A Calculated Risk
Title: A Calculated Risk
Author: a_biting_smile
Rating: NC-17
Characters/Pairing: Soulless Sam/OFC
Word Count: 1944
Warnings/Spoilers: plain ol' sex, very slight blood
Author's Note: Written for the 2013 salt_burn_porn's challenge for jackles67's prompt Take me out. Be gentle! First porn, and I don't know how you guys do it but writing The Dirty is HARD, especially in only 24 hours! (no pun intended) I've got a waaaaay lot to learn.
Summary: And the hunter shall become the hunted. No, seriously.
I tag blackrabbit42 with where my demons lie.
He's back.
It was a calculated risk-not making a move yesterday-but well worth the taking. This one will be delicious.
He watches the bar like it's his turf, cruising it with a cat-slanted stare that is in no way benign, despite the lazy curl to one side of his mouth. When he grins, he grins broad and shows all his white teeth, dazzling and destructive. He keeps his back to the wall, shoulders squared, uses all that height to a strategic advantage. He never sits. He never truly relaxes. He knows he's being watched because everyone in the damned place has watched him at one point or another, as a threat or a mark or a customer or a desired thing.
Thelxinoë desires. It makes the executive decision to wear female skin tonight, though it suspects he wouldn't mind either a cock or a cunt. The hungry fucker has leered at both sexes indiscriminately since landing on the siren's radar.
But he dresses like a lumberjack, for whatever reason. Shapeless and generic. Like there's nothing to be said for clothes making the man. No wedding rings or jewelry or any indication he has someone out there in the world who might have bought him nice things once upon a time. He drinks whatever's on tap and he plays a careless game of pool.
I'll be a ginger tonight, it thinks, because the hole-in-the-wall is thick with bleached blondes. It fabricates a woman who is splendidly average, save a decent rack and particularly nice legs. Wide green eyes and a smattering of freckles. It waits until a spot at the bar opens up within ten feet of him before cutting through the crowd and parking there.
It hollers at the bartender for ... a whiskey. Neat. No one's drinking whiskey tonight, just cheap beer and absurd concoctions like Long Island Ice Teas and Kamikazes, and the man's gaze drifts over it-her-like steam. She catches his eyes and forces a blush. He seems unimpressed until she smiles back, then he lifts his chin and pins a glance to her cleavage.
Really. Just like that. She wants to be annoyed at how easy he is; she was actually ready to work a little for this one, this angular stretch of man with the grabbable hair, but sometimes the planets align and things go right. It's been known to happen. And he certainly isn't hard on the eyes, so she shuts up the internal dialogue and pays the bartender.
When she turns back around, he's gone and she's swearing under her breath. She scans the bar, past the jukebox and the crowded pool table, before she finds him again half-way across the room, head and shoulders above the rest. Watching her. He grins, all teeth and dimples, and jerks his head to the door.
Easy.
She purses her lips and he shrugs before continuing towards the exit. He leaves without looking back again, but it affords her a glimpse of how slender his hips are, in relationship to the shoulders. Such a perfect triangle. She's threading her way through the press of people without a second thought.
The night is humid, a heavy green smell coming off the river. Haphazard rows of cars and pick-ups fill the gravel lot. He's leaning on a black Charger, kind of ostentatious for him. She fancied him more of a nondescript truck guy. His hands are shoved in his pockets, feet crossed at the ankles. They're out in the middle of Bumfuck, Pennsylvania and no one questioned her leaving the bar with her drink because no one cares. She likes this town.
She meanders through the rows and he watches her the whole while. Even as she stands right in front of him, she can't tell what color his eyes are, whether they're light or dark. They simply reflect the sign that flashes a red neon 'open' behind her.
They still haven't said word one, and she's beginning to suspect they never will. She takes a sip of her whiskey and surreptitiously spits backwash into the tumbler.
He pushes off the car and opens the door for her. No one in their right mind should get in a slick black car with a strange man, and the fact he expects her to do so without objection is not only arrogant, but creepy. She decides, at that moment, he gets what he gets. The engine guns but he's mindful of the gravel as they leave the parking lot.
"Hi," she says, finally, the car growling over the two-lane road that ribbons between one unincorporated town and the next. Now that they are in such close quarters, she can read the feelings that are floating on the surface of his mind, the ambient vibes that color all his more specific thoughts. “I’m Thea.”
He rolls down his window with the touch of a button, dark hair whipping. “Good name. Means ‘goddess’,” he says, almost conversationally over the wind. “I’m Sam. Means ‘God hears.’ Which is bullshit.”
She expects to sense bitterness, the bite of loss maybe, the delectable sting of regret or mourning, but she only gets slight irritation atop a mountain of arousal. Greedy, greedy want. So be it.
