Tagging: Josephine (Nikita), Sam/Owen.
Ships: Josephine/Sam.
Rating: M.
I (vaguely) promised this one to my darlingest Twitter friend Jae like four thousand years ago.
It is a companion piece to my story Ever Nor Never Goodbye, a sort of alternate universe adaptation of chapter eleven. (The alternate universe meaning I actually write graphic smut for a change.) You won't understand a thing if you haven't read that story.
Californian summer nights feel like a rough lover's embrace. The heat clings to your skin, the heaviness of the air sinks into your bones—Josephine likes to think of it as a caress by calloused fingers and an incessant hot breath against her neck.
She sits outside and watches the sun go down. It's her last day on earth, so to speak, and this is all she's got going for her as a shitty resemblance of a goodbye party. There is no booze. It's pathetic, honestly, but she pulls her knees up and hugs her arms around them and figures, well, it's better than nothing.
Her fingers dig into the soil. It scorches the tips. The warmth of a long day was absorbed by the grains and she is now holding onto them. The tears fill up her eyes and she blames being stupid enough to dig deeper into the heated core of the sand but that's not it.
So lame.
She laughs when she sniffles. It sounds so foreign coming from her, but it really vibrates from her throat, long and real and no longer hollow. She laughs because she cries, and it's the oddest thing.
With a deep intake of air she allows herself to fall back, the sturdy ground not accommodating her body in the least, and stares up at the sky. It is slowly colouring from bright to dark, from baby blue like Alex's eyes to the midnight blue of the shorts Sam looks so good in.
Sam… He's probably the only one that even minds she is considering this.
Not that there's anything left to consider. What is what she wants in contrast with these people that have been nothing but absolutely loving and caring?
She wipes over her forehead, only rubbing sand particles deeper into her skin.
"You're gonna get dirty."
Of course. She grins when her eyes flicker to Sam. Of course he can make her smile in a time like now.
She never knows if he means the sexual innuendos she picks up on—maybe the wishful thinking is too strong in her sometimes; she's pretty sure he doesn't mean it like that this time, but it manages to cheer her up nevertheless.
"I don't need sand to be dirty, you know that," she quips back, in that familiar way that she has gotten used to. The flirting has become more and more limited as she grew closer to him, felt him to be a kindred spirit; and he was the only one that looked at her like an actual person, but that wasn't the only reason she grew to trust him and care about him.
"How ever am I going to make an honest woman out of you?" He plops down in the sand with ease and nudges her foot with his own. Her smile becomes one that is… more honest, a bit more childlike. Innocent, but with a twist.
(She's thinking about him naked, which isn't exactly innocent, but he doesn't know that.)
(Those thoughts have been as frequent as breathing, too.)
(Oops?)
"You can't, Samuel." Her smile shows teeth and hurts her cheeks, and he taps her nose before he lays down next to her.
She can't help but curl into his side.
For the first time in a long time, she is utterly afraid. There's no saying things'll be fine in as little as a couple of hours, and she hasn't ever been more terrified even though she is following her heart, something she has always done.
His arms snake around her and she clings to him, her own arms around his waist. She feels his muscles through the fabric and he smells musky, manly. He smells irresistible, and he has been so irresistible already.
"You're so lame," he whispers between lips that press to her forehead and a set of fingers that inch to the edge of her tank top. His fingers are calloused. They tickle in the best ways as they rub across her hip and along her lower back.
It's supposed to be comforting, she guesses, but it makes heat coil in the pit of her stomach. Deep down, and it awakens something carnal that has been asleep for far too long.
Yet, for the sake of their friendship she values more than anything, she keeps still inside his embrace.
"Yeah, yeah. Talk shit and get hit."
"You wouldn't."
She buries her face in his shirt to soak up his smell. Everything about their conversation feels like one of her best memories thus far, when they had finally clicked. After she had cried in his neck and he had whispered secrets in her hair. Somehow they shifted that day to something so intricately complex, something that felt so natural and easy but truly wasn't.
She plants a kiss against his jaw before looking at him. "I probably would."
She is much closer to him than she anticipated though. She can count the freckles the sun kissed onto his nose and forehead. His eyes are vibrant and alive, the hint of dark confusion far away for once. The proximity is intoxicating and she almost does something she'd regret.
