Perfect Imperfection - SPN/Crossovers - #34 - Biting
Title: Perfect Imperfection
Author: Jinni (jinni.tth@gmail.com)
Rated: NC17
Disclaimer: All things Doctor Who belong to the BBC, et al. All things SPN belong to Eric Kripke, et al.
Pairing: Sam/Rose
Claim: SPN/Crossovers at both sam_slut_a_thon and 50_smutlets
Prompt: #12 at sam_slut_a_thon (sloppy, imperfect sex) and #34 at 50_smutlets (biting).
WARNING: PWP. I tried *very* *very* hard not to let even a shred of plot interrupt the pr0n. I hope it worked. Believe me, it was difficult. Usually even my PWPs have plot and end up being more than 2k words. This one pushed it at 1.5k. Go me!
Spoilers: Nothing really for SPN…. “Girl in the Fireplace” for Doctor Who.
~*~*~
It’s a meeting of lips, pressing too hard together. A clash of teeth that makes Sam’s jaw ache, his mouth rattle. He puts a hand up to Rose’s face, trying to hold her still with the firm pressure of his fingers on her cheek, his thumb hooked under the curve of her jaw. Sam’s trying to get control of the kiss, but this girl is diving in like she’s drowning or starving or something. It’s desperation and need, and he wants to give it to her as badly as he wants to take it for himself. Her hands scrabble at his shoulders, his back. She wants this quick and dirty, and Sam thinks that she’s probably better than that.
He wants her to be better than that, because some part of him believes that no girl deserves to be a quick fuck in an alley. And yet, at the same time, he doesn’t want her to be anything other than soft and willing in his arms.
They met in a bar, over a drink. She’s from London, just visiting. He didn’t ask why she was visiting this weird little town in the middle of nowhereseville America, and she didn’t volunteer the information. She thinks this town looks like somewhere in Canada that she went once and he sort of laughed at that. The fact that she was smart and pretty, and had a smile that could light up a room was enough for him. Sometimes you took comfort where you could find it.
And there was this little thing that she did, the way she’d tuck her tongue in the corner of her mouth while she was looking at him, that made Sam want to kiss her breathless.
He had gotten the feeling that was what she was thinking, too, when she asked if he wanted to go somewhere else.
“S’not like ‘e’s expecting me back anytime soon,” she had muttered under her breath, so soft Sam had known that he wasn’t supposed to hear it. It had been enough to make him glance at her hands, make sure there was no ring. Not married, then, and that would be good enough for him tonight. There was something else she mumbled, about a French tart and he hadn’t been able to figure out if she was talking about a desert or a woman, but he was pretty sure that it was a woman.
Reasonably sure, anyway.
And it didn’t really matter then and definitely doesn’t matter now.
Rose’s hands fumbled between them, reaching for the zip of his fly. They stutter over his cock, already painfully stiff, and press too hard into the swollen flesh. Sam gasps, teeth hissing between his teeth. He pulls back to give her a look that says calm down, whispers a ‘shhh’ into her lips when he kisses her again.
She’s wearing a t-shirt with a British flag on it, a jean skirt, and some clunky boots that come up to mid-calf. Sam thinks that he might be most thankful for the skirt, though the t-shirt is tight and thin enough that he can feel the softness of her breast through it, the diamond hard press of her nipple. She’s not wearing a bra, and that’s enough of a confirmation that she was looking for something like what they’re about to do. The denim jacket that matches the skirt is on the ground near those boots of hers now, pushed down by Sam’s hands the second he got them around the corner and out of sight.
Her kisses slow down, but her hands don’t. It’s inelegant and imperfect, and it still feels so good that Sam is shuddering by the time he pushes her skirt up and hitches her leg over his hip. She weighs practically nothing, though her curves are sweet and not stick-model thin like so many other girls these days.
She squeezes too tight when she pulls him free of his jeans, and Sam sucks in a breath. The pain doesn’t take the edge off of his arousal, though. If anything, the rough handling makes him harder. He pulls back enough to slip a condom on, stroking himself even harder than Rose had.
