Note that most of what I write has NSFW themes and might not be for everyone! Please do not interact with smut fics if you are a minor. However, feel free to read the fluff and whatnot.
Sneak peak at the polytrix fic that won the poll below 😉
Her hair was purple, which was weird. Weird and definitely not super attractive in a way that beckoned Zoey to run her hands through it. The braid it was in seemed permanent, and she momentarily wondered if those purple threads of silk had ever been free from the confines of those perfectly woven strands. Slung over her right shoulder, the ends brushed just below her jean-clad knee. The jeans were shockingly baggy for a prissy rich woman, light wash fabric falling perfectly around her ankles in a way that screamed tailored. Zoey’s eyes trailed an uncontrollable path; down the braid to the jeans, up and up and over smooth, pale skin exposed by the form fitting—and cropped, oh my god—white tank clinging to her toned upper half, and finally settling on her face.
The woman’s brow was quirked, clearly entertained by the way the shorter girl had soaked in the sight of her. Zoey scolded herself, married, she’s married.
“Zoey, is it?” the married woman smiled wider as the name left her mouth, “we’ve been looking forward to your arrival.”
She must have imagined the way Mrs. Ryu’s eyes trailed down her body. The pink tongue that peaked out to wet her lips must’ve been a trick of the light.
The sweet and savory scent of her perfume fogged Zoey's brain momentarily, she stuck her hand out in introduction. “I’ve been looking forward to meeting you and Mr. Ryu as well,” she smiled back, brain definitely not lagging on the woman’s soft skin in her hand, nor the firm grip of her handshake.
Mrs. Ryu laughed and let go of her hand. It was a musical thing, a sound that Zoey could get lost in if she tried hard enough.
“Oh, I suppose we didn’t include that little detail,” she said, almost to herself. “I’m sure my wife would have gotten a good chuckle out of that comment.”
The younger girl’s face went beet red, eyes widening as she opened her mouth before shutting it again. She tried to school her expression, expunge the mortification painted across her cheeks. Wife. Gay. Gay wife.
Something to Take the Edge Off Pt.1 (Samantha Carpenter x Reader)
A/n: Long time no see everyone! Cut me some slack on this one, I haven't written a fic in a while. Going back to my roots and writing filthy lesbian intercourse; part two will be out tomorrow. Enjoy :)
Description: You run into a stone cold douche-bag at the club... unfortunately she's hot.
WC: 2.5k
Warnings/tags: Drug and alcohol use (weed), the clurb, toxic, Tara x Amber mentioned, immense sexual tension, college AU, next part will be ALL smut so forgive me for splitting them up please.
IT was an art, truly, the way in which Amber could drag you into the conniving embrace of danger. She was just so insistent, so honest-to-god committed to getting you out of your dorm and into the real world.
“Come onnn,” she whined, voice dragging in a way that told you there was no chance of getting out. Her hair was pulled back from her face, strands falling out in an effortlessly messy way. The shorts she wore were sinfully short and black fabric clung to her like a second skin, a cropped tank just barely covering her chest. In the many, many years of knowing her, you’d discerned that this was her “going out look.”
“Amber,” you groaned, irritation lacing your tone, “midterms are next week, dude.”
She sighed with exasperation, flopping back onto your bed. “Exactly,” her hands fiddled with the comforter beside her, "which means that we should go out and find you someone to help you destress before your lack of orgasms makes you implode and you don’t make it to exams because you’re too busy being dead.”
You had to try exceptionally hard to keep the smile from creeping onto your face. She had a point. It had been a while, and you weren’t exactly the best at keeping the frustration from hindering other aspects of your life; vibrators could only do so much.
“I can see the gears turning from here, which means that you’re folding,” she grinned proudly, sitting up and heading to your closet.
And so, the next hour and a half was spent scolding her for the trashy outfits she thrust out to you, minutes ticking by until the clock struck eight forty-five PM. You begrudgingly settled on a form fitting, short black dress with no sleeves that she had found buried in the deepest, darkest part of your closet. It stopped around your mid thigh, neckline swooping low to reveal an immodest amount of cleavage. Unfortunately, you looked good.
“Honestly, I’d be down to stay in and fool around,” Amber joked with an approving sweep of the eyes. You sat at your desk, the makeup mirror you’d had since before you could remember reflecting yourself back to you. It had been a while since you’d gone for the seductive look, eyeliner sharp where you drew the wings. They sharply cut off the smokey eye that you hadn’t seen on yourself since freshman year. The rest of the look was routine to you, contour shaping your face and mascara holding curled, long lashes in place.
You laughed at her comment, your days of experimenting with the black haired psycho were long gone. Besides, her and her fuck buddy had seemed to be getting pretty close lately. Knowing her though, Tara would have to try extra hard to tie Amber down.
“Let’s go before I change my mind.”
—
The club was stuffy, ceiling fans pushing around the smell of alcohol and people. So many people. It took a minute for your eyes to adjust to the strobing lights, the dance floor, the crowded bar. Some trashy remix pounded through the room and vibrated your brain with every beat. It was textbook definition, hands running over bodies to the beat of the music, women settling men with disinterested looks and glazed over eyes as they rambled about man things, even a couple of spilled drinks on the floor. Amber stood at your side, gaze sweeping over the sea of bodies. You deduced that she was looking for something.
Someone.
“Amber,” you began, tone stern as you put two and two together and came back with a very suspicious four, “You did not invite me out just to run off with Tara.”
The culprit smiled menacingly–fucking psychopath–and feigned confusion. “What?! I can’t hear you over the music!!”
A loud, exasperated sound of annoyance left your mouth as you abandoned her and made a beeline for the bar. You needed to be less sober, and you needed it now. Amber trailed behind you, eyes still searching.
You knew nothing about Tara, having only seen her in passing a few times as she meandered out of Amber’s room in the early hours of the morning, neck covered in dark bruises. She was pretty enough, big doe eyes and messy brown hair; clearly a bottom.
Your eyes found her before your dorm-mate’s did–or, more accurately, found the tall and dark mooded woman who sat next to her at the bar top. It was just a coincidence that Tara inhabited the stool next to her
Her side profile grew clearer as you drew closer. That sharp jawline captured your attention first, then those sharper eyes, peering lazily at her drink as she swirled it around in its glass with disinterest before bringing it up to her lips and downing it in two gulps. You watched her tongue dart out to clean up the liquid remaining on her mouth, which was perfectly tailored to match her features; a full bottom lip that made your stomach flip.
“Hey, stranger,” Amber said, voice low and teasing as the two of you approached, sliding into the empty stool next to Tara.
You looked at the only other empty stool awkwardly, considering it momentarily before ultimately throwing caution to the wind and taking your seat next to the actual stranger. Up close, you could see the hard lines of her face, the harder muscles under the skin of her arms that were revealed by her tank top.
She looked at you.
Her eyes were completely black. You couldn’t tell if it was from the dark lighting of the club or if she just sported that look 24/7; a look that screamed power. That very look held you in place as she inspected you, gaze flickering down to your lips, lower to your neck, then to your chest and further to the exposed skin of your crossed legs.
The chill that ran through you must’ve been from the slowly spinning ceiling fans, nothing else.
