Come morning, my phone was dead. The neglected device never made it to the charger.

Spent as I was, late as I was up, I didn't expect to wake any later than eleven. There's persistent knocking at the front door as early as nine. Coming to consciousness and recognizing the sound for what it is, I groan. It's Sunday, and Mom's fond of overpriced brunch. She has a key, but she respects my privacy enough to not let herself in. Bless her.

Heaving out of bed, I alert her in a crackling, barely-awake shout: "—coming!"

Stuffing myself into a T-shirt and cotton shorts from the night before, I drag my feet through the apartment. Like anyone, I appreciate those lazy minutes rotting in bed after first rousing. It's a brutal thing to have to be up and about seconds after opening my eyes, especially on a Sunday. Unlocking the door, vision still a little fuzzed, I swing it open: "Mom, it's only—"

Instead of my mother's dolled-up face, I'm talking to a chest.

Dean's chest.

He's...wearing the necklace I gifted him.

Nothing in the world could've zapped my brain with clarity or cleared the sleepy cobwebs from my body faster: not a bump of cocaine, not 300mgs of concentrated caffeine in a can, not even my deceased father playing Ghost of Christmas Past. My heart thunders, and I flinch back. Whipping my face up, he's grinning down at me like his presence is neither strange nor unannounced. Then, he's coming closer, and his arms are scoops around my ribs. He lifts me so my feet are floating useless above the floor, steps into my apartment like he's every right to do so, and kicks the door closed behind him. I have no choice but to cling at his shoulders, otherwise I'd be hung in his grip like harpooned prey.

"Surprise." He murmurs against my throat, and it's terrifying how immediately my body's willing to just...melt for him. Fight it, Sam, fight it! I set to wriggling in his arms, knocking my fist against his shoulder, but he doesn't take the hint.

"Nngh, Dean! What—what the fuck are you doing here?! Put me down, you big bastard!"

"Mmm, I will, just a second. Your hair's gotten longer, I like it."

That's all it takes for me to give in to him. In my case, absence most certainly makes the heart grow fonder. Sighing, I tighten my arms around his neck and bring my legs up to do the same at his waist, crushing my thighs around his hips. He's strong enough to support me, and fuck, that's...hot. His hands relocate to my ass for a better grip, hefting me up with a little bounce, and that's even hotter. Criminally so. He showered this morning. While his hair is soft and dry where it teases my cheek, it smells strongly of his preferred brand of shampoo. His skin is plush and clean atop hard muscle, and I reacquaint myself with his heady, masculine scent. It's going straight to my head.

"Why do you know where I live?" I grumble against his clavicle.

"You know where I live, it's only fair."

"That's not an answer, and I technically don't. I know you're in the dorms, not which room specifically."

He clenches around my ass, to the point I can feel each finger individually. I'm surprised he's not left permanent fingerprints all over my body by now, with how tightly he grabs and squeezes. "It'd be easy to find out though."

"You have assignments to do—"

"I brought my shit."

Sure enough, he's got a backpack slung across his shoulder. I pull back to look at him, and he responds in kind. "And you're actually going to do it? Here? With me?"

He sniffs, feigning offense. "What are you implying, Sammy? I won't be able to pry you off my cock long enough to get any work done?"

"That's—! You! You're the one!" I defend ineloquently, sputtering.

"Here's what I'm thinking." He starts, as if I'd not said anything at all. "We fuck real quick. Go out for breakfast, because I know I just woke you up. Come back, fuck again. Then, you can help me with my assignments, like the good ol' days. Then, we fuck some more."

"That's...ninety percent fucking."

"Nah, I've got at least twenty percent worth of work to do. Besides, you complainin'? You were so horny last night, you were out of your fuckin' mind. Blue balls looks so good on you."

It's all too true for me to convincingly defend against. I was out of my mind, not that I expected him to catch me in the middle of it. "I can't be absent tomorrow, Dean, seriously."

"God, I didn't come to bust your kneecaps open."

"No, no, just break my spine in three places."

He gets that endearing, cheeky smile, peppering soft kisses to the underside of my jaw. "I'll be more than happy to push your wheelchair around for the rest of my life, baby."

"...put me down."

