Title: Sweet as Sin
Author: alyse
Rating: NC-17
Fandom: True Blood
Characters/Pairing: Jessica/Hoyt
Word Count: 2,500
Warnings/Spoilers: Spoilers for 3.11. Blood play.
Disclaimer: Not mine. The originals belong to Charlaine Harris but these versions belong to HBO, which means there's more nudity.
Author's Notes: Written for my![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
kissbingo card, for the square 'experimental: licking'. Thanks go to ![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
aithine for beta duties.
Summary: Hoyt is just the sweetest thing.
-o-
Hoyt is just the sweetest thing.
It ain't by way of a revelation, not to Jessica leastways. She knows by now how different people - different blood groups, Bill would say - don't taste the same, even if Bill didn't tell her that. She figured that one out on her own. Before she knew different, she'd have thought it was like True Blood with its marketing of a variety flavours to the latest 'socio-economic target group' - vampires are supposed to have a lot of disposable income, not that Jessica's noticed or she sure as hell wouldn't be working at Merlotte's just to buy some pretty things. But it ain't a question of A or B or AB; even O - real O, not the bottled kind - ain't exactly ordinary. People just taste like they are, and they're all different. She couldn't tell you what blood group Hoyt is, leastways not yet, not as young as she is. Maybe when she's as old as Pam or Bill, even, she'll be able to tell, but it don't matter none.
What matters is Hoyt, warm under her hands, breathing against her neck and, oh, how he tastes. Sweet and kind and most of all hers.
That old trucker tasted acrid, like the inside of an old tobacco tin. Kind of dry and with an aftertaste she didn't care for even 'fore his heart stopped beating. Peach certainly hadn't been as sweet as her namesake; she'd tasted of too many cares and a few too many apple martinis, small and petty and a little bitter.
But Hoyt, oh, Hoyt. Hoyt tastes like sunshine and rainbows and the air after it's rained. Hoyt tastes like the sweetest of apples, when the dew's still on 'em, or like molasses on pancakes, and his heart beats thick and slow as she drinks him in. His hands hold her tight to him, and she's sitting in his lap now, rocking against him, slow and sweet 'gainst the hardness in his jeans. And this might even be better 'n sex, but sex with Hoyt is pretty damned sweet, too, even if they've only done it properly that one time.
Jessica wants to drink and drink, drink him all in and hold him somewhere deep inside her, but that ain't gonna happen, no sir. She don't need to think about the things that Pam told her of - rotting meat and filth and the stench of human decay - to stop her greedy mouth. She just has to think of a world without Hoyt in it as his heartbeat slows, of an eternity stretching out before her full of nothing but loneliness, and then it's easy to pull her mouth away.
His eyes are closed and he's breathing fast, a little frown wrinkling his brow. The blood's oozing from the bite on his neck, and she lowers her head and licks it away, feeling him shiver so sweetly beneath her.
She has to kiss him even though the taste of his blood is still in her mouth, but it don't seem to bother him none. He opens up to her just as sweet as you please, and his mouth is as eager as hers. Her fangs are still out but that's never bothered him either; he traces them with his tongue, pulling her closer until she thinks she'll melt into him; it's her turn to shiver, but it's the good sort. It ain't 'cause she's cold. It's 'cause she's burning, Hoyt's sweet blood coursing through her and Hoyt's hands running all over her body.
He's still bleeding when she pulls away, and she twists her head, licking a path down his neck to his chest, following that trail wherever it runs. It's slowing but she should still stop it. She knows how to do that. Didn't need Bill to tell her that, nor Pam neither, not that either of them would. All Hoyt needs is a little of her blood in return and he'll be as good as new. Better, even.
But not just yet. Not 'til she's mapped every inch of his chest with her mouth, wet, open and greedy kisses that don't have any bite behind them. She's still hungry, but it's not all about blood, not this time. She's hungry for Hoyt, and she's never going to get her fill of him.
His eyes are a little glazed when she looks up, and for a second she thinks maybe she's drunk too deep, left him too drained to think straight, but then he rocks against her again and she gets it - it ain't that he's got too little blood, it's that all his blood is somewhere other than his brain, and she blushes to think it. She can feel the warmth of it rush to her face, and ain't that the kicker? That it's his blood that lets her blush, and it's him that's the reason for it.
But she's still hungry, and she kisses her way back up to the puncture marks she's left on his neck. It makes her shiver again when she sees them, sunk deep into his flesh. She left them, she did and no one else has marked - or will mark - Hoyt like that. Like he's hers and no one else's, property of Jessica Hamby. She flicks her tongue across them, just like she was a snake or something, and Hoyt bucks up against her, the look in his eyes lost.