Playing nonchalant, you turned away from the inspection and flagged down the bartender before ordering three shots for yourself and something fruity to sip on.
The first shot burned on the way down but you somehow managed to keep the grimace off of your face. It was straight vodka and you prayed that it would save you from the oppressive feeling washing over you as you downed the second one.
Before you could do the same to the third and final one, a lithe, rather large hand grabbed the little glass. You watched with wide eyes as the woman next to you tilted her head back, neck stretching in a filthy way that heated your face, and downed it.
“The fuck?” you gasped out with an offended tone.
All she did was smile at you, a wicked upturn of the lips, as she drank up your reaction. Her fingers circled the rim of her own glass, which had been replaced at some point. You couldn’t help the way your angry gaze fell over them, watching those steady fingers move. Her forearm twitched with the movement, tendons and muscle flexing slightly under your eye–which was definitely done purposefully–along with the stretch of her toned bicep.
“Something wrong?” she rasped, that liquid smooth voice going straight to your core.
You couldn’t help the scoff that escaped your mouth. “That was my shot.”
Her smirk only widened to a sinister grin.
“Sam, order her a new one and leave the poor girl alone,” Tara called from her other side, eyes rolling in annoyance. “I can’t take you anywhere these days.”
A shift in the music had you reaching for your drink, which the woman had thankfully left alone. You suddenly felt too hot, despite the previous chill.
All Sam did was shrug. “She ordered three of ‘em,” she argued and took a slow swig of her drink, “figured one was for me.”
“Why the fuck would one of them be for you?” the tension in your body was prevalent in your voice.
“I dunno,” Another shrug, “you don’t exactly look like you can take three shots back to back, princess.”
Amber’s laugh reached your ears from three stools away, and you were grateful for the low lighting as it hid your frustrated blush. Princess? Princess?
Hands pushing into the bartop, you stood. Princess? Your legs moved, turning to go somewhere, anywhere else. No way were you gonna sit there and be disrespected by some egotistical piece of shit, no matter how hot said piece of shit was. You could go dance, drown out the stress of midterms with some random’s hands on your waist.
You only got one step away before a strong hand caught you by the wrist, tugging you back and forcing you to spin back around. What you saw was only slightly shocking, a slight flicker of regret filtering through her otherwise unwaveringly cold stare. Huh. Weird.
When your eyes fell to the fingers still wrapped around your arm, she seemed to snap out of it before releasing you. She cleared her throat.
“Sorry,” that deep, raspy voice dipped with sincerity.
The two of you exchanged a look charged with something you couldn’t quite put your finger on. She was hotter when she apologized, you discerned. The way her dark brows furrowed with genuine regret made you want to smooth them with your fingers. The way that tongue peaked out for the second time that night to wet her lips again.
“It’s whatever,” you sighed, too tired to have a pissing contest.
She ran her hands through her hair, an uncharacteristically bashful move, before tilting her head to the side and looking up at you.
“You smoke?” She questioned, eyes falling to your mouth again before elaborating, “Weed, I mean.”
You cracked a small smile at that, at the way she seemed to be expecting a yes to come out of your parted lips.
“Only if it’s free,” you shot back, turning and sauntering out of the club as the alcohol warmed your body. You were only a little hopeful that she was following you, not sparing a glance back to make sure.
Crisp air nipped at your bare skin when you finally exited the building, a sigh of relief escaping you along with the tension in your spine as the heat of bodies disappeared. It was a beautiful night, beautiful for New York at least. The lights of the city winked lazily, horns honking in the distance before blending into the sound of wheels rolling on the road and chatter. You welcomed the smell of tobacco and pavement as your back pressed against the brick wall behind you.
There was a pleasant buzz present within you. Nothing too serious, but enough to make you smile to yourself as you closed your eyes momentarily.
When you opened them a minute or two later, the woman was standing in front of you with her hands in the pockets of her baggy jeans. She’d thrown on a black leather jacket, because of course she wore a leather jacket, and the fabric matched the dark, focused pupils that looked back at you.
Wordlessly, she removed her hands from her pockets and revealed a lighter before reaching into the inside of her jacket, pulling out a blunt. She raised her brows at you in question, head tilting again. “Free weed?”
You couldn’t stop the way you rolled your eyes, “You lace this?”
“Oh yeah,” she laughed, “I laced this blunt that I’m about to smoke, whether you share it with me or not. Just for fun.”
She popped the filtered end in her mouth, holding it between her lips and cupping around it. The lighter sparked once, twice, before an orange flame materialized. She shoved the lighter back in her pocket as she took a slow drag. The end of the blunt lit up as oxygen was pulled through it, slowly traveling as she smoked. You watched with mild interest as her eyes closed and her head tilted back through the hit, body visually relaxing.
When her eyes opened again, she grabbed the smoking object from her mouth and held it between her middle and ring finger. It struck you as odd, the two fingers that she chose to hold it with, but before you could read too much into it, she was holding them out to you in a lazy offering. A truce of sorts.
She held the smoke in for a moment, letting it sting her lungs before slowly breathing it out in a gray haze. Simultaneously, you took your hit. It was smaller than hers–not by much–and when you managed to get through it without coughing a sense of pride washed over you. Weed was always better when it was free.
“So,” you started, feeling the need to fill the silence, “how do you know Tara?”
Sam shook her head in amusement, taking the blunt back and laughing a bit. “Sister,” she supplied before taking another pull. She passed it back to you.
The air smelled like weed and the deep, musky cologne that Sam had on. It was making you a little dizzy.
“I’ve never seen you on campus before,” you continued, the smoke from your second hit leaving your lips as you spoke. You would’ve remembered seeing her around, it would’ve been impossible not to. Your eyes followed the movement of her hand as she accepted the blunt again, catching on the veins poking out from beneath the skin and lingering there.
She didn’t respond for a moment, and when you looked up she was already watching you. A knowing quirk of the lips pulled at her face, eyes glinting mischievously as if she’d caught your eyes on her hand.
“I’m out of school,” she answered, “Tara drags me out here every once in a while. Says it's good for me to socialize.”
The rest of the blunt is smoked in comfortable silence, both of you leaning back against the cool brick. Sam’s eyes were lidded by the end of it, red rimmed and heavy as she looked at you with a lazy smile. Every once in a while, you’d catch her eyes dipping to your chest or your thighs and try to ignore the way your heart skipped a beat as she openly checked you out.
When you’d smoked the last of it, she dropped it to the cracking pavement and stepped on it with a booted foot. “You like women?” she asked abruptly with a knowing look of amusement.
The weed had settled into a warm and hazy thing, and if you’d been sober you would’ve stuttered out an awkward answer and cringed after. You weren’t sober, though.
“What’s it matter to you,” you inquired, reflecting the same dopey smile she was giving you.
“Wanna know if I’ve got a shot at getting you back to my place,” her hands were back in her pockets now, head lazily resting against the wall. “Although I feel like I can make an educated guess.” Before adding an afterthought, “I paid your tab.”
A dog barked in the distance. A man yelled. A frat guy rode past on a scooter. New York pulsed beneath your feet.
Warnings: smut, top!Sam, bossyish!reader, slightly public sex, thigh riding, more thigh riding, Sam in fancy work clothes
NUMEROUS visits to her favorite place after a long, hard day of work had forced Sam's ears to grow accustomed to the deafening thunder of sensual music that pumped through the hazy club.
