The familiar ice has crept in behind Michael’s eyes and his fingers tighten around Adam’s shoulder.
“Who did this to you?” This time when Michael asks, his tone brims with barely restrained anger, and Adam gasps when Michael squeezes his arms. “Did you ask for it?”
“You weren’t here,” Adam murmurs, voice tight, distracted by Michael’s grip. It might leave new bruises in his skin. Michael had never held him like this before and it was confusing: part of him was scared, but the larger part of him was weak with relief that Michael was touching him at all. He hated himself for even thinking that.
“I wasn’t here? And so you let someone do this to you?” When Adam only swallows through the lump in his throat, Michael pushes him back against the counter to look at him as though searching for further faults. “Did you let them touch you?”
Hands grip his hips, palm his lower ribs through his shirt, and when Michael takes his shoulder, crushing Adam against the counter top with his tall frame, Adam’s arm swings out in shock and the porcelain bowls crash to the floor. Michael just nuzzles his ear in a rough mockery of affection, and Adam whimpers at the hand that pushes down his back.
“Did you tell them you’re mine?” Michael growls and Adam flinches when the kiss to his cheek is sharpened with teeth scraping along his jaw.
Once upon a time that might have been hot. But now he’s stranded at low tide somewhere between livid and terrified.
“Michael.” Adam trembles when Michael only winds himself tighter around him, warm and suffocating. Adam tries to reason. “You don’t want me anymore.”
Michael’s kiss is rough and bruising possession. Adam whimpers at the fingers that tug in his hair and he’s gasping when Michael finally releases his mouth, teeth tugging at his lower lip.
“Did you tell them you’re mine?” Michael demands again, and Adam looks down when he realises Michael’s hands are working Adam’s pants open.
Adam shakes his head. No, this isn’t – Michael doesn’t –
“But you don’t want me.” Adam doesn’t understand. He just wants to understand.
He doesn’t fight when Michael kisses him again, a gesture that feels like it’s designed to make him shut up. Adam opens to it, though he feels like he’s standing on quicksand and his heart hammers with the knowledge that he’s sinking, but then Michael’s hands steady him on his hips, and the kiss tilts from a violent domination into something halting and curious.
One of the drawers opens and shuts beside them and Adam holds on with arms wrapped around Michael’s neck as slicked fingers work between his thighs.
He groans when Michael breaches him and hides his face in Michael’s neck.
“You can tell me,” he pants and tries to relax, spreading his legs further when another of Michael’s fingers circles his rim, “I’ve known for a while. Just be straight with me or I can’t promise I won’t hate you.”
Michael steps back far enough to look into his face and Adam thinks he looks surprised. If his focus wasn’t clouded with sensation of the burn and sweet ache sending shivers up his spine, he might have even guessed that Michael’s expression was hurt.
“You don’t hate me, Adam.” Michael states it like it’s a fact Adam might have forgotten in his recent hell, but it hovers in doubt at the end.
“God.” Adam laughs wetly, catching on the sob that rises too fast for him to swallow. “I think I do.”
Michael’s expression twists and Adam goes weak when his fingers withdraw. Michael catches him before his knees crumble, and holds him bodily against the counter, chest-to-chest.
“No, you don’t.” There’s a strangled quality to Michael’s voice and Adam wonders if Michael is trying to convince Adam or himself. “You don’t hate me, Adam. You don’t hate me. You don’t hate me.”
Adam’s senses are overwhelmed by the lingering traces of Michael’s cologne and sweat when Michael buries his face in Adam’s neck; scents that he had almost forgotten. Adam laughs, but he still tilts his hips up when Michael’s hands slide down to massage and part his cheeks.
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regna
Supernatural, Michael/Adam, NC-17 (power issues, begging, biting) - 2/3
Date: 2011-11-01 03:11 pm (UTC)“Who did this to you?” This time when Michael asks, his tone brims with barely restrained anger, and Adam gasps when Michael squeezes his arms. “Did you ask for it?”
“You weren’t here,” Adam murmurs, voice tight, distracted by Michael’s grip. It might leave new bruises in his skin. Michael had never held him like this before and it was confusing: part of him was scared, but the larger part of him was weak with relief that Michael was touching him at all. He hated himself for even thinking that.
“I wasn’t here? And so you let someone do this to you?” When Adam only swallows through the lump in his throat, Michael pushes him back against the counter to look at him as though searching for further faults. “Did you let them touch you?”
Hands grip his hips, palm his lower ribs through his shirt, and when Michael takes his shoulder, crushing Adam against the counter top with his tall frame, Adam’s arm swings out in shock and the porcelain bowls crash to the floor. Michael just nuzzles his ear in a rough mockery of affection, and Adam whimpers at the hand that pushes down his back.
“Did you tell them you’re mine?” Michael growls and Adam flinches when the kiss to his cheek is sharpened with teeth scraping along his jaw.
Once upon a time that might have been hot. But now he’s stranded at low tide somewhere between livid and terrified.
“Michael.” Adam trembles when Michael only winds himself tighter around him, warm and suffocating. Adam tries to reason. “You don’t want me anymore.”
Michael’s kiss is rough and bruising possession. Adam whimpers at the fingers that tug in his hair and he’s gasping when Michael finally releases his mouth, teeth tugging at his lower lip.
“Did you tell them you’re mine?” Michael demands again, and Adam looks down when he realises Michael’s hands are working Adam’s pants open.
Adam shakes his head. No, this isn’t – Michael doesn’t –
“But you don’t want me.” Adam doesn’t understand. He just wants to understand.
He doesn’t fight when Michael kisses him again, a gesture that feels like it’s designed to make him shut up. Adam opens to it, though he feels like he’s standing on quicksand and his heart hammers with the knowledge that he’s sinking, but then Michael’s hands steady him on his hips, and the kiss tilts from a violent domination into something halting and curious.
One of the drawers opens and shuts beside them and Adam holds on with arms wrapped around Michael’s neck as slicked fingers work between his thighs.
He groans when Michael breaches him and hides his face in Michael’s neck.
“You can tell me,” he pants and tries to relax, spreading his legs further when another of Michael’s fingers circles his rim, “I’ve known for a while. Just be straight with me or I can’t promise I won’t hate you.”
Michael steps back far enough to look into his face and Adam thinks he looks surprised. If his focus wasn’t clouded with sensation of the burn and sweet ache sending shivers up his spine, he might have even guessed that Michael’s expression was hurt.
“You don’t hate me, Adam.” Michael states it like it’s a fact Adam might have forgotten in his recent hell, but it hovers in doubt at the end.
“God.” Adam laughs wetly, catching on the sob that rises too fast for him to swallow. “I think I do.”
Michael’s expression twists and Adam goes weak when his fingers withdraw. Michael catches him before his knees crumble, and holds him bodily against the counter, chest-to-chest.
“No, you don’t.” There’s a strangled quality to Michael’s voice and Adam wonders if Michael is trying to convince Adam or himself. “You don’t hate me, Adam. You don’t hate me. You don’t hate me.”
Adam’s senses are overwhelmed by the lingering traces of Michael’s cologne and sweat when Michael buries his face in Adam’s neck; scents that he had almost forgotten. Adam laughs, but he still tilts his hips up when Michael’s hands slide down to massage and part his cheeks.
“I hate you so much.”
“No, you don’t.”