The angle of her hips isn’t right and the first tentative thrust that he makes doesn’t send him into that warmth that he’s seeking. Rose is whispering things in his ear that are dirty and sexy, and her accent is a complete and utter turn on that he couldn’t possibly stop from affecting him, even if she was all hands and sort of fumbling when it came to her moves.
On the second try Sam slides into her with a groan.
Rose moans softly, nails biting into his back. He’s glad that he’s wearing two layers of t-shirts, because she’d be leaving marks otherwise. The kind of marks that would be impossible to hide when you share a tiny motel room with your older brother.
Sam doesn’t want to get teased for this. Better to let Dean think that he’s still living a life of celibacy than deal with the constant flow of snark and sarcasm over his proclivities.
Their rhythm doesn’t match up. She’s rocks forward while he’s rocking back, the satisfaction of the hard slap of skin on skin never happens.
Still, it’s a pressure around his dick and fuck it feels like sweet, warm heaven.
Rose’s teeth bite at Sam’s lips, then his chin, his neck. She latches on and bites hard when he grips her hips with his fingers, holding her in place so that he can gain leverage.
“Rose,” he mumbles with a sigh, sinking into an easy rhythm now that he has her hips pinned down with his hands, against the wall that she’s pressed into. She bites down, harder, suckling at the skin before letting it go. Another lick and then a bite and this time her teeth go in too far. Sam winces, wishing that he liked pain enough for the harsh prick of teeth to push him over the edge.
His hips press up and in; the base of his cock rubbing against the rough edge of Rose’s hitched up skirt, where it’s fallen back down from her hips.
“Make me forget ‘im,” she whispers, brokenly, and Sam does his best to do just that with every thrust after that. Whoever this ‘him’ is that she wants to forget, damn if Sam doesn’t want that for her. He knows what its like to want to forget, to keep your eyes wide open and staring, even when the pleasure hits you like a punch to the stomach, just because you don’t want to see that person that haunts your dreams at night.
He knows that feeling all too well.
“So good,” he croons into her ear, pressing his nose to her hair. She smells like flowery shampoo and baby powder, a combination so soft and female that he wants to imprint it in his brain forever for nights when he’s all alone in the motel room with nothing but his hand and the television for companionship. Even if this isn’t the best sex of his life, its still something to hold onto, cling to, during those lonely times.
Sam leans back, looking into Rose’s lust-dark eyes. Her lips are swollen, mouth half-open with shuddering gasps and then she’s shaking in his arms.
She cries out, a low keening whimper, and her body is pulsing around him. Sweet warmth clenching and tightening as she comes. Her face is wide open with want and need and it’s too much for him when she, almost hesitantly, adds his name her pleasure-colored moan.
He comes with her body still shuddering around him, head dipping back down to the crook of her neck. His breath is ragged in his throat, hitching with every hard tremor of release that pulses from his cock. Muscles tense and contract, then relax. Rinse, repeat and he’s coming undone with every twitch of his dick inside of her.
The world snaps back into focus with sudden clarity, noise intruding on the post-orgasmic lethargy creeping its way through his body.
There’s a cell phone going off. And he realizes it’s not his. Rose cusses, reaches for the pocket of her skirt, pulls it out.
‘TARDIS’, the little display says and Sam looks away, not having meant to intrude to begin with.
She sighs. “I’ve got t’go, before he worries.”
Sam wants to ask if that’s the same ‘he’ she was trying to forget, but doesn’t want to spoil the moment. He figures, when he looks into her face, that she’s been reminded enough of the man she was looking to forget just by getting that call. The stricken, guilty look that now shadows her still-flushed cheeks says more than a thousand words ever could.
He nods and pulls out, but not before kissing her one last time. Gentle. Sweet. Everything he thinks she probably deserves and isn’t getting.
“Thank you,” he whispers against her lips, and he means it. Thank you for sharing yourself with me. Thank you for connecting with me, however quickly. Thank you for being warm and alive and reminding me to live.
Thank you can mean a lot of things that are never said out loud.
Rose takes a shaky breath, runs a hand back through her hair, and gives him a crooked smile. Her tongue dips to the corner of her mouth, swipes over her lip, and its just her, not a flirtation or invitation.
“No - thank you.”