Ever since the very first week of her new life in the city, Sam had made sure to become somewhat of a regular at The Vanity. She made sure to commit each and every worker to memory, even went out of her way to tip a little extra every visit. It was just who she was. She loved to pay attention, and she loved to be aware.
She did not, however, love to be confused.
From her spot on a cracked leather couch, she sits with a drink in her hand, the top few buttons of her shirt undone, and she watches you move. The colored lights run over your body like waves on a shore, black lace the only thing stopping you from being fully exposed. It's euphoric, the way you move. It's familiar and free, icy hot. Sam takes a pull of her drink.
------
"You've got a private booking, honey," your boss calls as you fuss with your hair in the vanity mirror. She's a firecracker of a woman, short and curvy. The voice of a smoker mixed with the tone of a caretaker. "Booth five."
It hadn't taken you long to understand the inner workings of your place of employment. Annoyingly, nothing was ever straightforward, and booth five was not an exception to this rule.
You'd learned that an hour with one of the dancers in booth five had to cost more than your rent; which, albeit, didn't say much. It was the coldest spot in the whole club, nothing but dark red walls and a single black couch, and you couldn't really tell if it was the air vents or the dark aura that made you shiver when you passed it.
This is the first time anyone has requested for you to be in there.
"Um," your voice is steady as you turn around, smoothing a hand over non existent fabric out of nervous habit, "Is it cool if Amber takes this one?"
A beat passes.
"The patron requested for it to be you." If she notices the way your heart drops, she doesn't mention it. Only smiles crookedly and nods, effectively dismissing you from the comfort of being alone.
The beat of your heart doubles that of the music as you walk out of the room, a little unsure and a little irratic. Your heels feel too tall, your chest too tight.
Dancing was different. Dancing didn't bring forth any unwanted social interaction. Sure, there was the occasional creep, but they never really bothered you much when you could tune them out with thoughts of being beneath your covers with hot Chinese food and your cat curled up on your lap.
This was intimate. This was private and there was really no practical way of getting out of it.
You're sure you're going to pass out when you reach the outside of the booth, nothing but a thin curtain separating you from the unknown man waiting inside. Is he married? Is he demanding? Does he expect anything more than a lap dance from you?
A job is a job, you remind yourself, breathing deeply once, twice before stepping inside.
The air is charged. Static pulses around you. So its a woman. There's a woman a few feet in front of you.
She sits there, back against the couch and legs spread like she owns the place, shirt slightly unbuttoned, sleeves rolled up. She's tall and dark and has the look of someone who's grown accustomed to getting what she wants one way or another. Her eyes drop down your figure, lingering at certain parts unabashedly. They run over every inch of you slowly, methodically. She wets her lips.
"Hello." She speaks. Her voice is fire and ice. It's raspy and smooth, dark and calculated and so insanely perfect that it makes your ears ring a little.
It's your turn to say something, anything, really. You really do try to greet her, even open your mouth for a second before promptly shutting it again.
"It's reasonable to expect a greeting after one says hello, is it not?" Her brow raises. It seems that all it takes for you to gain your composure is a little confrontation.
You close the still open door and take a step forward, trapping a palpable tension in the room along with the sound of muffled music.
"Sorry about that, I just wasn't expecting... this." Amusement flashes in her eyes. "You weren't expecting a woman?" She questions, patting the space beside her and signaling for you to sit.
There's room for her to scoot over and create a comfortable amount of space between your bodies, but that doesn't seem like something she wants.
Your body moves without your mind's consent, "no, I wasnt," you answer, taking your seat.
She hums, the scent of her cologne wafting over you like a drug. "Disappointed?" she asks, bottom lip puffed out in a teasing pout.
The couch is cold beneath you, but that doesn't stop the fire from rushing to your cheeks. Nervously, you run a hand through your hair and smile, trying not to let her undeniable smoothness get in the way of yours.
"Oh, hardly," you let out a raspy huff of laughter and you can't help the way your eyes flit to her mouth.
A smirk tugs at her lips, pout dropping entirely. "Well aren't you fiery."
"Why did you ask for me?" you pry, gaze hooded.
"Why wouldn't I?" She questions, tone serious and eyes on yours. The air feels thick around you.
She truly is a beautiful woman, silky black hair and dark eyes surrounded by thick lashes. The muscles in her arms pull at the fabric surrounding them. You suddenly feel underdressed.
"Amber normally takes this booth," you offer truthfully.
Amber was a favorite amongst the club. She was all dark smiles and sinful moves. You appreciated her for her wit and ability to seem completely calm at all times; a skill you wish you had.
Her hand drops to the bare flesh of your upper thigh. "I didn't ask for Amber, did I?"
Sam had interacted with the girl numerous times. She'd been working here since that first night and was undoubtedly beautiful, but she didn't feel drawn to Amber like she did you. Her body didn't light up when she saw her like it did with you. You were different.
"What's your name?" you pry.
The heat of her gaze along with that of her palm on your thigh sends jolts down your spine. You can see the muscles in her jaw move as she grits her teeth, swallowing hard.
"Sam."
"Why did you ask for me?" you ask again, eyes on her dark and blown pupils. Your own gaze is hooded, lashes low as you look up at her.
She smiles wolfishly, teeth flashing. "Can't a girl want to get to know someone?"
"Well," you look down at her mouth, "I guess when you put it that way."
The air around you seemed to grow thick, tension lacing through it. Her aura was intoxicating, the way it consumed you so quickly, made you want to give her everything.
She hums, tightening her grip on your thigh, "For such a pretty girl you sure do ask a lot of questions," the words fall from her lips, tone low and dripping with want.
"Yeah?" You smile.
"Yes." She shoots back.
"Really?"
She ignores you, looking at you so intensely you almost think you did something wrong.
"Can I kiss you?"
You nod, maybe a little too eagerly but you can't help it. When she kisses you it's softer than you expect it to be, like she's testing the waters. Her hand runs up your thighs, teases its way to your hip and squeezes the flesh there. It makes your head spin and your heart race, heat settling in your lower stomach.
Teeth graze your bottom lip as she pulls back a little. "Come here," The woman breathes into your mouth. She guides you onto her lap, smiling and leaning further into the couch. You have to arch forward to kiss her again, something that isn't an accident on her part.
Hands grip at your waist, your hips, your ass. She's deepening the kiss like it's pushing life into her and she can't get enough. it's a needy, panting scene as her lips and tongue slide over yours.
She kisses you like you've never been kissed, skill and need intertwining into a moment that makes you dizzy. She's all soft lips and rough teeth, nipping and sucking and soothing.
The musky scent of her cologne messes with your head and you can't stop your hips from moving, seeking pressure to tame the heat inside of you.
She trails her lips down to your neck, hand pulling at your hair to tilt your head back. "That's it, baby," Sam coos, teeth scraping under your jaw, "use my leg." She shifts the two of you before you can do anything, moving you to straddle her thigh. Her lips latch onto a sensitive spot on your neck as she pushes her leg up and into you.
"Fuck," you gasp out, gripping her shoulders and arching further into her. The position gives her mouth easy access to your chest.