Ain't nothing in them but need and a lust for her.
She sucks at the wounds, but keeps her fangs away. She's so turned on she can't keep 'em in, but she can keep 'em from doing any more damage. 'Sides, this ain't what she's hungry for, not now, and she pulls away and finds Hoyt's mouth again.
Her kisses have left blood smeared on his face - his blood - and the sight is hotter than almost anything, except maybe the feel of Hoyt, all hard and tense underneath her. She licks the blood away, licks her way back into his mouth, and he pulls at her, greedy hands grabbing at her then sliding away, like he can't get enough of holding her but can't quite decide where's best. They settle on her ass and she jerks against him, still burning and it ain't all down to the warmth of Hoyt's blood flowing through her.
His mouth tastes like him, still sweet, still Hoyt, but stronger now that the taste of his blood is on his tongue, and it's hard to tear herself away. He tries to follow her - sweet Hoyt - but she places her hand on his chest, right over his heart, and holds him away just long enough for her to do what's needed.
She doesn't bite her wrist this time - he don't need that much blood to heal. She bites her finger instead, just a little prick, and watches as a bead of blood forms on the tip of it.
When Hoyt grabs at her wrist, she thinks he's going to pull her finger to his mouth, like he's as greedy for her blood as she was for his, but he kisses his way up her wrist, her arm, her inner elbow instead, before his mouth finds her neck and, oh, that always makes her shiver and shake, his mouth moving slowly against her skin just there. He sucks, hard, like he could suck his blood right back outta her again, and she feels the thrill of that all the way down to her cunt; just the thought of that word - all sharp, harsh angles and good/bad in her mind (nice girls don't use words like that, her daddy always said) - makes her all shivery again, and wetter than she ought to be.
She sinks her fingers - the ones that ain't bleeding - into his hair and pulls his head back. Not too hard, 'cause she ain't mean but she means business and when his head comes back, there's still blood smeared on his chin. Must be on her neck now, too, and that's another one for the shivery, too hot and too cold for her body list, like her skin don't quite fit.
The things this boy does to her, all those sinful things her daddy warned her about and he should have saved his breath. There's no resisting this, and it sure ain't hell it's leading her to.
His eyes meet hers this time, and they're a little clearer when she presses her finger, still dripping her blood, to his mouth. It smears against his lips, bright and vivid red like his mouth after they've been kissing when she's been wearing lipstick, a scarlet shade that good girls don't wear (only whores). Guess she'd better quit even thinking about being good, because Hoyt looks too damned tasty with his mouth all red and wild like that.
He licks at his lips, and she leans in and licks at them, too, their tongues all tangled up together, and it sets her on fire, burning hot, shivering cold.
His hands slide to her ass again, and this time they slide underneath the waistband of her jeans, down to stroke over her pale pink panties, the ones with the little bows; she surges against him, her hands in his hair, stroking down over his neck, never still. Not when she wants this - wants him - so damned much.
When she rises up to undo her jeans, he tries to follow her, like he don't want to let go of her entirely in case she doesn't come back or something. Like that's ever gonna happen. But it don't matter that his hands get in the way when she's trying to get her clothes off - she just laughs into his mouth, against his skin as their fingers get all tangled up. She's getting naked, one way or another, and he's gonna get naked, too.
But in the end, she keeps her top on, too impatient to strip entirely, and his hands slide up her back, under the fabric, pulling her back down to him as she settles in his lap again. Ain't but the work of a moment to undo his jeans, and he's hot and hard in her hands as she eases his dick (his cock, his penis) out into the air. Maybe she should go down on him, lick him there and see if he tastes as sweet as his blood tastes - they ain't done that yet, and she blushes to even think about it, but if she's going to hell she's going to hell, and being a cocksucker don't even register on the scale of fucked-up-ness that's her life - but she's too impatient.
She wants him in her, fucking into her, fucking her but good.
It hurts like it always hurts when he slides into her, but she don't mind the pain of her ever-present virginity this time. It's like it makes them equal, maybe, when she remembers the way that Hoyt bucked against her, huffing out a breath when her teeth dug into his neck. Or maybe it's just that she's so high on his blood, so high on the feel of him in her, she don't feel much of anything else. And it's good, so good, his hard cock inside her, stroking into her every time she rises up and pushes back down again.
He buries his face in her neck, mouth moving over her skin, breath coming out of him in little gasps as she fucks him, or he fucks her, or whatever. And his hands don't stay still - they're all over her, moving over her back, sliding into her hair, grabbing at her breasts and squeezing, hard and rough. Rougher than Hoyt usually is, but she don't mind that either. She don't mind at all, not with his dick this big inside her, grinding up into her as she moves on him.
