Fic: Grounded
Title: Grounded
Fandom: True Blood
Pairing: Sam/Bill
Rating: R
Disclaimer: In no way mine or anything to do with me. I own nothing.
Summary: "Don't bite me," Bill says firmly, which is a dumb thing to say, because that immediately sounds like the best idea ever.
AN: Written for harem_ent who wanted Sam/anyone.
One moment Sam is running, and the next he's crashing to the dirt, a long slide of pain across the side of his face, that brings him to a stop in a twist of limbs, trying to work out what the hell happened, and how to breathe again, after losing all the air in his body.
There are footsteps on grass, quick and heavy, but Sam is having a nightmare trying to orient himself, let alone get away, from whatever the fuck is about to-
The footsteps stop abruptly, and there's a snap, low and deep, like the sound of big bones breaking, and Sam tries vainly to get all four legs under him, only to discover that he now only has two.
There's something under his skin that, as soon as he can move again, he's going to dig out with his teeth-
He smells something he knows, and drags his head round, one long stab of pain across his face, but he finds something familiar.
A fuzzy, pale shape, with dark hair, that smells like vampire.
He should probably bark at it, but he currently has the wrong type of throat, and his legs don't work.
Why don't his legs work?
He manages a growl.
"Don't bite me," Bill says firmly, which is a dumb thing to say, because that immediately sounds like the best idea ever.
Bill leans in close, and Sam's growl picks up in volume..
Something comes out of the long curve between hip and thigh, and Sam yelps, loudly, completely incapable of lunging sideways, and taking Bill's hand off, because his spine no longer bends that way.
Bill's hand comes into view, holding something that's sharp at one end, and feathered at the other.
Sam tries to take it, or, well mostly he doesn't because apparently his arms don't work either.
Bill catches his arms, and drags him upright, without even a 'if you don't mind' or as close to upright as he can get at the moment anyway, and he's tempted to dig his teeth in somewhere, he could dig them in hard enough to leave little indents on the bones, not quite as easy now he has his other teeth, but he could be like the cannibals he read about in Papa New Guinea.
Bill smells strange this close, all slippery, oddly dry, skin that doesn't sweat, and old blood. Powder, and cloth, and dust, porch mould, and dirt, and fireplace heat, with an undertone of leather, and something else...something he can't quite catch. It's hiding in-between everything else, flash of scent in every single movement, impossible to define.
Without thinking he turns his nose into Bill's hair, chases the flavour of it, and though he's aware of the scatter of grass, and dry dirt, the soft low noise of surprise, it's not as important as putting a name to...whatever this is.
It's like that word that means you see the things you smell, instead of smelling them, or hear tastes, because he can see the smell he can't find, but he can't place it, like he's going out of his mind or-
Or he's hallucinating.
He didn't know you could hallucinate smells.
And he's kind of glad Bill catches him when he goes over, because he's not a fan of having his face in the dirt.
Not a fan, at all.
It's been a long time, since he hasn't trusted his body to do what he wants, and he remembers how many he hated it.
The rolling tip/tilt of nausea isn't helping.
"Stay," Sam manages, and Bill huffs something that might be confusion, or might be indignation, or some crazy mix of both. "Gonna throw up," Sam slurs. "Stay still."
Bill obeys, which Sam is both annoyed about, and grateful for. But no one else is here, and he isn't exactly in a position to pretend they're two average, normal guys, who hate each other.
"Something's wrong," he thinks he slurs out, somehow.
He has a strange handful of hair, between over-sensitive fingers.
"I think you've been drugged," Bill says slowly, which is a damn stupid thing to say, because of course he's been drugged. Because whatever you put in tranquilisers to kill a...whatever the hell someone thought he was, whatever the hell just got injected into part of his body, who knows what the hell that was.
And Bill still has that same odd polite tone to his voice.
Like he isn't some god-awful mix of southern gentleman, and blood sucking monster. Sam isn't sure how that's supposed to work.
He suspects there's a dead man, with a rifle, in the grass somewhere, a man who clearly didn't mean anything good, but Sam's damned if he's going to throw Bill a parade.
His hands won't work, or at least, they'll go where he wants, but they won't do a damn thing to hold him up, he's left with one hand in the grass, and one on the bend of Bill's knee through denim.
He swears, pushes the scraped edge of his face against Bill's. Wet sting on cold skin.
There's a jerk of air down Bill's throat, and Sam can hear the swallow in the dark, rough and raw, and it's only then, stupidly, that Sam realises he's just painted blood across Bill's cheek.
He wonders, bizarrely, if he tastes different to other people.
He doesn't move away. Breathing slow in the dark.
They hang forever like that, a curl of bare limbs, and cold cloth.
Bill seems to take his breathing as permission, which Sam's really fucking annoyed about, until he remembers that they're both animals, and that's as good as.
You're not supposed to let strange men lick you, but every wet line leaves a shiver in its wake, sound lodged at the back of Sam's throat, and he can't quite hear Bill's voice, over the effort he's making keeping it in.
He should move, he should get up, and stumble his way home.
But he doesn't.