The fabric of your lace bra is easy for her to move to the side, baring your hardened nipple to her.
"You're so pretty," She groans beneath you, pressing her tongue to the sensitive bud.
Pleasure shoots through you and you suppress a moan at the feeling of her skilled mouth against you. She's pulling at your hips, guiding their movements as you rock into her. It's hard to remember where you are, how any of your coworkers can walk in if they want to. All you can think about is how muscular her leg is through her pants as it presses into your clit in just the right way, how strong her hands are as they grasp at your body like it's her lifeline.
It's almost embarrassing, how worked up this stranger has you. She's touching you like she knows your body, and you can feel your wetness soaking through your fabric. Truth be told, you'd been wet since she first spoke, voice smokey and addicting.
She sucks your tit into her mouth, tongue lashing at your nipple and you have to push her away before you get loud. She protests as you send her back to leaning against the couch, but ultimately keeps quiet when you bury your head in her neck to muffle your moans.
"That's it, just like that pretty girl," She whispers in your ear while you grind against her, leg rubbing your clit just right each time. "You sound so pretty."
Needy whines and sighs escape your throat, lips pressed to her neck while she pushes her thigh harder into you. She hums at the feeling, sound deep and rasped.
You would be disappointed in yourself for being so close this fast, and over the clothes no less, but you can't feel anything other than the pressure in your lower stomach building and building.
"It's so good," you admit breathily into her neck, nails digging into her upper back through the button up. You can feel the firm muscles there, and you can't help but picture them rippling as she fucks you.
"What's so good?" she asks like she already knows the answer.
Her voice sends you spiraling further, the almost taunting tone laced in her words. "The way you touch me."
She laughs lowly, "Oh? You close?" Her head turns as she presses a kiss to your cheek, you pull your head out of her neck and look her in the eyes.
"Use your hand," you order, grabbing her right wrist and dragging it towards where you want it.
The look that washes over her almost pushes you over the edge, the way she listens to your command and presses her fingertips to your clit.
The texture of the fabric rubbing against you feels overwhelmingly good, tension building in your body. You watch her with your eyes half open and your lips parted, watch as she drinks you in with her eyes.
Everything about her is skilled, the way she moves her hand in hard circles and pushes into you. Her free hand wraps around your neck gently and pushes you back a bit so that she can see more of you, your free nipple and the blush spreading across your chest. The action combined with the slight pressure on your neck makes your eyes roll back, a curse falling from your lips.
"Faster. Fuck, Sam," you tilt your head back and move with her hand, "I'm so close."
She listens so good, movements speeding up just how you asked. It feels so good, the warmth spreading throughout your body and coiling in your stomach. You're panting needily, orgasm rushing towards you, its presence overbearing.
"So bossy," She teases.
A slew of words grace your lips, body falling forward to mask the volume of your moans in the crook of her neck. She moves with precision, never once slowing down or faltering.
"Come on, baby," She urges, "cum on my hand."
It only takes a few more movements before you're doing just that, body tensing up and shuddering above her. The orgasm hits you like a bullet train and drags itself out, lasting longer than any other you'd ever had.
The feeling of her arm around your back, fingers still moving on your clit to guide you through makes it last longer. Her voice is in your head, grounding you as she whispers.
Her hand is gone from your clit and her neck is sweaty from the combined body heat by the time you pull back, shaking slightly. The reality of the situation doesn't hit you, just lingers in the back of your mind as you look at her.
"Hi," you say, hair sticking to your forehead slightly.
"Hi," She smiles sweetly back. "Sorry about the hickeys, I got a little carried away."
Your nipple hurts a little from the intensity with which she sucked at it, and you know your neck is riddled with marks.
"It's okay," you smile back, "but you'll have to be the one to let my boss know where they came from."
Her smile turns sheepish, though you can tell she doesn't regret leaving them. "Only if I can see you again," her arms tighten around your waist, lips brushing yours.
a/n: Long time no see......... Originally this was a Wanda Maximoff fanfic, but I needed Sam in a tank top again.
ps. listen to Good Luck, Babe! by Chapell Roan if you want to understand this more or watch Stardew valley female farmer x Haley edits.
Description: You'd have to stop the world just to stop the feeling.
WC: 2.9k
Warnings: Bar bathroom sex, bottom!reader, top!Sam, farmer!Sam, internalized homophobia, brief kissing of men :(, angst, mentions of alcohol
IT was getting difficult to keep track of the number of shots you’d gone through, each one drowning out your regrets more than the last. The bar was stuffy. It was full of sweaty bodies and slurred words, Friday night drawing most people from town to wind down from a week full of work. It was always a risk coming here, you knew that.
She frequented this bar, sipped on whiskey and laughed lightly with the other farmers at the bartop. But you didn’t care. Besides, you weren’t there for her! You weren’t. You were there to find a new boy to distract yourself with, to spend the night next to.
The martini you’d ordered sat untouched in front of you, taunting you quietly as if reading your thoughts.
“Hey there pretty lady,” a voice called from behind you, raised slightly so that you could hear him over the chatter.
You turned on your stool, eyes met with a man. They all looked the same to you: like, well, men. This one had glasses, which was a good thing you’d supposed. He was handsome enough. His hair was dark, near black, and slicked back with a thick layer of gel. The thought of running your hands through the sticky mess made your stomach churn. Not because you didn’t like man hair! You just didn’t like gel, which was a valid reason that had nothing to do with his gender.
Running a hand through your hair, you put on your best smile and lowered your eyelids -a trick as old as time-. “Hi,” you said sweetly, offering him your name. His eyes lit up, beer hanging comfortably in his hand.
The background noise grew louder, hoots coming from a number of men somewhere behind you. A mixture of, “Took you long enough!”s and “Look who decided to show up!”s grabbing your attention. You brushed it off, stayed facing away from the ruckus and tried to focus on gel boy’s words.
“Pretty name for a pretty girl,” he said smoothly, eyes running down your figure. “I’m Har-”
“Alright boys enough!” a familiar voice shot out through the room, rasped syllables filling your ears and sending shivers up your spine. You didn’t turn around, wouldn’t. Your feet stayed planted as her laugh sparked your body to life.
You thought long and hard. Thought about what to do, where to go. You should stay, there was no reason to leave. And anyways, the night was far from over. The clock behind -Harley? Hardy?- the man read half past nine. No, you would stay and have fun with Har-what’s-it and you would go home with him if he asked and you wouldn’t think about a certain farmer with black hair and impressively skilled forearms. Forearms that were sculpted from lifting and plowing and planting. Forearms that you wanted to watch move as her hands found their way-
“Um, hello?” Har-gel asked, scratching his neck with his free hand. His cheeks were tinged with a slight pink. He seemed like a sweet guy, one who would marry a sweet girl and have babies with her. A girl who wasn’t you.
You grasped the collar of his shirt, pulled him down towards you with your back pressed against the bartop. “Can we makeout?” you asked, eyes flicking down to his parted lips. They were chapped a little. You looked away from them.
He didn’t hesitate, just placed his beer on the surface behind you and boxed you in with his arms, hips pressing to yours as he moved closer between your legs.