And, like he did before her, Sam thinks she means more than just what she’s saying.
END
Author: Jinni (jinni.tth@gmail.com)
Rated: NC17
Disclaimer: All things Doctor Who belong to the BBC, et al. All things SPN belong to Eric Kripke, et al.
Pairing: Sam/Rose
Claim: SPN/Crossovers at both sam_slut_a_thon and 50_smutlets
Prompt: #12 at sam_slut_a_thon (sloppy, imperfect sex) and #34 at 50_smutlets (biting).
WARNING: PWP. I tried *very* *very* hard not to let even a shred of plot interrupt the pr0n. I hope it worked. Believe me, it was difficult. Usually even my PWPs have plot and end up being more than 2k words. This one pushed it at 1.5k. Go me!
Spoilers: Nothing really for SPN…. “Girl in the Fireplace” for Doctor Who.
~*~*~
It’s a meeting of lips, pressing too hard together. A clash of teeth that makes Sam’s jaw ache, his mouth rattle. He puts a hand up to Rose’s face, trying to hold her still with the firm pressure of his fingers on her cheek, his thumb hooked under the curve of her jaw. Sam’s trying to get control of the kiss, but this girl is diving in like she’s drowning or starving or something. It’s desperation and need, and he wants to give it to her as badly as he wants to take it for himself. Her hands scrabble at his shoulders, his back. She wants this quick and dirty, and Sam thinks that she’s probably better than that.
He wants her to be better than that, because some part of him believes that no girl deserves to be a quick fuck in an alley. And yet, at the same time, he doesn’t want her to be anything other than soft and willing in his arms.
They met in a bar, over a drink. She’s from London, just visiting. He didn’t ask why she was visiting this weird little town in the middle of nowhereseville America, and she didn’t volunteer the information. She thinks this town looks like somewhere in Canada that she went once and he sort of laughed at that. The fact that she was smart and pretty, and had a smile that could light up a room was enough for him. Sometimes you took comfort where you could find it.
And there was this little thing that she did, the way she’d tuck her tongue in the corner of her mouth while she was looking at him, that made Sam want to kiss her breathless.
He had gotten the feeling that was what she was thinking, too, when she asked if he wanted to go somewhere else.
“S’not like ‘e’s expecting me back anytime soon,” she had muttered under her breath, so soft Sam had known that he wasn’t supposed to hear it. It had been enough to make him glance at her hands, make sure there was no ring. Not married, then, and that would be good enough for him tonight. There was something else she mumbled, about a French tart and he hadn’t been able to figure out if she was talking about a desert or a woman, but he was pretty sure that it was a woman.
Reasonably sure, anyway.
And it didn’t really matter then and definitely doesn’t matter now.
Rose’s hands fumbled between them, reaching for the zip of his fly. They stutter over his cock, already painfully stiff, and press too hard into the swollen flesh. Sam gasps, teeth hissing between his teeth. He pulls back to give her a look that says calm down, whispers a ‘shhh’ into her lips when he kisses her again.
She’s wearing a t-shirt with a British flag on it, a jean skirt, and some clunky boots that come up to mid-calf. Sam thinks that he might be most thankful for the skirt, though the t-shirt is tight and thin enough that he can feel the softness of her breast through it, the diamond hard press of her nipple. She’s not wearing a bra, and that’s enough of a confirmation that she was looking for something like what they’re about to do. The denim jacket that matches the skirt is on the ground near those boots of hers now, pushed down by Sam’s hands the second he got them around the corner and out of sight.
Her kisses slow down, but her hands don’t. It’s inelegant and imperfect, and it still feels so good that Sam is shuddering by the time he pushes her skirt up and hitches her leg over his hip. She weighs practically nothing, though her curves are sweet and not stick-model thin like so many other girls these days.
She squeezes too tight when she pulls him free of his jeans, and Sam sucks in a breath. The pain doesn’t take the edge off of his arousal, though. If anything, the rough handling makes him harder. He pulls back enough to slip a condom on, stroking himself even harder than Rose had.
