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[elinorwise]

young man, young man (your arm’s too short to box with God) by hellhoundsprey, соуллесс!Джек/Сэм, дабкон.
Читатель отдабконен в мозг по полной программе. Мало мне было соуллесс!Сэма.
Очень хороший текст.

Sam’s eyes flicker to the bulge in Jack’s jeans on sheer instinct; back up. He clears his throat. “Buddy… We really should…”


Easy, “No,” and Jack shifts his weight to his knees, lets his ass come off Sam’s stomach so he has his hands free to start fumbling with the buttons of Sam’s flannel.


Sam bucks, then.


Attempts a throw, a hold, something, but he can’t even weave his arm underneath Jack’s thigh before the Nephilim has already gripped his wrists, pushed him back down; hands cradled to his chest and trembling, and Jack just looks at him, casual and firm and his hair falls into his eyes, now, and Sam is—he can’t.


Sam’s legs scramble, but Jack is an immobile weight on top of him. Sam is barefoot. His heels catch on the sheets and pull them into disarray, but that’s—all.


Again, “Jack,” and Jack mirrors, “Sam,” and a tiny smile curls over that mouth, like maybe he thinks this is a game, and Sam swallows and half-coughs with the pressure on his lungs.


Jack informs, “You don’t have to be scared at all. I know what I’m doing, you know. I did my research.”

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