The kiss was fine. It tasted like beer and the stubble on his chin poked yours painfully. It was fine, his tongue was in your mouth and like, that was fine you guessed. He was respectful with it, hands not venturing from their spot behind you. You waited, kissed back, went to run a hand through his hair and thought better of it. You waited some more.
After what seemed like an eon, he pulled back. His cheeks were bright red and his glasses were foggy, lips a little swollen as his breath rushed out from them. You didn’t feel much of anything besides indifference. There was a pit in your stomach, one that you ignored entirely. It was probably something everyone experienced when they kissed a man, one that was meant to be pushed aside.
“Wanna get out of here?” Har-don asked, gazing down at you with a look that was definitely meant to be attractive, and probably would’ve been if not for the shots in your system.
“Yeah!” you said, smile painfully forced, “Just let me go use the restroom really quick.” he backed up as you went to stand, digging through your purse and setting two twenties down next to your drink.
Your legs carried you to the women's room, hands fussing with the tangles he’d made in your hair. The dress you wore was one of your favorites, one that screamed summer. It was the perfect length for going out, not too short but not too long. It flowed around you as you pushed the bathroom door open, sighing with relief when you realized you were alone.
When you met your eyes in the mirror, you couldn’t help but look away. You were ashamed, you felt like a fraud. The pit in your stomach grew, so you washed your hands to distract yourself. The water was cold as it rushed out of the faucet, soothing your overheated body and disarrayed mind while you watched it hit your skin. You stood there with your hands under the water for longer than normal, not even glancing up when the door opened.
Briefly, the sounds of the bar flooded the bathroom, fading as the door swung shut. Subconsciously you reached out, pushed on the soap dispenser and watched the foam fall into your dripping hand. You just needed a minute before you went back to the sweet man with the glasses, a second to collect yourself.
“Got a lot on your mind?” a woman asked from behind you. Well, not just a woman. The woman.
The woman who you shared your secrets with, who held you when you cried and listened to you say things like, “it's just not the way I am, Sam,” after the two of you got done fucking. She was the woman who made you believe in love, who showed you how colorful the world could be.
Her hair was pulled back, a few stray pieces falling messily around her face. It was still dark, but the summer sun had brightened it up a little bit. She was clad in her work clothes, tank top tucked into her jeans, boots laced perfectly. It was easy to tell what she’d been up to the past few months, her toned arms and tanned skin hinting at long days spent on the farm. You forced your eyes away from her figure in the mirror, looking back at your hands in the water.
“Nope,” you sighed, turning the water off and drying your hands. “Just freshening up.”
She huffed out a laugh, crossed her arms over her chest. “I don’t blame you,” she admitted. “I’d wash my hands after that little show too.”
You couldn’t help the heat that rushed to your cheeks, movement halting momentarily, hands frozen in brown paper towels. You hadn’t meant for her to see that, not consciously at least. You just needed to distract yourself, just needed a minute to focus on something other than her.
“If you came in here to slut shame me, I’m not in the mood,” your voice was cold, eyes catching hers in the mirror. You still hadn’t turned to face her. You couldn’t
Her brows pinched together, lips parting to say something before shutting again. Her tongue darted out the wet them. She took a step closer. “I didn’t mean- well, I did, but I’m sorry.”
You shrugged, “not like I care.” You shoved the paper towels into the trash can next to you and leaned into the mirror, running a finger under your lip to fix the smudges there. The reminder of the feeling of stubble against your chin made your stomach churn, but your face remained impassive.
You can hear Sam groan from behind you, probably pinching the bridge of her nose between her pointer and thumb. “I hate when you say that.”
“Say what?”
She took another step closer, the sound of her boots hitting the floor sending shocks to your system. “That you don’t care.”
You stayed quiet, looked at yourself in the mirror. You saw a girl, a fraud, a liar. You saw your future flash in front of you, an unhappy marriage, nothing more than some man’s wife.
She was right behind you now, close enough that you could feel her presence like a promise. She put her hand on the counter, leaned forward until you could see her face in the peripheral.
“Look at me.” she pleaded lowly, desperation in her tone. It was impossible to keep your eyes from meeting hers. She stood behind you, arms at her sides and gaze burning into you. Her body pressed into you as you leaned away from the mirror, her hands falling to your waist. “Tell me you want me to go,” she sighed, burying her face in your neck and inhaling. You couldn’t help but fall further into her.
You said nothing, your own hands moving to grasp at hers and drag them up your body until she was hugging you from behind, breathing you in and squeezing.
“Tell me to leave,” her voice was muffled in your neck, lips moving against your skin as she placed kisses there like last resorts.
You shook your head, lashes fluttering as you gave into the feeling of her again. Her eyes met yours in the mirror, hands squeezing your flesh. You couldn’t help the gasp that escaped you when she bit you softly, teeth digging into your jugular.
“Say you want this,” she spoke the sentence like a prayer.
You couldn’t manage the words.
“Tell me you want me,” She ordered, voice hard. Her breathing was heavy, you could feel her hands shake slightly from where they were pressed into you. “Say it or I’ll leave right now. I swear, I’ll leave and pretend you never existed.” The words were sharp and final.
All you could manage was a nod, brows drawn together in want. She moved, taking her face out of your neck and towering over you, though your height differences weren’t drastic. Her hands skated down your pelvis, landing on your hips and squeezing, pulling you into her.
“Use your words,” she pried, eyes dark and pupils blown.
You couldn’t. Your mouth was glued shut, it was impossible to say anything to her, impossible to do anything other than shake your head and squeeze her hands on your hips. You were so lost in her that you forgot all about the bar, all about the bathroom, the unlocked door. There was nothing but her. Her hands, her hair, her face, her mouth.
She moved her hand, pushing you forward with a grip on the back of your neck and folding you over the counter. Heat rushed through you, settling in the bottom of your stomach and making you close your eyes. The counter was fairly long, seemingly built for fucking on top of.
“Don’t worry,” she reassured you, her hand trailing down your back, the other still on your hip. “I’ll get you to say it.”
You let out a high pitched squeak, a mix between a whine and a sound of shock when she pulled the skirt of your dress up, pushing it past your lower back.
Her fingers ran over your skin, nails digging in as she dragged her hand lower and lower, pushing into you and leaning forward to speak in your ear. You moaned quietly, hips moving against the pressure of her still hand, seeking relief. “Would you have let him bend you over this counter,” she asked, kissing your shoulder. “What would he say if he saw this? If he saw you all desperate and needy for me, whining and begging for me to fuck you,” she looked at you, face pink and lips parted, and hummed.
When she started moving her hand you had to bite into your lip to keep quiet, so hard that you were afraid you’d bleed. Her fingertips pressed into your clit, moving in calculated circles just how you liked it. She’d always been so good at reading you, at figuring out just what made you tick, what made you need her.
“Please,” you panted when she slowed her hand, watching as she smiled menacingly from behind you before pulling the last layer of fabric down your parted legs. When she put her fingers back they were met with slick heat, the sound of her groan only making your need worse.
“Say it,” she said, running her fingers through you, feeling the way you wanted her. Her breathing stuttered when you let out a needy sound, her fingers pressing tight circles right where she knew you wanted them. It was too slow, you needed more.
You suppressed a moan, covering your mouth with your hand.
“You used to be so good for me,” she pouted, pulling your hand away from your mouth and holding it behind your back with her free one. “What happened?”