He smells so good up this close; she's drunk her fill, enough to keep her going for days and days, but she's greedy. She bites into his neck again and he bucks up against her, driving deeper inside her - it makes her whimper and it makes him groan, and her body shakes with the feel of both of those sounds running through her. She may be greedy, but she's not stupid. She tears herself away from him - and it's hard, so hard, but she's still not going to risk a world without Hoyt - and sinks her teeth into her wrist this time, pressing her bleeding flesh against his mouth as she sinks her fangs back into his neck.
He sucks hard, and she can feel it, like his blood is pulsing into her with each thrust of his body, each beat of his heart, and then it's rushing straight back out of her into him, all in time, beat by beat by beat. The pleasure's building and she's crying out, the sounds she's making muffled against his skin, but even so it's a good job that Bill does the whole vampire/graveyard shtick and all their neighbours are dead, not just them, or she'd be waking 'em all for sure with the noises she's making.
But then she thinks, she don't need to be quiet, and she don't need to be a good girl, not anymore, and somewhere in among the pleasure whirling around in her, she figures what the hell. She don't need to drink no more, not when she was wrong and Hoyt's blood ain't quite as good as the feel of him fucking her. So she pulls her mouth away from his neck, arches her back and screams her pleasure into the sky.
Hoyt's right behind her, mouth still pulling at her wrist, throat still swallowing her blood as he empties into her, hot and wet spurts. He don't want to let go as she collapses down onto him; his lips still move mindlessly over her skin even though she's already healing and there ain't going to be much blood left coming out for him to drink. He's healed as well, quick as anything; when she runs her fingers gently over his neck, wiping away the blood, it's to see unblemished skin underneath.
If they stayed like this for a little while, him still buried to the hilt in her, not yet soft, not entirely, would that mean her hymen wouldn't heal this time? Or maybe it would still heal, but with a Hoyt shaped dent in it, like it was fitted perfectly to the contours of his dick or something. She could live with that.
When she turns her head, there's blood all over Hoyt's face, dripping off his chin onto his chest. Her blood this time, not his, but she still leans in and presses her mouth to his, just to taste him. It tastes different, like they're all mixed together, but it's just as sweet, just as satisfying.
"I love you," he murmurs against her mouth, and that's her boy.
Sweet as anything.
The End
Author: alyse
Rating: NC-17
Fandom: True Blood
Characters/Pairing: Jessica/Hoyt
Word Count: 2,500
Warnings/Spoilers: Spoilers for 3.11. Blood play.
Disclaimer: Not mine. The originals belong to Charlaine Harris but these versions belong to HBO, which means there's more nudity.
Author's Notes: Written for my
kissbingo card, for the square 'experimental: licking'. Thanks go to aithine for beta duties.Summary: Hoyt is just the sweetest thing.
-o-
Hoyt is just the sweetest thing.
It ain't by way of a revelation, not to Jessica leastways. She knows by now how different people - different blood groups, Bill would say - don't taste the same, even if Bill didn't tell her that. She figured that one out on her own. Before she knew different, she'd have thought it was like True Blood with its marketing of a variety flavours to the latest 'socio-economic target group' - vampires are supposed to have a lot of disposable income, not that Jessica's noticed or she sure as hell wouldn't be working at Merlotte's just to buy some pretty things. But it ain't a question of A or B or AB; even O - real O, not the bottled kind - ain't exactly ordinary. People just taste like they are, and they're all different. She couldn't tell you what blood group Hoyt is, leastways not yet, not as young as she is. Maybe when she's as old as Pam or Bill, even, she'll be able to tell, but it don't matter none.
What matters is Hoyt, warm under her hands, breathing against her neck and, oh, how he tastes. Sweet and kind and most of all hers.
That old trucker tasted acrid, like the inside of an old tobacco tin. Kind of dry and with an aftertaste she didn't care for even 'fore his heart stopped beating. Peach certainly hadn't been as sweet as her namesake; she'd tasted of too many cares and a few too many apple martinis, small and petty and a little bitter.
But Hoyt, oh, Hoyt. Hoyt tastes like sunshine and rainbows and the air after it's rained. Hoyt tastes like the sweetest of apples, when the dew's still on 'em, or like molasses on pancakes, and his heart beats thick and slow as she drinks him in. His hands hold her tight to him, and she's sitting in his lap now, rocking against him, slow and sweet 'gainst the hardness in his jeans. And this might even be better 'n sex, but sex with Hoyt is pretty damned sweet, too, even if they've only done it properly that one time.
