Supernatural ficlet: waiting for the poppy buds to split open waiting for the poppy buds to split open [Supernatural, Sam/Lenore, NC-17, 771 words. Written for the Porn Battle, prompt word fallen. Thanks to tvm for staying up to look it over for me.]
Waiting for the closing cadence, a harbinger of your distraction, is like waiting
for the poppy buds to split open and spill their compressed warmth, their inevitable defeat. -- Jane Gibian - Suspended
waiting for the poppy buds to split open
He smells blood on her. Fresh and tangy, and the glint in her eye tells Sam that she's noticed the curl of his nostril and the sharp breath. She's waiting, now, standing still and proud, waiting for him to accuse her. Of falling, giving in to the need.
"Come here," he says quietly, and beckons to his lap as he sits down at the table. Lenore joins him, facing him, and the scent is stronger now, on her, definitely. She doesn't relax into him the way she normally does – he has to take her by the arms and draw her into him, resting his chin on her head for a moment.
He waits for her to tell him, patient now. Patience learned in the weeks since she's joined him and Dean, hunting with them. She's not fast with her confidences, wary still, not used to trusting humans. He thinks she trusts him though, now.
Kisses her hair, rain-water soft.
Eventually. She looks up at him. Little crease in the corner of her eye, the start of a smile. She always smiles more with her eyes than her mouth. "I'm bleeding," she says.
"You're hurt?" Sam asks. Concerned. Touches her, skims his hands gently over her, finding familiar curves and angles but no wounds. Looks. He can't see anything wrong. "Where? Was it a hunter?"
A bark of a laugh. "Not hurt, no. Just bleeding." Slow, deliberate smile.
It takes a moment and then. "Oh," Sam says. "I didn't realize. I just—um—well, assumed you didn't."
She's visibly amused at his awkwardness. "A new bit of vampire lore to add to your notebook. Though you might want to leave out the detail that it makes me incredibly horny."
She wriggles on his lap, pressure just so, and Sam groans. Head back. "God, Lenore."
She grinds down, and maybe it's his imagination, or maybe there's warmth there. Pushing him down, into the seat, and he's hard, has been for a while. Her thighs grip his, too tight, too strong to be human, and that shouldn't be as much of a turn-on as it is.
Hands up her skirt – tight, but he pushes it up out of the way – and he pauses with the curve of her ass in his palms. Perfect fit.
She huffs, impatient. Breath cool in his ear. "Fingers," she demands.
Obedient, he slides his fingers down, between her thighs, finding the damp heat. The pad in her panties is soaked. He tugs them down, blood smearing on her leg as he pulls them off and throws them to the floor. Scent stronger now, familiar but not, different from the stench of a hunt.
He gives her his fingers, reaching into the sticky fleshy mess. It's amazing, and he feels privileged. He brushes her clit with his thumb and she grunts her approval, harsh syllabic assent. He feels her body's tremors and drops his face to her neck, biting sharp against chill skin even as his fingers stroke softly against the warmth inside her.
"Yes, yes, yes," she says, her voice cracking and desperate, and for a second he feels like he understands everything, like she's split him open and filled him up again with all her knowledge. Like a drug fueled moment when he could fly, do anything he wanted. It's heady and shocking.
His hand is sopping wet, dark clots of blood sticking to his fingers. Lenore wipes him off on her skirt, careless of the mess it leaves behind, then opens his jeans. Each pop of the button registers, the scrape of coarse fabric and elastic over sensitive skin almost too much, and he feels like a teenager again when she takes his cock in her hand, guiding, and sinks onto him.
Takes a deep breath, willing control.
His hands fit almost around her waist. She's so tiny against him, but not delicate – he's learned that, learned not to treat her that way. She's used to protecting her own, not being protected. So he holds her tight enough to bruise anyone else, lifts her up, shares the work as she rises and falls.
Her eyes are deep and dark, full of answers, full of questions, and she intrigues him more than anyone he's ever met. He stares into them, and she doesn't flinch but holds his gaze unblinking, and he comes like that, wordless shout escaping him.
Such a fine borderline between life and death – they've both died, and they've both come back – and now Sam's not sure there even is a border any more. The room smells of blood and sex. Life – not death.
pesha tells me there are 158 entries (plus 17 bonus/extended works) up on the Porn Battle site (and some more on the post since the last tally), in 61 fandoms! And there's still over a day to go!