Without warning, she slid two fingers into you, pulling a deep moan from you, too loud for a public bathroom. Her fingers pushed down, finding the spot that only she knew before you could even comprehend it. She fucked you like she meant it, hard thrusts powered by months of pent up need. It was scary how fast she was able to build you up, how fast she got you panting and begging.
“Fuck,” you whined, straining your neck to look back at her for the first time, as opposed to her reflection in the mirror.
“Face forward,” she ordered, pounding into you harder, “look at how pretty you are, taking me like this. Tell me you want this, baby.” Her voice was dripping with need, the steady rhythm of her thrusts hauling you closer.
“Harder,” you groaned, pushing back into her and leaning up on your free arm. The fabric of your dress rubbed against your skin where it lay, the sensation was so dirty. You were being fucked over a bathroom sink, watching yourself get more and more pathetic as your ex buried her fingers in you.
Her thrusts grew softer, slower, enragingly delicate. “Say you fucking want me.” Her words were a stark contrast against the way she fucked you, the way she drew it out.
“Please, please Sam. I need it.” your mouth dropped open, little sounds flowing from it as she sped up again, fucking you just how she knew you liked it. Your eyes were closing of their own accord, struggling to stay open and watch as her muscles moved while she fucked you against a bar sink.
“Good girl,” she smiled, letting go of your hand to rub your clit again. You almost fell as the pressure inside of you skyrocketed, becoming almost unbearable. “Now tell me who you belong to.”
You couldn’t comprehend her words, too focused on the orgasm that was quickly approaching, preparing your body for the shock of it. “I’m so close, baby, I’m so close. Just like that.”
Your cunt was throbbing with need, finally reunited with the person who knew you the best. All those months of fucking yourself would never amount to the way Sam did. The way she commanded your entire being.
She stopped moving. All movement stopped. Her hands, her body, her mouth. You almost cried as her fingers stilled inside of you. The orgasm rushed away, dissolving into painful pleasure and disappointment.
“No, no. Why did you stop? Sam, why?”
“Tell me who you belong to.”
“Wha-” she started moving again, slowly rubbing a spot deep inside of you. You sucked in a breath. You were so turned on it hurt, wetness running down your thighs.
“Say it,” she stressed, fingers moving on your clit again, your orgasm sparked back to life, slowly building again. The longer you waited the faster she went, working you back up until you were on the edge, one move away from cumming.
“I’ll stop again and walk out of this goddamn bathroom so fast,” she growled over your moans. It was so hard to focus, you needed her so bad you couldn't breathe. "Who do you belong to? Who else fucks you like this?"
“You,” you choked out through a whine. Her thrusts sped up. You pulled her in with no resistance, clenching around her fingers and dripping with need “You. I belong to you, I’m yours. No one fucks me like you do, no one touches me like you do. Please let me cum Sam, please.”
The world seemed to pause when she leaned into you, kissing your neck and fucking you like you earned it. She was giving you all of herself, showing you who you belonged to and who you needed. Your brain was foggy, no sound came out of you as you came, cheek pressed against the counter and hands clenching into fists. Your elbow had given out, leaving you arched into the bar sink.
"That's it," Sam cooed, slowing down to fuck you through the wave of your orgasm, "You're so pretty."
Shock after shock hit, each one leaving you shaking even as she rested unmoving inside of you. "You did so good."
Your whole body was on fire, throbbing and twitching as you worked through it, Sam whispering praise in your ear.
She kissed your cheek, a sound of protest leaving you when she pulled her fingers out of you. You stayed still, your body moving with the force of your breaths.
"I locked the door when I came in," Sam smiled, rubbing your back soothingly.
You would ask her later, when you regained your ability to speak, how she knew to lock it. You would ask why she followed you, why she cared after you left her like she meant nothing. But for that moment, all you could do was lay there and listen to her love you.
Sorry I've been MIA! I've had a lot on my plate lately and my girlfriend has been taking up the majority of my free time :) I'm planning on getting back into it soon due to the overwhelming amount of requests in my inbox. I miss you guys <3
Description: Sam seems to have formed a bad habit.
WC: 2.2k
Warnings: drugs, consumption of drugs, high sex, top!Sam, bottom!reader, Tara can never catch a damn break
IT'S not like Sam had meant to make it a habit. In fact, she'd attempted the opposite, trying her very best to keep it to a minimum. A once in a blue moon type of thing. A rare, yet not unwelcome occasion. Something to look forward to after a stressful day of trying to appear put together.
She hadn't expected those stressful days to be a common occurrence.
"Sam," Tara calls from outside the bedroom door, voice laced with annoyance, "it fucking reeks and I have a guest over! Do that shit outside."
The clock in the corner ticks quietly, the bed creaks beneath Sam as she shifts, blunt held carefully in her fingers. She lays on her back, limbs sprawled and loose, smoke slowly escaping her lungs.
"Fuck off Tara," She shoots back lazily, bringing the object of her relaxed state back up to her mouth. Each inhale makes her feel lighter, a little less coherent and a little less... herself.
"Dude, I'm sick of-"
"Just leave it alone, Tara," a different voice interjects, one that's very familiar and makes Sam smile around the blunt. It's muffled by the shut door. She moves to stand up, the fabric of her tank top crinkling a little, loose plaid boxers falling comfortably to her mid-thigh.
It takes her a second to walk to the door, opening it to find Tara turning to leave, spotting you in the living room with your arms crossed over your chest and clad in a sweatshirt that seemed to be a number of sizes too big on you.
Her lips turn downward as she thinks about the possibility of you wearing someone else's clothes. She doesn't like that at all.
"Just go back in your room Sam," Tara sighs, grabbing her coat from the back of the couch, "we're gonna head out."
Her eyes still haven't left you, drooping lids lowering as her stare drops to your bare legs.
"You leaving too?" She asks, head tilted and eyes still glued to your skin. She thinks she sees you shiver a little. Her fingers grip the blunt a little tighter.
"Not sure I wanna stay," you shrug, catching her gaze.
A low laugh filters through her throat, "Why?" She lilts, "Mad I'm not sharing?"
Tara can't help but roll her eyes, watching as Sam stalks forward slowly, like she's trying not to scare you off.
She's aware that there's not much left in the tightly wrapped bundle, maybe enough for one or two more hits, but she's feeling generous when she stops about a foot away from you.
She smiles wider when your eyebrow quirks up in defiance, looking down at you and watching the light flush that falls over your face. Your eyes track the movement of her arm as she moves to hold it out to you, caught on the shift of her muscles.
She doesn't really think you'll take it. It's fun, messing with you, making you blush and squirm.
Unexpectedly, you grab it, bringing it up and placing it between your lips where Sam's eyes linger, seemingly fascinated by the way they wrap around it. Your cheeks hollow a little when you inhale, and she has to suck in a deep breath when your eyes meet hers from under your lashes. She hums.
"Oh for fucks sake," Tara groans, breaking Sam's attention. "I'm leaving. You two have fun."
You're too focused on the burn in your lungs to register the door opening and closing, but Sam is all too aware of the lack of company.
When you exhale, you can't stop the coughing that follows. It's a little amusing to Sam who simply steps closer to you and rubs slow circles on your back.