Jessica wants to drink and drink, drink him all in and hold him somewhere deep inside her, but that ain't gonna happen, no sir. She don't need to think about the things that Pam told her of - rotting meat and filth and the stench of human decay - to stop her greedy mouth. She just has to think of a world without Hoyt in it as his heartbeat slows, of an eternity stretching out before her full of nothing but loneliness, and then it's easy to pull her mouth away.
His eyes are closed and he's breathing fast, a little frown wrinkling his brow. The blood's oozing from the bite on his neck, and she lowers her head and licks it away, feeling him shiver so sweetly beneath her.
She has to kiss him even though the taste of his blood is still in her mouth, but it don't seem to bother him none. He opens up to her just as sweet as you please, and his mouth is as eager as hers. Her fangs are still out but that's never bothered him either; he traces them with his tongue, pulling her closer until she thinks she'll melt into him; it's her turn to shiver, but it's the good sort. It ain't 'cause she's cold. It's 'cause she's burning, Hoyt's sweet blood coursing through her and Hoyt's hands running all over her body.
He's still bleeding when she pulls away, and she twists her head, licking a path down his neck to his chest, following that trail wherever it runs. It's slowing but she should still stop it. She knows how to do that. Didn't need Bill to tell her that, nor Pam neither, not that either of them would. All Hoyt needs is a little of her blood in return and he'll be as good as new. Better, even.
But not just yet. Not 'til she's mapped every inch of his chest with her mouth, wet, open and greedy kisses that don't have any bite behind them. She's still hungry, but it's not all about blood, not this time. She's hungry for Hoyt, and she's never going to get her fill of him.
His eyes are a little glazed when she looks up, and for a second she thinks maybe she's drunk too deep, left him too drained to think straight, but then he rocks against her again and she gets it - it ain't that he's got too little blood, it's that all his blood is somewhere other than his brain, and she blushes to think it. She can feel the warmth of it rush to her face, and ain't that the kicker? That it's his blood that lets her blush, and it's him that's the reason for it.
But she's still hungry, and she kisses her way back up to the puncture marks she's left on his neck. It makes her shiver again when she sees them, sunk deep into his flesh. She left them, she did and no one else has marked - or will mark - Hoyt like that. Like he's hers and no one else's, property of Jessica Hamby. She flicks her tongue across them, just like she was a snake or something, and Hoyt bucks up against her, the look in his eyes lost.
Ain't nothing in them but need and a lust for her.
She sucks at the wounds, but keeps her fangs away. She's so turned on she can't keep 'em in, but she can keep 'em from doing any more damage. 'Sides, this ain't what she's hungry for, not now, and she pulls away and finds Hoyt's mouth again.
Her kisses have left blood smeared on his face - his blood - and the sight is hotter than almost anything, except maybe the feel of Hoyt, all hard and tense underneath her. She licks the blood away, licks her way back into his mouth, and he pulls at her, greedy hands grabbing at her then sliding away, like he can't get enough of holding her but can't quite decide where's best. They settle on her ass and she jerks against him, still burning and it ain't all down to the warmth of Hoyt's blood flowing through her.
His mouth tastes like him, still sweet, still Hoyt, but stronger now that the taste of his blood is on his tongue, and it's hard to tear herself away. He tries to follow her - sweet Hoyt - but she places her hand on his chest, right over his heart, and holds him away just long enough for her to do what's needed.
She doesn't bite her wrist this time - he don't need that much blood to heal. She bites her finger instead, just a little prick, and watches as a bead of blood forms on the tip of it.
When Hoyt grabs at her wrist, she thinks he's going to pull her finger to his mouth, like he's as greedy for her blood as she was for his, but he kisses his way up her wrist, her arm, her inner elbow instead, before his mouth finds her neck and, oh, that always makes her shiver and shake, his mouth moving slowly against her skin just there. He sucks, hard, like he could suck his blood right back outta her again, and she feels the thrill of that all the way down to her cunt; just the thought of that word - all sharp, harsh angles and good/bad in her mind (nice girls don't use words like that, her daddy always said) - makes her all shivery again, and wetter than she ought to be.
She sinks her fingers - the ones that ain't bleeding - into his hair and pulls his head back. Not too hard, 'cause she ain't mean but she means business and when his head comes back, there's still blood smeared on his chin. Must be on her neck now, too, and that's another one for the shivery, too hot and too cold for her body list, like her skin don't quite fit.
The things this boy does to her, all those sinful things her daddy warned her about and he should have saved his breath. There's no resisting this, and it sure ain't hell it's leading her to.
