Ficlet: Blood (RoboSam/OMC, Sam/Dean implied, NC-17)
I know I'm being Spammy McSpamalot, I am sorry! RoboSam just gives me ALL THE FEELINGS. I think I need to check into some kind of rehab. In the meantime: porn.
Title: Blood
Pairing: RoboSam/OMC (implied Sam/Dean)
Rating: NC-17
Words: ~350
He doesn't know why he cares. Maybe 'care' is the wrong word, because he doesn't, really; but there's something about getting it like this that makes it pull a little tighter in his stomach, makes the rush of it burn a little hotter. Something about taking it from someone who won't break, someone he can snap his hips into unrelenting, someone whose back is a familiar curve, whose nape is stark and salty under Sam's open mouth. Something about green-eyed guys that's wrong and good, the knowledge that he likes pretty mouths, sharp jawlines, for reasons deeper than the superficial. Something about it is fucked up and nasty, and Sam can't get enough of it.
This guy is loud, biting the back of his hand, and probably Sam should be a little more careful, but all that strength is addictive, muscles in the guy's back, the way he just juts out his ass and takes it, fuck. Sam's making bruises over his hipbones as he fucks up into him, every thrust pounding him harder against the wall, the sound of brick scraping skin. Then the guy says, "Shit - yeah - " and his voice is wrong, not like the noises, so Sam clamps a hand over his mouth and bites at his nape and growls.
The guy doesn't say much after that, but everything in him goes liquid against Sam's front, this long line of surrender. Sam grits his teeth, watching the arc the guy's necklace makes, the way it swings as they fuck, metallic clink as it hits the wall.
He comes with a name bitten-back in his mouth, but when he tries to taste it there's nothing there but blood.
Title: Blood
Pairing: RoboSam/OMC (implied Sam/Dean)
Rating: NC-17
Words: ~350
He doesn't know why he cares. Maybe 'care' is the wrong word, because he doesn't, really; but there's something about getting it like this that makes it pull a little tighter in his stomach, makes the rush of it burn a little hotter. Something about taking it from someone who won't break, someone he can snap his hips into unrelenting, someone whose back is a familiar curve, whose nape is stark and salty under Sam's open mouth. Something about green-eyed guys that's wrong and good, the knowledge that he likes pretty mouths, sharp jawlines, for reasons deeper than the superficial. Something about it is fucked up and nasty, and Sam can't get enough of it.
This guy is loud, biting the back of his hand, and probably Sam should be a little more careful, but all that strength is addictive, muscles in the guy's back, the way he just juts out his ass and takes it, fuck. Sam's making bruises over his hipbones as he fucks up into him, every thrust pounding him harder against the wall, the sound of brick scraping skin. Then the guy says, "Shit - yeah - " and his voice is wrong, not like the noises, so Sam clamps a hand over his mouth and bites at his nape and growls.
The guy doesn't say much after that, but everything in him goes liquid against Sam's front, this long line of surrender. Sam grits his teeth, watching the arc the guy's necklace makes, the way it swings as they fuck, metallic clink as it hits the wall.
He comes with a name bitten-back in his mouth, but when he tries to taste it there's nothing there but blood.