Huffing like I've asked for some great, burdensome task, he does. I'm horrified to find I'm already missing the attention, the blatant babying. A thirty-year old man shouldn't want to be scooped up and carried around like a child, but it felt so, so good being held against him after all this time. I'm left to wonder which one of us is taking this separation the hardest. To create some distance, I retreat to the kitchen with the excuse of making coffee. Dean drops his bag on one of the living room's armchairs, and he's swinging his head about like there's secrets and wonders to be found in the corners of my apartment.

"Can I look around?"

"You mean snoop? Knock yourself out."

Once he's out of sight, down the hall, I let myself hunch against the counter. I can't get my heart to slow, nor the warmth to leave my face. My hands are shaking. I feel just like a kid with a deep-seated crush, that constant tickle of giddiness. It's uncomfortable to feel this way, but I can control it no more than I can alter the sun's path across the sky. It's stupid, as we've spent a lot of intimate time together. He's made an unsightly mess out of me more times than I can count, yet I'm here almost panicking. His showing up might be unexpected, but I didn't think I'd have such a severe reaction when the time came. I'm...nervous, like there's a goddamn tiger loose in my home. Worse, a beast I want to be eaten by.

I want him to make a move, because I'm too fucking scared to do it.

"Nice place."

I jump, biting off a startled sound.

He wasn't gone long enough for me to even think about collecting myself. I can't bring myself to turn, to look at him, because he'll know. He'll see it all over my face. Shit, he reads me too well, I'm probably advertising it in neon across my back.

I hear him huff something that might be a laugh, though not because anything's funny. It's more incredulous, like he can't believe what he's seeing. Blood roars in my ears like I'm standing under a waterfall, and I feel the vibration of his steps more than hear them. When his chest makes firm, flush contact with my back, a terrible, horrible noise comes out of me: weak and breathless. His hands come around to grip the edge of the counter, and he leans forward, pressing me against it. He's wearing jeans, but the stiffness of his cock makes itself known against my lower back. I arch into it without meaning to.

His nose and mouth rest at the nest of curls behind my ear, and he drags them down the slope of my jaw. For how flushed I am, it must feel like a fever against his lips.

"If I didn't know any better, I'd think you were scared of me. But, that's not it, huh?"

His left hand comes up to smooth over my brow, flattening my fringe across my scalp and away from my face. The pressure forces my head against his breast, and the sudden eye-contact nearly kills me. Just like over FaceTime less than twelve hours ago, his pupils have spread like ink, swallowing up most color from his eyes. It's a nonverbal threat.

"You know what you look like right now, Sam?"

His body's like a brick wall against mine. The pressure is smothering, yet intoxicating. It feels both secure and dangerous. I'm so tightly strung. I can't relax. I'm not sure what he's seeing in my face, but I'm humiliated for him to have seen it at all. Blood is sizzling in my cheeks, my brows are pinched. Even now, I can't respond, so my mouth wobbles mutely in a line. If eyes are windows to the soul, I don't want to imagine what's reflected in mine now—probably how deeply he's fucked me up. He tells me anyway, and my ears actually burn.

"Like you're fuckin' starving for it. Has anyone else seen this face on you, Sammy? They'd know exactly what you want. With how you're acting right now, it's hard to believe you've gone this long without a flesh and blood cock stuffing your holes."

I have no idea what possesses me to say it, but I snap a scowl at him: "Who says I haven't?"

Behind me, close as we are, I'm very aware of any softness and fluidity zapping out of him. He's suddenly stonelike and statue-still. His eyebrows shoot up, and his mouth drops around a baffled laugh. My chest clenches with fear. "I guess we've got all day to figure it out, huh?"

Oh, shit.

"D-Dean, wait, I didn't—!"

I'm ripped around, then his hands are weighted brands crushing me to my knees. He replaces his hands at the counter's edge, an indication that everything to proceed is up to me. Even through the thick denim of well-made jeans, his cock makes a large, visible imprint snaking his upper thigh. I'm reeling from the spontaneous manifestation of fantasies I was so recently reveling in, as well as the trepidation of attempting to bring them to life. Dean's cock isn't one you can just grease down your esophagus, not unless you're a full-time carnie swallowing wacky things for a living. Horny I might be, but I'm not a miracle worker.

Right now, Dean's expecting nothing less.