His eyes meet hers this time, and they're a little clearer when she presses her finger, still dripping her blood, to his mouth. It smears against his lips, bright and vivid red like his mouth after they've been kissing when she's been wearing lipstick, a scarlet shade that good girls don't wear (only whores). Guess she'd better quit even thinking about being good, because Hoyt looks too damned tasty with his mouth all red and wild like that.
He licks at his lips, and she leans in and licks at them, too, their tongues all tangled up together, and it sets her on fire, burning hot, shivering cold.
His hands slide to her ass again, and this time they slide underneath the waistband of her jeans, down to stroke over her pale pink panties, the ones with the little bows; she surges against him, her hands in his hair, stroking down over his neck, never still. Not when she wants this - wants him - so damned much.
When she rises up to undo her jeans, he tries to follow her, like he don't want to let go of her entirely in case she doesn't come back or something. Like that's ever gonna happen. But it don't matter that his hands get in the way when she's trying to get her clothes off - she just laughs into his mouth, against his skin as their fingers get all tangled up. She's getting naked, one way or another, and he's gonna get naked, too.
But in the end, she keeps her top on, too impatient to strip entirely, and his hands slide up her back, under the fabric, pulling her back down to him as she settles in his lap again. Ain't but the work of a moment to undo his jeans, and he's hot and hard in her hands as she eases his dick (his cock, his penis) out into the air. Maybe she should go down on him, lick him there and see if he tastes as sweet as his blood tastes - they ain't done that yet, and she blushes to even think about it, but if she's going to hell she's going to hell, and being a cocksucker don't even register on the scale of fucked-up-ness that's her life - but she's too impatient.
She wants him in her, fucking into her, fucking her but good.
It hurts like it always hurts when he slides into her, but she don't mind the pain of her ever-present virginity this time. It's like it makes them equal, maybe, when she remembers the way that Hoyt bucked against her, huffing out a breath when her teeth dug into his neck. Or maybe it's just that she's so high on his blood, so high on the feel of him in her, she don't feel much of anything else. And it's good, so good, his hard cock inside her, stroking into her every time she rises up and pushes back down again.
He buries his face in her neck, mouth moving over her skin, breath coming out of him in little gasps as she fucks him, or he fucks her, or whatever. And his hands don't stay still - they're all over her, moving over her back, sliding into her hair, grabbing at her breasts and squeezing, hard and rough. Rougher than Hoyt usually is, but she don't mind that either. She don't mind at all, not with his dick this big inside her, grinding up into her as she moves on him.
He smells so good up this close; she's drunk her fill, enough to keep her going for days and days, but she's greedy. She bites into his neck again and he bucks up against her, driving deeper inside her - it makes her whimper and it makes him groan, and her body shakes with the feel of both of those sounds running through her. She may be greedy, but she's not stupid. She tears herself away from him - and it's hard, so hard, but she's still not going to risk a world without Hoyt - and sinks her teeth into her wrist this time, pressing her bleeding flesh against his mouth as she sinks her fangs back into his neck.
He sucks hard, and she can feel it, like his blood is pulsing into her with each thrust of his body, each beat of his heart, and then it's rushing straight back out of her into him, all in time, beat by beat by beat. The pleasure's building and she's crying out, the sounds she's making muffled against his skin, but even so it's a good job that Bill does the whole vampire/graveyard shtick and all their neighbours are dead, not just them, or she'd be waking 'em all for sure with the noises she's making.
But then she thinks, she don't need to be quiet, and she don't need to be a good girl, not anymore, and somewhere in among the pleasure whirling around in her, she figures what the hell. She don't need to drink no more, not when she was wrong and Hoyt's blood ain't quite as good as the feel of him fucking her. So she pulls her mouth away from his neck, arches her back and screams her pleasure into the sky.
Hoyt's right behind her, mouth still pulling at her wrist, throat still swallowing her blood as he empties into her, hot and wet spurts. He don't want to let go as she collapses down onto him; his lips still move mindlessly over her skin even though she's already healing and there ain't going to be much blood left coming out for him to drink. He's healed as well, quick as anything; when she runs her fingers gently over his neck, wiping away the blood, it's to see unblemished skin underneath.
If they stayed like this for a little while, him still buried to the hilt in her, not yet soft, not entirely, would that mean her hymen wouldn't heal this time? Or maybe it would still heal, but with a Hoyt shaped dent in it, like it was fitted perfectly to the contours of his dick or something. She could live with that.
When she turns her head, there's blood all over Hoyt's face, dripping off his chin onto his chest. Her blood this time, not his, but she still leans in and presses her mouth to his, just to taste him. It tastes different, like they're all mixed together, but it's just as sweet, just as satisfying.
"I love you," he murmurs against her mouth, and that's her boy.
Sweet as anything.
The End