Yeah, yeah, more of this Sam/Jess stuff. Except now with porn.
Once again, pre-series, no spoilers. Explicit het smut, but also implied Wincest. Really just a dirty PWP.
And yeah, they are not mine, none of them. I am dirt poor and not worthy of being sued.
Concurrent or Consecutive
We're more of the love, blood, and rhetoric school. Well, we can do you blood and love without the rhetoric, and we can do you blood and rhetoric without the love, and we can do you all three concurrent or consecutive. But we can't give you love and rhetoric without the blood. Blood is compulsory. They're all blood, you see.
- Rosencrantz & Guildenstern Are Dead (Tom Stoppard)
On their first date, at least the first one where they made it out of the dorms, for actual non-school related activities, they watched Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead put on in a tiny side room at the student union.
It had to be done of course, especially when Sam turned wide, guileless eyes on Jess after she pointed out a poster advertising it and said, "Wait, what? I've never heard of it."
"Jesus, Sam, sometimes I think you grew up on monster movies and textbooks and that's it," Jess said. She laughed and shook her head, sending fair hair spinning around her shoulders.
Sam just shrugged and reached out to tangle a strand of hair around a fingertip, easy and casual. "Hey, I was the baby of the family. No one asked me about my opinion on movies, and plays… forget about it," he said in that aw shucks kind of sweet way that Jess was already starting to figure out was faker than a playboy bunny's tits.
"Well, you're all grown up now, baby." She tugged her hair free, and then used a strand to tickle under his chin, making him grin and scattering that fake sweetness like a mirage.
Still, the next morning, first thing after class, Jess went down to the Union and bought tickets.
It was bad. Well, mediocre, because it was hard to actually make those lines bad, exactly. Jess watched Sam's eyes instead, watched him stare, as if he'd never seen a play put on by live actors before in his life, which couldn't be right.
"Blood, love and rhetoric, huh?" he asked, after it was over, and rested his head on her should momentarily. "That was cool. I liked that. Thanks for asking me."
"You're welcome." Jess grinned maniacally and clutched him by the strands of hair that were already growing out of the military cut he'd come to Stanford with into something grabable. Kissed him hard, and he kissed back like he'd been born for kissing.
His room was the closest, so they went there, stopping every few moments along the way to push each other against walls and tease with fingers and tongues and wild laughter that made people stare. Jess figured they had to be jealous.
Sam locked the door to his room and pushed the chair up against it. "Just in case," he said, and rolled his eyes right along with her at the shared memory of his roommate's total failure to knock.
And then, just like that, Sam was almost on top of Jess. His hands in her hair, and on her shoulders, stripping her bare with a concentration he usually reserved for class work.
"Blood, love and rhetoric," Jess murmured into the long curve of Sam's back. So much smooth, tanned skin, like an invitation to mark it up. Some clearly had. There were long white lines of scars that Sam didn't explain and she didn't ask about. Questions weren't something a person asked Sam Winchester. "That's us. Except without the blood."
Sam laughed through his moan and slid his hips back against her mouth. "We can't be that. Blood is compulsory, remember?"
"Only in Shakespeare," she whispered. Her tongue was warm and slick gliding down the fine line of his spine. Down and down until she found and kissed the hollow where it met his ass. She traced over the small dark letters of a tattoo, right there, and fuck, that must have hurt to get done over bone like that. She could feel Sam's body go stiff at the touch of her tongue there, tracing the letters out in saliva.
And questions weren't something you asked Sam Winchester, but fuck that.
Jess dug her nails into hips, tugging him closer until he whimpered and relaxed and then slithered back up his body to whisper in his ear. "What's DW mean?"
She felt him seize up, harder than before, and the whimper he made was almost not a sex sound. Sweaty skin eased the passage of her hands and thighs as she squeezed the muscle beneath her. She could feel the way he forced his body to unclench, muscle by muscle, controlled and deliberate. He was probably lying when he opened his mouth. Sam did that sometimes. A lot of the time.
"Why'd you ask?" he murmured lazily, like he had nothing on his mind but sex. Big hands reached back around her, long enough to grab her ass and pull her down hard, her breasts flattening against his back, skin grazing over scars.
Jess whimpered and fought for breath, but his hands were relentless until she got her nails into his nipples, hard enough to mark him up, make his head arch back, soft hair spiking against her neck and chest and his hands fisting down at his sides.
So easy. She rolled her eyes and settled her weight on her elbows on either side of him. "Cause you have it tattooed on your ass, dimwit. Silly question, huh?"
He laughed at that, and it only sounded a little hollow. "Drunken mistake. I'm a huge D.W. Griffith fan, actually. Or I was before I figured out he was racist scum and his movies are kinda boring."
"Uh huh," Jess said mildly. She moved down, weight still on her elbows, using the leverage to force his thighs apart and make space for herself there. Mouth on that spot, those letters on his skin. God, this boy.
She tongued him there until he whimpered and then bit down at the curve of his ass. Hard. Grinning when he arched and yelped. And ground his hips right into the mattress. Yeah, that was it.
"Tell the truth, Sam, my boy."
"Mmm… make me," a whisper, dark and growly, and only a little amused. Fake amusement, and only Sam would be trying this hard, like this, legs splayed open for her, and her teeth marks on his ass.
Jess slid a hand around his waist and down and further down, feeling the weight of him. His cock, the pulse of it. Soft skin. Hard and leaking. Heavy balls. Heavy boy. Her mouth twitched.
"I will. I will make you. With love and rhetoric, baby."
"Uh huh," he ground out, spreading that little bit more and quivering under her touch. She ran her tongue into the perfect curve of ass and inside. Swift and deep and he all but jump when she touched the spot below his balls.
"Come on, tell me," she whispered, breath right there, cheek pressed against cheek, feeling the downy heat of him. He tasted clean, fresh from the shower.
"No," he hissed, and gasped. His cock throbbed like he was moments from losing it, and no, no way would it be that easy.
His voice. Rough, and he all but screamed when her fingers tightened around his balls, hard enough to cut him off half way to coming.
"Your ex-girlfriend, right?" she asked, voice as gentle as her hands weren't. She moved up, harsh, jerky motions, not enough sweat to make it smooth. Moved and climbed until she was straddling him, pelvis grinding against his ass, pressing against her inner lips right there. There. Fuck.
She needed, like a dildo or something. Fuck. Next time they were going to her room where she had one.
"You think I'll be jealous, right?" Still gentle, soft voiced with one hand clenched around his balls.
He said nothing, but he shook his head hard enough for her to feel the motion. She let her free hand slide up to cover his mouth. Tightly clenched lips and she could feel teeth under her fingertips, biting skin. Not hers.
"Relax, Sammy. I won't be. Come on," she murmured, hands pushing encouragingly on his body. "S'not like I don't know where you are now."
"Yeah," he whispered, the sound coming out like a sob. His lips parted against the words. "Yeah." She could feel him bucking against her, every movement. She slid her fingers into his open mouth, feeling his tongue against them. Long and hot, just the same as it felt inside her.
"Tell me," Jess whispered, her hand stroking between his legs. Hard, still too rough, twisting with her wrist at the head. Not lubed except by his sweat and pre-come and it had to fucking hurt, but he arched into it like it was the whole world. "Just tell me what it means."
"Blood. Just blood. It's all blood," he said. Harsh, begging breaths, like he was gasping for air. And she came, hard, riding up against him, caressed by the roughness of his voice.