She presses the cool side of her glass against his cheek and he takes it, swallows the drink in one smooth pull before launching the glass out the window. They’re moving so fast she barely hears it explode, a distant bomb.
His thigh is solid under her hand where she’s let it drop, and he doesn’t push her away. He might even be smiling though it’s tough to tell, for all his hair and the unlit country road, and she’d really rather see if he was getting hard as she crept her hand central. He is, and her fingertips brush his swollen cock.
The car accelerates as his thigh tenses, forcing the pedal. She knows her venom will be singing through his blood, and he’ll want to make her happy. Right now, happy means a nice fuck. And then maybe they’ll drive into the next town and she’ll tell him to kill the seventh person they happen upon. Just because she likes the number seven.
She leans over and tongues his ear, pressing her tits into his shoulder. He hums approval and the car drifts left of center. There’s no traffic; the road is so straight they can see for miles, so she lets him hog the whole damned thing. The car dips and her stomach flutters.
He catches his breath when she unbuckles his belt. He chuckles when she jerks down his fly. He stops the car when she slips her hand inside his pants and runs her thumb over the warm head of his dick.
The Charger grits to a stop on a dirt sideroad, thirty feet down, Dutch Creek Hollow according to the half-broken sign. He cuts the engine and the lights, and they’re left in the dark with a Cheshire moon as the only illumination, which is to say, not much at all. He opens her door and has her pulled out before she can so much as squeal. He’s fucking strong, and she feels his shoulders coil and bunch as he hauls her up, her legs wrapping around that narrow waist, her thighs supported by the jut of his hipbones.
He drops her ass onto the hot hood of the car, the engine pinging and the chassis rocking. It stings but she doesn’t care; physical sensations pale in comparison to what she soaks up from the emotional output of the human animal. It’s addictive, is what it is. And this one, this Sam, is as raw and unnuanced as she’s ever felt. But it’s all there on the surface, what he needs and what he is. Weird, but not weird enough to make her want to stop. Nothing short of an earthquake could make her want to stop, and even then …
His buckle jangles as he grinds into her and she shoves his belt down hard, scraping across his ass and biting kisses onto the only skin she can reach from here: the salty base of his throat. He’s sweating in the early September heat and warmth is issuing up from the car and him and right to her crotch where her skirt has been shoved high. He doesn’t seem surprised to find her without panties.
God, so maybe she has to rethink the potency of physical sensation. He’s got his big hands all over her breasts, thumbing at her nipples through her bra until they ache. Fair being fair, she pulls at his shirt and pops the buttons free; they ping across the hood until they hit dirt. He does her the honor of stripping off his t-shirt, sweat-stained and musky. He’s roped with muscle and on his upper chest, there’s the simple tattoo of a star. Elsewhere roam little white nicks in his tanned skin. Scars. He’s been in a scrape or three.
“Come on, baby,” she hears herself say and it rather surprises her. She wriggles closer to the hood’s edge and bites back a moan when his cock slips free of his boxers and brushes her inner thighs, damp and warmer still. With both palms wrapped completely around her waist, he lifts her and sits her on him, slipping inside all smooth and taut like she weighs nothing.
He’s biting his lip and rocking, and there’s this spark in his eye, a gleam, as he’s watching her watching him. One of his hands has pawed up under her skirt and he’s working her clit with clever fingers. He knows what he’s doing, oh yes he does. It sets her belly to trembling and his rhythm picks up. He pumps and fondles. He’s far too adroit. Her ass squeaks on the smooth surface of the car.
“You really shouldn’t be doing this,” he says into her hair, into her borrowed auburn tresses, his breath hot and his words rumbling in his broad chest.
“Don’t care.” Her muscles turn liquid and she’s at the aching edge. He sets a knee on the fender and the movement shoves him closer, his free hand fumbling at his boot. He throws his head back like a wolf to the moon. Her heart is racing something fierce and he massages them together until he’s grunting and she’s stuttering and they’re both sweaty, boozy things caught together in something bad.
She grabs his biceps and hangs on, fingers clawing into him. His neck cords and he snaps at the pain, coming. It triggers her, and she tightens around him, slick and pulsing. It’s wild and full and she feels it to her core.
He gives a hard groan and exhales; she feels the last of his pulsing as their muscles relax and he curves over her, pressing her to his body, panting. He engulfs her and holds her tight, so close she can hear as his heart settles.
Then she smells metal. Not a hot engine, but something coppery.
Blood.
She doesn’t have to see the small brass blade she knows is in his hand, probably pulled from an ankle sheath, just out of her field of vision.
Shit. She wilts against him and balls her hands into fists.
“Sorry,” he says, but he isn’t. She knows; she can sense it, now. How the hell he got around giving himself away, how he shrugged off the effects of her venom … she’ll never figure it out. She doesn’t bother to plead for her life because it won’t work.
He’s an emotional void, a static field.