"Do the best you can, Sam. I'm sure you get it."

Oh, fucking shit.

I attempt to squeeze the tremble out of my fingers by making quick, tight fists before reaching for the shiny button pinning the hem together. It slips through the fabric, and the zipper snicks through a line of teeth. Catching empty belt-loops, I tug until his pants come over his thighs. His cock jumps out like it's fucking spring-loaded, and while it doesn't smack me in the face, the rich waft of his arousal does. Naturally, his scent is concentrated here. It smells of soap, sweat, and Dean. Everyone has their own, unique fragrance, just a mixture of their bodily oils and secretions. Skin smells like skin, but I'd swear on it, Dean's is the raw essence of man.

From a visual perspective, I'm terrified to realize it's...bigger than I remember. How in God's name did I ever fit this thing down my throat without a potent relaxant? My uvula tingles, mocking me with an inevitable reflex. I'm salivating, but I resist swallowing. I'll need all the excess moisture I can get. Leaning forward, I start at the smooth base, flattening my tongue to the underside of his blistering-hot flesh. Overhead, Dean lets out a short hiss, like a kettle just beginning to boil. The countertop creaks under the pressure of his grip. His inability to stay cool and collected grants me confidence, as I want as much of an unseemly reaction as I can get.

Mouthing all around the base, I drag my tongue in long strokes towards the angry, drooling head, gently scraping the flare with my teeth. Dean's abs are flexing, twitching, and I smooth my thumb down that bulging vein descending his lower stomach. It's almost funny how seriously I'm taking the overall process, but there's a formula to reduce a man's brains to useless mush. Dean can get stupid just like the rest of them, and it's the best way to make him forget about my earlier comment. Seriously, what the fuck was I thinking? Maybe...that I want him to hatefuck me, just a little. I was quick to regret it, however.

I really can't be absent.

Satisfied with my prelude, I finally suck the tip of his cock fully into my mouth and work it over like liquid gold will spill out: vacuum-like suction, digging the tip of my tongue into his slit, careful nips. I can tell he's withholding himself from slamming his hips forward, but that dam is sure to collapse soon. Relaxing my throat, rerouting any incoming breath through my nose, I begin the tedious process of taking him in inch at a time. God, does it feel like a thousand inches. I'm as much the cockwhore as he accuses me of, at least for him, because it's frighteningly easy to get lost in it. My entire body is flushed and hot, dick dampening the front of my shorts, hole twitching with a decided emptiness. Having Dean's rigid, unyielding cock stretch my throat to tomorrow's soreness feels so fucking good.

I want him to lose it, I want him to fuck my face like it's little more than another dumping ground at his disposal. To get that reaction, I let myself choke and drool. I let myself become a filthy fucking mess around his dick. I literally got off to such a fantasy just last night, ass full of overpriced silicone. Once I'm about halfway to the finish line, more genuinely gagging than for show, he brings his hands from the counter to lace through the mused hair at the back of my head.

"I know...you were tryin' to rile me up, Sammy, but so help me fucking God, if anyone else sees you like this—" He cuts himself off with a jagged, breathy laugh, before cramming the rest of his cock halfway to my stomach.

I suffer a bodily flinch. Choking in earnest, but there's no room for the sound to get out. My eyes roll into the back of their sockets, nose crushed against his pelvic bone. Reactionary tears wet my cheeks. My jaw aches like it's about to snap off my face. He holds my head in place, and I know better than to try and dislodge him or pull back. Even if I wanted to, which I don't. It feels like there's a pipe in my throat, and I'm delirious enough to think I'd draw quite the crowd in a circus. It's so slick between my thighs, I'm not entirely sure I haven't already cum on myself. He grinds himself against my face, rubbing his cock against the inner walls of my esophagus.

My gag reflex teases a violent response if he doesn't pull out, unless I black out from lack of airflow first.

Dean might be vindictive, but he isn't a monster. Probably. He can read my limits as well as anything else about me, and begins a painstakingly slow extrication from my abused throat. "You're too goddamn good at this. It almost makes me nervous." He scoffs, but his voice is tight with restraint.

I gasp desperately for a breath as soon as my airway is free of obstruction, spiraling myself into a hacking fit. Collapsing against the cabinets, my voice is shredded: "Mm, fuck—!"