"Poor baby," She pouts, pulling the blunt from your hand and taking the last drag before walking to toss it in the sink.
You're still struggling a little when she gets back, face screwed up in disgust.
"That was awful," you complain with a groan.
Sam just rolls her eyes, wrapping her arms around your neck limply and scanning your face. "Was that your first time?"
The room is quiet, save for the sounds that filter in from the city outside. You nod, then blink a few times. The hit you took was big, and you'd even held it in your lungs for a few seconds.
She watches your pretty eyes grow heavy, lids falling half mass and straining to look up at her.
Light weight.
She giggles a little at the thought. Then you giggle because she's giggling and everything's funny at the moment, but then she looks at your mouth and stops giggling, so you look at hers and do the same because her lips are so pretty and her solid body is suddenly really close, but not close enough at the same time and there's a clock ticking somewhere.
"Whose hoodie is this?" Sam asks, tone low and husky. She's pressed against you, her arms around your neck and her eyes flickering from your eyes to your lips to your neck that's tilted to look up at her.
"Mmm..." you think, heavy arms wrapping around her waist like they belong there. "Chad gave it to me. I was cold."
Sam sighs.
"I don't like it," She admits. Tugs at the hood.
"Okay."
"Yeah."
"Yeah, okay."
"Mhm."
"Take it off then."
"Yea- wait what?"
Your focus is drifting, eyes skating around her face, her neck, her shoulders that tense. All she can do is try not to lose her mind.
"Take it off," you smile dopily. Fingers moving over the fabric of her tank top, over her shoulders and settling on the warm skin of her triceps before dropping to your sides.
She moves slowly, like the air is holding her down and it takes all of her effort to remove herself from you and grip the hem of the hoodie.
The gray fabric bunches as she pulls it up one slow centimeter at a time, revealing the hem of your shorts, then the waistband. The skin right above it. The skin right above that. Your tensed stomach and more smooth skin and more skin and ribs and lace and Sam's heart should probably slow down.
She watches your chest rise and fall, pushing against the fabric of your bra when she gets past it. "Lift your arms," she trembles, and you do it before the words even leave her mouth. It's agonizingly slow, but inexplicably fast.
When it's finally, finally off, she drops it to the floor like it's a dirty rag, grabs you by the waist, and kisses you so hard you see stars.
It's hot and needy, the way your lips move over hers. She nips and tugs, squeezes the skin of your hips and pulls you closer. Every sound you make washes over her like cold rain and clogs up her mind until all she can think about is you.
You pull back, light headed and desperate for air, and Sam seems to take that as an invitation to shift her attention to your neck.
"Shit," you pant, "Sam-" She hums, teeth scraping your jugular. "What... jesus- what about Tara?"
"Shh."
Images of you flushed and lying beneath her flash behind her eyes. You're so pretty. You're so fucking pretty. You're still half clothed -which is more clothed than Sam would like- and the idea of you in a bra and too short shorts is even better in real life than in her fantasies. Lace and bare skin and messy hair and-
"Do you want this?" She asks desperately, forehead buried in the crook of your neck. "Because I really want this."
You don't answer. Well, not verbally. Instead, you reach behind your back and unclasp your bra, letting it slide down your arms and to the floor.
Sam forgets to breathe.
Then she spurs into action, backing the both of you up until the back of your legs hit the arm of the couch. She pushes you back onto it, smirking at the shocked little squeal that you let out before you catch yourself and lean back on your elbows.
Sam attempts to speak, but nothing comes out so she just gives up and trails her eyes down your body, pausing at your bare chest.
She's still barely breathing, mind fuzzy as she tracks your hands that move down your body, hooking on the fabric of your shorts. Then she's moving again, climbing on top of you and shifting you up the couch. Her red eyes find yours, looking for any trace of doubt. When she finds none she practically tears off the rest of your clothes, settling between your legs.
"I've thought about this before," She admits, folding her arms over your pelvis and resting her chin on top of them.
"Thought about what?" Your hands tangle in her hair.
She shrugs. "Fucking you."
She feels your hips twitch up from beneath her, a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth.
"Yeah?" You shiver.
"Every time I see you." She moves her hands up your waist, runs her thumbs over your nipples. You're trembling a little. "I've thought about how you'd feel," you gasp when she squeezes your breasts in the palms of her hands, "what sounds you'd make, how good you would be for me."
Her mouth hovers right above where you need her the most, heavy breaths hitting you and shocking your system.
“Ask me for it,” she orders, voice low and gravelly.
The room is buzzing, it’s alive and full of need. Every sound is tuned out by your own mind running wild, filling with static as she tells you to beg her. You’ve only ever heard her say things like this in your mind, late at night with your hand between your legs and a pillow trapping your sounds.
“Please,” you mumble, throat dry and voice crackly. You know what she’ll say next.
“Please what?” This time, when she speaks, her lower lip brushes against the top of your cunt.
You have to bite your lip for a second, refocus on the task at hand. “Please make me feel good,” you finally push out, words shy and unsure.
It happens in slow motion. The way she finally gives you what you want, mouth immediately pressing against you like she needs you more than oxygen. You struggle to process that, holy shit, Samantha Carpenter is actually totally fucking you right now. Her tongue is pressing just above your entrance, flat and strong and sure and Samantha Carpenter is fucking you like she’s imagined it before.
You reach down with shaking hands, tangling your fingers in the roots of her dark hair and anchoring yourself to her. There’s no use in trying to stop the needy little moans and gasps that have her grasping at your thighs and humming into you.
When she wraps her lips around your clit and sucks, running her tongue underneath it, you arch into her and make a noise you never knew you could make. “Just like that,” you pant out in between curses and moans. “So good.”
She takes your encouragement and doubles her efforts, shifting around while remaining attached to her new favorite spot. Suddenly, you feel her mouth leave you, and when you look down to see what’s wrong she shoves two steady fingers inside of you.
Your head falls back against the couch, neck straining and mouth open with your brows pinched together. Everything is heightened with the weed coursing through your system, your senses are blending together and blurring and muting and you're not sure what to call what you’re feeling but you hope it never stops.
She fucks you slow for a few minutes, soaking in the light of you. When she can't be patient anymore she gives up.
Sam watches you with hungry eyes. Her bicep flexes with each movement of her arm, her fingers hooking up and pressing to find the perfect spot. She never could’ve imagined this; the real thing.
“You’re so pretty, baby,” she mutters, eyes soaking in the sight of you like it's the last time she’ll ever see it.
The praise only makes you hotter. It makes your muscles tense and your lower stomach fills with heat as she moves inside of you. It’s never felt like this before. It’s all consuming.
You can’t tell where you end and she begins when she moves her free hand to rub tight circles on your clit. You feel as though you’re transcending, but your body is anchored by her touch.
“Fuck,” you whine out.
She hums in response. “So good for me.”
Pressure builds within you, a forest fire spreading throughout your entire being. At some point your lips form the word please and you begin chanting it like it’s the only thing you know.
Please, please, please, please Sam, please, pl-
She pushes down on your clit and pulls up roughly inside of you, whispers a sweet, “Come on, let me see you,” and suddenly you’re thrown off of the edge.