Fucking hunters.
Author: a_biting_smile
Rating: NC-17
Characters/Pairing: Soulless Sam/OFC
Word Count: 1944
Warnings/Spoilers: plain ol' sex, very slight blood
Author's Note: Written for the 2013 salt_burn_porn's challenge for jackles67's prompt Take me out. Be gentle! First porn, and I don't know how you guys do it but writing The Dirty is HARD, especially in only 24 hours! (no pun intended) I've got a waaaaay lot to learn.
Summary: And the hunter shall become the hunted. No, seriously.
I tag blackrabbit42 with where my demons lie.
He's back.
It was a calculated risk-not making a move yesterday-but well worth the taking. This one will be delicious.
He watches the bar like it's his turf, cruising it with a cat-slanted stare that is in no way benign, despite the lazy curl to one side of his mouth. When he grins, he grins broad and shows all his white teeth, dazzling and destructive. He keeps his back to the wall, shoulders squared, uses all that height to a strategic advantage. He never sits. He never truly relaxes. He knows he's being watched because everyone in the damned place has watched him at one point or another, as a threat or a mark or a customer or a desired thing.
Thelxinoë desires. It makes the executive decision to wear female skin tonight, though it suspects he wouldn't mind either a cock or a cunt. The hungry fucker has leered at both sexes indiscriminately since landing on the siren's radar.
But he dresses like a lumberjack, for whatever reason. Shapeless and generic. Like there's nothing to be said for clothes making the man. No wedding rings or jewelry or any indication he has someone out there in the world who might have bought him nice things once upon a time. He drinks whatever's on tap and he plays a careless game of pool.
I'll be a ginger tonight, it thinks, because the hole-in-the-wall is thick with bleached blondes. It fabricates a woman who is splendidly average, save a decent rack and particularly nice legs. Wide green eyes and a smattering of freckles. It waits until a spot at the bar opens up within ten feet of him before cutting through the crowd and parking there.
It hollers at the bartender for ... a whiskey. Neat. No one's drinking whiskey tonight, just cheap beer and absurd concoctions like Long Island Ice Teas and Kamikazes, and the man's gaze drifts over it-her-like steam. She catches his eyes and forces a blush. He seems unimpressed until she smiles back, then he lifts his chin and pins a glance to her cleavage.
Really. Just like that. She wants to be annoyed at how easy he is; she was actually ready to work a little for this one, this angular stretch of man with the grabbable hair, but sometimes the planets align and things go right. It's been known to happen. And he certainly isn't hard on the eyes, so she shuts up the internal dialogue and pays the bartender.
When she turns back around, he's gone and she's swearing under her breath. She scans the bar, past the jukebox and the crowded pool table, before she finds him again half-way across the room, head and shoulders above the rest. Watching her. He grins, all teeth and dimples, and jerks his head to the door.
Easy.
She purses her lips and he shrugs before continuing towards the exit. He leaves without looking back again, but it affords her a glimpse of how slender his hips are, in relationship to the shoulders. Such a perfect triangle. She's threading her way through the press of people without a second thought.
The night is humid, a heavy green smell coming off the river. Haphazard rows of cars and pick-ups fill the gravel lot. He's leaning on a black Charger, kind of ostentatious for him. She fancied him more of a nondescript truck guy. His hands are shoved in his pockets, feet crossed at the ankles. They're out in the middle of Bumfuck, Pennsylvania and no one questioned her leaving the bar with her drink because no one cares. She likes this town.
She meanders through the rows and he watches her the whole while. Even as she stands right in front of him, she can't tell what color his eyes are, whether they're light or dark. They simply reflect the sign that flashes a red neon 'open' behind her.
They still haven't said word one, and she's beginning to suspect they never will. She takes a sip of her whiskey and surreptitiously spits backwash into the tumbler.
He pushes off the car and opens the door for her. No one in their right mind should get in a slick black car with a strange man, and the fact he expects her to do so without objection is not only arrogant, but creepy. She decides, at that moment, he gets what he gets. The engine guns but he's mindful of the gravel as they leave the parking lot.
"Hi," she says, finally, the car growling over the two-lane road that ribbons between one unincorporated town and the next. Now that they are in such close quarters, she can read the feelings that are floating on the surface of his mind, the ambient vibes that color all his more specific thoughts. “I’m Thea.”
He rolls down his window with the touch of a button, dark hair whipping. “Good name. Means ‘goddess’,” he says, almost conversationally over the wind. “I’m Sam. Means ‘God hears.’ Which is bullshit.”
She expects to sense bitterness, the bite of loss maybe, the delectable sting of regret or mourning, but she only gets slight irritation atop a mountain of arousal. Greedy, greedy want. So be it.
She presses the cool side of her glass against his cheek and he takes it, swallows the drink in one smooth pull before launching the glass out the window. They’re moving so fast she barely hears it explode, a distant bomb.