Almost.
But she doesn't, somehow she has found the strength, and instead she pushes herself up on his chest and staggers to her feet. "I should go—I don't know, do something, I guess."
His answer is delayed, detached—"Something sounds good."
Josephine is sifting through the few belongings that are littered around the bed with the handcuffs that she has taken to call her room when there's a knock on her door. She expects Birkhoff, maybe, or Michael. Maybe Alex.
She doesn't expect Sam with sweat drops along his hairline and dirty hands and she doesn't expect him to be a volcano that erupts, shoving her into the wall with his body and claiming her mouth with his lips.
The kiss is hard, teeth clashing, tongues like fire—so warm, setting her throat alight. She threads her fingers through his hair and pulls when he bites, attempting to keep some of the fight alive, to compete for the dominance that shifted in his favour when he came running down her door.
His body keeps her so steady pressed against the wall she can't physically turn anything around, though, so she tries the best she can. She grins. She grinds against his hips and feels hard length, she grinds against him to rub two layers of clothing against his obvious arousal because it's the only thing she can do and it works.
He keens. He pulls away from her to pant hot breath against her neck, to nip at fragile skin and leave marks but she's mostly distracted by his noises, thundering through her ears.
The weight of his body is crushing her in the best ways but the weight of his action has sent her world spinning, which is why she slips out of focus. She is usually so good at this, but Sam wins. He reigns. He marks her as his territory because she lets him, he runs rough hands under her shirt and bites along her collar bone and she's putty in his hands.
Eventually he carries her to the bed, when he's well on his way to literally kiss every inch of her body, and somehow he tears her top of before her back hits the mattress and oh.
Sam is now kissing down her abdomen and everything sizzles with heat.
"Didn't think I'd let you—"
"Don't talk." She doesn't want to think about what will inevitably happen.
He closes his mouth and kisses her instead.
Her fingers drag across his back when he descends again, mouth hot but skin hotter every time he lands somewhere, teeth and breath mingling together in a combination that's surely going to drive her insane.
Discarding his shirt and her bra are liberating, actually liberating, and when she presses up into his bare chest it's like coming home.
Now he is the one grinding, snugly fit between her legs, his erection now straining against his shorts and into her core and god damn. She arches up even more, so exposed already but not even caring anymore, every inhibition gone. She needs him. She has wanted him for a while but now she pulses with a need so overwhelming she can't even think about denying it.
He slips a hand into her panties, without bothering to remove any of her remaining clothes, and curls two fingers inside of her. The angle is horrible, for him, but she mewls as he touches her and moans into his neck, against his cheek, presses sloppy, needy kisses to his face and cants her hips into his movements.
She needs him deeper, but more than that, she wants all of him.
He doesn't stop until she clamps around him though, until she's pouring into his palm and he needs to steady her from the shaking of her limbs.
Only then do they bother with their pants. Only then does Josephine find it within herself to devote attention to him, to devote special care. She kisses his chest while her hand travels south, rubbing through flimsy boxers.
He's having none of it though. Sam groans between clenched teeth as he tears her hand away from him and wriggles out of his boxers, but isn't too kind to her panties—well, technically Sonya's. And then there's nothing between them.
He thrusts into her all at once, without a warning, and it's hard at first—it's needy, it's wanton. He holds her body to his with hands that leave her no option and everything about this is rushed but when she looks at him, his eyes speak as if they're beholding the most beautiful thing.
Her heart grows as weak as her knees.
Her head lulls from his shoulder to his neck and back, the moans slipping from her throat, the pace growing stagnant as everything is building, growing, climbing up and higher and everything around her grows warm, warmer, warmest. There's a peak, they're united and they don't orgasm together but it's close nevertheless, a mess of strangled noises and bodies that collapse, sweaty, overheated.
The feeling that follows is like a tidal wave, crashing into her suddenly but with so much power.
She looks at him, at Sam who has become her best friend despite the awkward beginning, despite being dysfunctional human beings at best—she wants nothing more than do this again, but slowly, measured, with heightened sense of the very limits of him.
She loves him.
But she isn't selfish enough to tell him, so she watches him pull out, she turns her back to him and allows his arm to rest lazily around her waist.
Maybe in another life. For now she can cling to the aftershocks of mind-blowing sex until there's nothing left.