"That's the idea, isn't it?"

"—heuk! Ah, wait, wait, Dean—nngh!"

Like my weight is worth a sack of bubbles, he lifts me from the ground, turns me towards the counter, and bends me over its edge. His left hand is a clamp at my nape to keep my cheek sealed to the laminate, fingers digging into the sides of my windpipe. Being ragdolled about should not make my insides melt, but by God. His right hand shoves between my thighs, pushing underneath the fabric of my shorts.

"Wait for what?" He breathes a deprecating laugh. "You're soaked, Sammy. Wetter than a fuckin' girl over having your throat fucked. We don't even need lube."

Sure enough, he's able to work three of his long, thick fingers inside with shocking ease. While the elastic muscle had tightened up from the night before, it's still soft and willing to give. Dean's breathing curses through his teeth, and if I could see what sort of face he's making, I think I'd lose more of my mind than I already have. His voice and body language both express intense relief and a struggle to hold back, someone who's desperately trying to keep themselves in check in front of something they've dearly missed and deeply crave.

It puts me at ease to know I'm not the only one.

He stretches me more thoroughly than I'd ever do for myself, last night being a great example. When it's finally, finally time for the real thing, my guts are already strung up in hot knots. We've had sex so many times, but the intensity of my anticipation hasn't waned in the slightest. With his right hand still firm on the back of my neck, he wide-grips my cheek and spreads it with the pinch of a thumb. His cock is hard enough that no assistance is necessary in lining it up. When the head pops through, I flinch against the counter.

"Hah, fucking Christ, that's it." Dean groans long and low from the back of his throat. "You have no idea how...badly I've missed it, watching you swallow my cock like this. Drivin' me crazy, Sam—"

Flush spreads across my back like a rash, and Dean hikes my shirt up towards my shoulders. His grip is replaced at my waist, and I'm going insane with how slowly he's plugging in. He's got so much cock, it feels like it'll be ten years gone at this rate. But, if I ask for it to be harder, faster, I'm sure to regret it. He's barely keeping it together as is. I sink my teeth through the back of my wrist, hips twitching to keep from shoving back onto him. God, instead of a measly month and a half, it feels like years have passed since I've felt this. When his groin seals to my ass, I let out a threadbare sigh and push back for more depth. Like my bowels aren't already stretched past the bounds of comfort. His cock is throbbing, pulse pounding behind my belly button.

What the fuck has he done to me...?

"Fuck." He murmurs, sliding out just as painstakingly slow. My insides catch and drag, and I whimper into the skin of my bruised wrist, biting harder. I'll be wearing permanent dental records before long. The tedious pace continues for several thrusts, and it becomes apparent he won't pick it up until I ask. His hand smooths up my back, thumbs rolling an impromptu massage along the sides of my spine. It's not enough for either of us, but amazingly, my patience frays sooner than his.

"Dean, please, a little...harder—" I gasp.

"All you had to do was ask, baby."

As predicted, an hour later, I'm made of about seventy percent regret. My body aches like it's the first time we had sex, when he fucked me relentlessly all through the night. "Harder, you bastard." I grumble, slumped into the cool, plastic wall of the shower stall. With generous drizzles of lightly-scented gel, Dean digs his thumbs into the divots of my lower back.

"Ah, I really am sorry, Sammy." To his benefit, he sounds appropriately chagrined.

He fucked me so hard against that counter, my hip bones are purple.

"Hah, stop apologizing. It's an occupational hazard. It's not like..." I drop my head, hot in the face. "It's not like I didn't like it."

"Sam..." He groans. "...don't say shit like that, please. I'm fuckin' trying here." His refreshed erection is a daunting threat against my ass.

"Down, boy." I tease against my better judgment, grinding back into him as punishment. "Hngh—! Hey!"

Using all of his considerable weight, he crushes me against the shower's wall. The jettison of water spurting from the head is hot enough to have steam lifting around us, but Dean somehow feels like the greatest source of heat in this compact space. I can feel the undulation of his muscle intimately, the scrape of stubble where golden hair is growing back in, the slide of his mouth across my shoulders, throat, and face. My chest aches at the closeness between us, and I can't help but deepen it. Reaching back, I lace my fingers through his sopping hair and turn my face.