Sam thinks, maybe because this is the fucked up place where they meet, in the middle.
He stops holding it back, lets the sound shiver out.
Bill stops, air catching in his throat, though Sam's not generous enough to call it breathing. He shifts his head, follows the taste of his own blood into that cold wet mouth.
Bills goes very still, but Sam thinks maybe he's daring less than Bill did, not a second ago.
Aren't they all monsters in the dark.
He wants to know if Bill really is what he claims to be, or whether he's an animal after all.
Sam knows a little bit about animals.
Bill lets him push his shirt back off his shoulders, lets him push at it in dry tears of cloth, going to his knees in the dirt, where they skid on the damp grass. His arms untangle, then slide up Sam's waist, before Bill tips his head back, and away.
"This isn't a good idea."
Sam digs fingers in his hair, drags him back, makes him kiss him again, because this isn't all going to be about him. This isn't all going to be his fault. It's awkward this time, there's less space in Bill's mouth, all slide of hard teeth, and quick aggressive pushes. And Sam must be fucking crazy, because he's pushing right back.
He digs his nails into Bill's stomach, quick presses, like a cat, then drops his hands, pulls at belt buckle, and button, and zip.
His head's still telling him this is crazy, crazy, crazy.
He hates him, fucking hates him, though he's still moving, still pushing at the long edge of waistband, still sliding it down with one hand, and pulling with the other. Bill comes willingly.
He's heavy, no way to tell he's not there, all cold skin over muscle, pressing down where it shouldn't. Pressing in, where Sam is equally, traitorously, hard, slide-shift of skin, settling them against each other, into each other, while they fight over space to bruise.
Then move, jesus christ, it's not supposed to be this good.
"This never fucking happened," Sam says harshly, thigh pulled all the way up, nails dragging lines on the shifting edge of Bill's waist.
Bill pushes down harder in retaliation, stealing all the oxygen, and pushing a noise out of Sam that he'd drag back if he could.
"And don't you fucking bite me," Sam's breathless, and it comes out angry, Bill drops his forehead down, hard line against the edge of Sam's collarbone.
And Bill's breathing now, no other word for it, not when it slides out, and rushes back in like that.
Just across the line of too hard, and Sam's going to have finger bruises in his skin. But this is what he wanted, this is what he's been trying to prove even if he doesn't understand why.
Doesn't fucking understand.
So he digs his fingers in right back.
The world cracks into pieces, the night sky gone when he closes his eyes, and the whole world stops mattering.
He pretends it's not different when it comes back.
But he feels nothing like himself, laying defenceless, eyes closed, smelling like death by proxy.
Fandom: True Blood
Pairing: Sam/Bill
Rating: R
Disclaimer: In no way mine or anything to do with me. I own nothing.
Summary: "Don't bite me," Bill says firmly, which is a dumb thing to say, because that immediately sounds like the best idea ever.
AN: Written for harem_ent who wanted Sam/anyone.
One moment Sam is running, and the next he's crashing to the dirt, a long slide of pain across the side of his face, that brings him to a stop in a twist of limbs, trying to work out what the hell happened, and how to breathe again, after losing all the air in his body.
There are footsteps on grass, quick and heavy, but Sam is having a nightmare trying to orient himself, let alone get away, from whatever the fuck is about to-
The footsteps stop abruptly, and there's a snap, low and deep, like the sound of big bones breaking, and Sam tries vainly to get all four legs under him, only to discover that he now only has two.
There's something under his skin that, as soon as he can move again, he's going to dig out with his teeth-
He smells something he knows, and drags his head round, one long stab of pain across his face, but he finds something familiar.
A fuzzy, pale shape, with dark hair, that smells like vampire.
He should probably bark at it, but he currently has the wrong type of throat, and his legs don't work.
Why don't his legs work?
He manages a growl.
"Don't bite me," Bill says firmly, which is a dumb thing to say, because that immediately sounds like the best idea ever.
Bill leans in close, and Sam's growl picks up in volume..
Something comes out of the long curve between hip and thigh, and Sam yelps, loudly, completely incapable of lunging sideways, and taking Bill's hand off, because his spine no longer bends that way.
Bill's hand comes into view, holding something that's sharp at one end, and feathered at the other.
Sam tries to take it, or, well mostly he doesn't because apparently his arms don't work either.
Bill catches his arms, and drags him upright, without even a 'if you don't mind' or as close to upright as he can get at the moment anyway, and he's tempted to dig his teeth in somewhere, he could dig them in hard enough to leave little indents on the bones, not quite as easy now he has his other teeth, but he could be like the cannibals he read about in Papa New Guinea.
Bill smells strange this close, all slippery, oddly dry, skin that doesn't sweat, and old blood. Powder, and cloth, and dust, porch mould, and dirt, and fireplace heat, with an undertone of leather, and something else...something he can't quite catch. It's hiding in-between everything else, flash of scent in every single movement, impossible to define.
Without thinking he turns his nose into Bill's hair, chases the flavour of it, and though he's aware of the scatter of grass, and dry dirt, the soft low noise of surprise, it's not as important as putting a name to...whatever this is.