His thigh is solid under her hand where she’s let it drop, and he doesn’t push her away. He might even be smiling though it’s tough to tell, for all his hair and the unlit country road, and she’d really rather see if he was getting hard as she crept her hand central. He is, and her fingertips brush his swollen cock.
The car accelerates as his thigh tenses, forcing the pedal. She knows her venom will be singing through his blood, and he’ll want to make her happy. Right now, happy means a nice fuck. And then maybe they’ll drive into the next town and she’ll tell him to kill the seventh person they happen upon. Just because she likes the number seven.
She leans over and tongues his ear, pressing her tits into his shoulder. He hums approval and the car drifts left of center. There’s no traffic; the road is so straight they can see for miles, so she lets him hog the whole damned thing. The car dips and her stomach flutters.
He catches his breath when she unbuckles his belt. He chuckles when she jerks down his fly. He stops the car when she slips her hand inside his pants and runs her thumb over the warm head of his dick.
The Charger grits to a stop on a dirt sideroad, thirty feet down, Dutch Creek Hollow according to the half-broken sign. He cuts the engine and the lights, and they’re left in the dark with a Cheshire moon as the only illumination, which is to say, not much at all. He opens her door and has her pulled out before she can so much as squeal. He’s fucking strong, and she feels his shoulders coil and bunch as he hauls her up, her legs wrapping around that narrow waist, her thighs supported by the jut of his hipbones.
He drops her ass onto the hot hood of the car, the engine pinging and the chassis rocking. It stings but she doesn’t care; physical sensations pale in comparison to what she soaks up from the emotional output of the human animal. It’s addictive, is what it is. And this one, this Sam, is as raw and unnuanced as she’s ever felt. But it’s all there on the surface, what he needs and what he is. Weird, but not weird enough to make her want to stop. Nothing short of an earthquake could make her want to stop, and even then …
His buckle jangles as he grinds into her and she shoves his belt down hard, scraping across his ass and biting kisses onto the only skin she can reach from here: the salty base of his throat. He’s sweating in the early September heat and warmth is issuing up from the car and him and right to her crotch where her skirt has been shoved high. He doesn’t seem surprised to find her without panties.
God, so maybe she has to rethink the potency of physical sensation. He’s got his big hands all over her breasts, thumbing at her nipples through her bra until they ache. Fair being fair, she pulls at his shirt and pops the buttons free; they ping across the hood until they hit dirt. He does her the honor of stripping off his t-shirt, sweat-stained and musky. He’s roped with muscle and on his upper chest, there’s the simple tattoo of a star. Elsewhere roam little white nicks in his tanned skin. Scars. He’s been in a scrape or three.
“Come on, baby,” she hears herself say and it rather surprises her. She wriggles closer to the hood’s edge and bites back a moan when his cock slips free of his boxers and brushes her inner thighs, damp and warmer still. With both palms wrapped completely around her waist, he lifts her and sits her on him, slipping inside all smooth and taut like she weighs nothing.
He’s biting his lip and rocking, and there’s this spark in his eye, a gleam, as he’s watching her watching him. One of his hands has pawed up under her skirt and he’s working her clit with clever fingers. He knows what he’s doing, oh yes he does. It sets her belly to trembling and his rhythm picks up. He pumps and fondles. He’s far too adroit. Her ass squeaks on the smooth surface of the car.
“You really shouldn’t be doing this,” he says into her hair, into her borrowed auburn tresses, his breath hot and his words rumbling in his broad chest.
“Don’t care.” Her muscles turn liquid and she’s at the aching edge. He sets a knee on the fender and the movement shoves him closer, his free hand fumbling at his boot. He throws his head back like a wolf to the moon. Her heart is racing something fierce and he massages them together until he’s grunting and she’s stuttering and they’re both sweaty, boozy things caught together in something bad.
She grabs his biceps and hangs on, fingers clawing into him. His neck cords and he snaps at the pain, coming. It triggers her, and she tightens around him, slick and pulsing. It’s wild and full and she feels it to her core.
He gives a hard groan and exhales; she feels the last of his pulsing as their muscles relax and he curves over her, pressing her to his body, panting. He engulfs her and holds her tight, so close she can hear as his heart settles.
Then she smells metal. Not a hot engine, but something coppery.
Blood.
She doesn’t have to see the small brass blade she knows is in his hand, probably pulled from an ankle sheath, just out of her field of vision.
Shit. She wilts against him and balls her hands into fists.
“Sorry,” he says, but he isn’t. She knows; she can sense it, now. How the hell he got around giving himself away, how he shrugged off the effects of her venom … she’ll never figure it out. She doesn’t bother to plead for her life because it won’t work.
He’s an emotional void, a static field.
Fucking hunters.