The angle of her hips isn’t right and the first tentative thrust that he makes doesn’t send him into that warmth that he’s seeking. Rose is whispering things in his ear that are dirty and sexy, and her accent is a complete and utter turn on that he couldn’t possibly stop from affecting him, even if she was all hands and sort of fumbling when it came to her moves.
On the second try Sam slides into her with a groan.
Rose moans softly, nails biting into his back. He’s glad that he’s wearing two layers of t-shirts, because she’d be leaving marks otherwise. The kind of marks that would be impossible to hide when you share a tiny motel room with your older brother.
Sam doesn’t want to get teased for this. Better to let Dean think that he’s still living a life of celibacy than deal with the constant flow of snark and sarcasm over his proclivities.
Their rhythm doesn’t match up. She’s rocks forward while he’s rocking back, the satisfaction of the hard slap of skin on skin never happens.
Still, it’s a pressure around his dick and fuck it feels like sweet, warm heaven.
Rose’s teeth bite at Sam’s lips, then his chin, his neck. She latches on and bites hard when he grips her hips with his fingers, holding her in place so that he can gain leverage.
“Rose,” he mumbles with a sigh, sinking into an easy rhythm now that he has her hips pinned down with his hands, against the wall that she’s pressed into. She bites down, harder, suckling at the skin before letting it go. Another lick and then a bite and this time her teeth go in too far. Sam winces, wishing that he liked pain enough for the harsh prick of teeth to push him over the edge.
His hips press up and in; the base of his cock rubbing against the rough edge of Rose’s hitched up skirt, where it’s fallen back down from her hips.
“Make me forget ‘im,” she whispers, brokenly, and Sam does his best to do just that with every thrust after that. Whoever this ‘him’ is that she wants to forget, damn if Sam doesn’t want that for her. He knows what its like to want to forget, to keep your eyes wide open and staring, even when the pleasure hits you like a punch to the stomach, just because you don’t want to see that person that haunts your dreams at night.
He knows that feeling all too well.
“So good,” he croons into her ear, pressing his nose to her hair. She smells like flowery shampoo and baby powder, a combination so soft and female that he wants to imprint it in his brain forever for nights when he’s all alone in the motel room with nothing but his hand and the television for companionship. Even if this isn’t the best sex of his life, its still something to hold onto, cling to, during those lonely times.
Sam leans back, looking into Rose’s lust-dark eyes. Her lips are swollen, mouth half-open with shuddering gasps and then she’s shaking in his arms.
She cries out, a low keening whimper, and her body is pulsing around him. Sweet warmth clenching and tightening as she comes. Her face is wide open with want and need and it’s too much for him when she, almost hesitantly, adds his name her pleasure-colored moan.
He comes with her body still shuddering around him, head dipping back down to the crook of her neck. His breath is ragged in his throat, hitching with every hard tremor of release that pulses from his cock. Muscles tense and contract, then relax. Rinse, repeat and he’s coming undone with every twitch of his dick inside of her.
The world snaps back into focus with sudden clarity, noise intruding on the post-orgasmic lethargy creeping its way through his body.
There’s a cell phone going off. And he realizes it’s not his. Rose cusses, reaches for the pocket of her skirt, pulls it out.
‘TARDIS’, the little display says and Sam looks away, not having meant to intrude to begin with.
She sighs. “I’ve got t’go, before he worries.”
Sam wants to ask if that’s the same ‘he’ she was trying to forget, but doesn’t want to spoil the moment. He figures, when he looks into her face, that she’s been reminded enough of the man she was looking to forget just by getting that call. The stricken, guilty look that now shadows her still-flushed cheeks says more than a thousand words ever could.
He nods and pulls out, but not before kissing her one last time. Gentle. Sweet. Everything he thinks she probably deserves and isn’t getting.
“Thank you,” he whispers against her lips, and he means it. Thank you for sharing yourself with me. Thank you for connecting with me, however quickly. Thank you for being warm and alive and reminding me to live.
Thank you can mean a lot of things that are never said out loud.
Rose takes a shaky breath, runs a hand back through her hair, and gives him a crooked smile. Her tongue dips to the corner of her mouth, swipes over her lip, and its just her, not a flirtation or invitation.
“No - thank you.”
And, like he did before her, Sam thinks she means more than just what she’s saying.
END