It's like that word that means you see the things you smell, instead of smelling them, or hear tastes, because he can see the smell he can't find, but he can't place it, like he's going out of his mind or-
Or he's hallucinating.
He didn't know you could hallucinate smells.
And he's kind of glad Bill catches him when he goes over, because he's not a fan of having his face in the dirt.
Not a fan, at all.
It's been a long time, since he hasn't trusted his body to do what he wants, and he remembers how many he hated it.
The rolling tip/tilt of nausea isn't helping.
"Stay," Sam manages, and Bill huffs something that might be confusion, or might be indignation, or some crazy mix of both. "Gonna throw up," Sam slurs. "Stay still."
Bill obeys, which Sam is both annoyed about, and grateful for. But no one else is here, and he isn't exactly in a position to pretend they're two average, normal guys, who hate each other.
"Something's wrong," he thinks he slurs out, somehow.
He has a strange handful of hair, between over-sensitive fingers.
"I think you've been drugged," Bill says slowly, which is a damn stupid thing to say, because of course he's been drugged. Because whatever you put in tranquilisers to kill a...whatever the hell someone thought he was, whatever the hell just got injected into part of his body, who knows what the hell that was.
And Bill still has that same odd polite tone to his voice.
Like he isn't some god-awful mix of southern gentleman, and blood sucking monster. Sam isn't sure how that's supposed to work.
He suspects there's a dead man, with a rifle, in the grass somewhere, a man who clearly didn't mean anything good, but Sam's damned if he's going to throw Bill a parade.
His hands won't work, or at least, they'll go where he wants, but they won't do a damn thing to hold him up, he's left with one hand in the grass, and one on the bend of Bill's knee through denim.
He swears, pushes the scraped edge of his face against Bill's. Wet sting on cold skin.
There's a jerk of air down Bill's throat, and Sam can hear the swallow in the dark, rough and raw, and it's only then, stupidly, that Sam realises he's just painted blood across Bill's cheek.
He wonders, bizarrely, if he tastes different to other people.
He doesn't move away. Breathing slow in the dark.
They hang forever like that, a curl of bare limbs, and cold cloth.
Bill seems to take his breathing as permission, which Sam's really fucking annoyed about, until he remembers that they're both animals, and that's as good as.
You're not supposed to let strange men lick you, but every wet line leaves a shiver in its wake, sound lodged at the back of Sam's throat, and he can't quite hear Bill's voice, over the effort he's making keeping it in.
He should move, he should get up, and stumble his way home.
But he doesn't.
Sam thinks, maybe because this is the fucked up place where they meet, in the middle.
He stops holding it back, lets the sound shiver out.
Bill stops, air catching in his throat, though Sam's not generous enough to call it breathing. He shifts his head, follows the taste of his own blood into that cold wet mouth.
Bills goes very still, but Sam thinks maybe he's daring less than Bill did, not a second ago.
Aren't they all monsters in the dark.
He wants to know if Bill really is what he claims to be, or whether he's an animal after all.
Sam knows a little bit about animals.
Bill lets him push his shirt back off his shoulders, lets him push at it in dry tears of cloth, going to his knees in the dirt, where they skid on the damp grass. His arms untangle, then slide up Sam's waist, before Bill tips his head back, and away.
"This isn't a good idea."
Sam digs fingers in his hair, drags him back, makes him kiss him again, because this isn't all going to be about him. This isn't all going to be his fault. It's awkward this time, there's less space in Bill's mouth, all slide of hard teeth, and quick aggressive pushes. And Sam must be fucking crazy, because he's pushing right back.
He digs his nails into Bill's stomach, quick presses, like a cat, then drops his hands, pulls at belt buckle, and button, and zip.
His head's still telling him this is crazy, crazy, crazy.
He hates him, fucking hates him, though he's still moving, still pushing at the long edge of waistband, still sliding it down with one hand, and pulling with the other. Bill comes willingly.
He's heavy, no way to tell he's not there, all cold skin over muscle, pressing down where it shouldn't. Pressing in, where Sam is equally, traitorously, hard, slide-shift of skin, settling them against each other, into each other, while they fight over space to bruise.
Then move, jesus christ, it's not supposed to be this good.
"This never fucking happened," Sam says harshly, thigh pulled all the way up, nails dragging lines on the shifting edge of Bill's waist.
Bill pushes down harder in retaliation, stealing all the oxygen, and pushing a noise out of Sam that he'd drag back if he could.
"And don't you fucking bite me," Sam's breathless, and it comes out angry, Bill drops his forehead down, hard line against the edge of Sam's collarbone.
And Bill's breathing now, no other word for it, not when it slides out, and rushes back in like that.
Just across the line of too hard, and Sam's going to have finger bruises in his skin. But this is what he wanted, this is what he's been trying to prove even if he doesn't understand why.
Doesn't fucking understand.
So he digs his fingers in right back.
The world cracks into pieces, the night sky gone when he closes his eyes, and the whole world stops mattering.
He pretends it's not different when it comes back.
But he feels nothing like himself, laying defenceless, eyes closed, smelling like death by proxy.