It’s a violent pleasure. The kind where you forget who you are momentarily, and all you know is that you feel good. The kind that is over too soon, no matter how long it lasts. The kind that has waves that push you, and pull you, and push, and pull, and stop.
When you come down, your mind is still a little fuzzy. It feels like you’re imagining everything that just happened, but you’re not and Sam is right there and she’s somehow gotten the both of you into a position where you have your head in her lap and her fingers thread through your hair.
You stay like that for a while. Neither of you talk, she just looks at you while you look at her.
HI! I'm sorry I ghosted for a while I had a lot going on and I couldn't find the time to finish any works. I have like 80000 WIPs though so that's fun ig...
a/n: It's definitely been a while. Just a reminder that my work is my own and copying it will result in less than pleasant experiences.
Description: It's difficult to come to terms with your girlfriend's favorite hobby.
WC: 2.4k
Warnings: mentions of murder, ghostface!Sam, reader gets dicked down, strap-on sex, degrading if you squint a little, praise, top!Sam, toxic relationship, possessiveness
RAMPANT thoughts swarm in your mind like moths to a flame. They’re incessant. They whisper and yell and repeat over and over, hundreds of broken records skipping, skipping, skipping.
You stare at the ceiling. Blink up at the spinning fan. You lay on your back in your bed without your girlfriend and in a space deep, deep down, you know why she’s gone; why she’s been gone for hours.
It’s become a routine of sorts. You wait for her, stay up until the early hours of the morning and linger like her loyal little dog. She’ll indubitably come back, clad in shadowy robes and a red speckled mask, cherry dark red knife flipping in her steady gloved hand. You’ll pretend to sleep and she’ll clean up the mess she’s made.
The same mess she’s been making for months.
Somewhere in the distance, a multitude of locks click slowly, surely. One click. Another click.
Click.
Click.
Thud.
The front door creaks as it opens, heavy boots hit the hardwood floor and the door shuts, followed by the sound of the locks turning back. It’s all done so slowly and so precisely that there’s no doubt in your mind as to who is behind the movements. You close your eyes and turn to face the wall.
Sam walks to your bedroom, her footsteps getting closer and closer until they cease, as they always do, right at the foot of the bed.
In your mind, you can picture the way she looks down at you through the mask. The way her head tilts to the left slowly. She always moved so slow until she didn’t, like a lion pouncing on its prey, hidden quietly in the background.
“There’s no need to pretend, baby,” her voice is a rasp blocked slightly by the layer between her mouth and you, “I know you’re awake.” She shuffles behind you, presumably kicking off her boots.
All you can do is burrow deeper into the safety of your bed, pulling the blankets up to your chin.
Silence pools around you, thick as blood. There’s a heavy weight in your chest, a dead body laying on top of you and draining away all of your resilience until all that’s left is her. All that’s left is her and the robes and the feeling of the bed dipping as she climbs on top of your still figure.
“Turn.”
You turn.
“Look at me.”
Your eyes open.
Laying on your back, tired eyes peering wearily into the black and droopy eyes of the masked woman above, you shy away. Squirming gets you nowhere, her thighs on either side of your waist preventing you from doing much of anything, her gloved hands pressing into the bed where they rest next to your head. It’s a dehumanizing, powerless position to be in but you can’t help but focus on how good she feels.
“You’ll never leave me, hm?” she prompts, and even though her voice lifts in question, you know it's not one.
“No,” your own voice shakes, body stilling beneath hers. There’s no use in fighting. That’s her favorite part.
She lets out a satisfied hum, hands moving to pull the blanket beneath your clothed breasts before pushing into your shoulders to further pin you down. This must be the last thing many of her victims see, only in their minds she’s a faceless entity. A ghost.
You know what you’ll see if she takes off the mask. You know that what rests beneath it are the eyes of the woman you fell in love with, glazed over with a power drunk, heavy lidded gaze.
"Why do you think that is? Because I have a few theories," she's pushing harder into you. "Either you’re too scared to leave,” she pauses, sitting up all together so that most of her weight is on your pelvis, running her hands down your chest, detaching them from you until just her blackened fingertips press into your ribs. Waves of midnight pour from her body, flowing in grim beauty and outlining her where the moonlight hits them. “Or,” she’s taking off her gloves, carelessly throwing them behind her, “you love it, deep down. You love when I kill. You act all shy and pretend not to notice when other people eye you like starved dogs, even humor them on some occasions to avoid any conflict, but you know I’d kill them all for you and you love it.”
You deny it. Of course you deny it, head shaking and hands moving to grab hers, warm and soft and all yours. “I love you,” you insist.
“I know, my pretty girl. You love me,” she laces your fingers together tight, “and you love it when I kill for you. It’s okay to admit. I love you and I love to kill for you.”
You close your eyes, swallow hard as you feel her weight shift and her hands release yours. In your chest between abundant red flesh and set rows of bone, between the weight of her and the pounding of your head, past skin cells and blue veins, your heart hammers and thuds sporadically.
She’s moving off of you and taking the blanket with her, leaving you exposed as cold air paints goosebumps on your skin. You never slept with pants on, usually opting for one of Sam’s big t-shirts and a pair of her boxers; tonight is no different.
There’s no longer another presence on the bed. Even with your eyes shut you can sense her scanning your figure. “You look so good in my clothes,” there’s a rustle of cloth, “so good when you’re all mine.”
Thick, heavy tension weighs down the air around you when you look at her. The robes that once covered her are gone, spilling to the floor like dark ink. Her face is still obscured by that of a killer, white and red and melting, sunken black.
All you’re focused on is the ripple of her muscular torso, highlighted by silver moonlight filtering in through the windows, the waistband of her boxers cutting off the view where a cut V starts to form.
“You know,” she crawls back onto the bed, settling between your thighs and resting her head on your lower belly, the cold of the plastic seeping through your shirt, “the whole time I was killing that spineless pig, all I could think about was coming home and fucking you. All I ever think about is you.”
Sick heat washes over you.
Though the thought is scary, there’s no denying the shudder that runs deep within you. It’s quick, barely noticeable, yet the way she slides her hands beneath your shirt and grabs your waist tells you that she felt it.
“Take off the mask,” you plead, thighs spreading wider to give her more room.
“But I want to fuck you in it,” her voice is distorted in mock sadness, lips no-doubt pursed beneath it. All you can see is the sorry, frantic looking expression of a ghastly slasher.
You huff in exasperation. “I like watching your face.”
Apparently you’ve stroked her ego adequately, because she grabs the white chin and most definitely rolls her eyes before she pulls the mask off. Her hair is mused as it falls in masses over her back and shoulders, feathery dark ends brushing against your covered stomach. Wild eyes, flushed cheeks, dark lips. She’s euphoric. She’s still riding the high of her kill and it shows.
“Happy?” fingers slide up your torso when you nod, warm palms passing the curves and dips of your ribs, brushing against the swell of your breasts and the sensitive buds that rest in the middle, pushing up the fabric of the shirt and ultimately urging you to lift your arms in order to slide it over your head. Sam’s pupils are blown, partially from the dark room and mostly from the view of your bare upper half.
Much to your dismay, she withdrawals, taking the heat of her body as she goes.
For a moment, all she does is stand at the foot of the bed, an ever present bulge pressing against the fabric of her boxers and an overall disheveled look of hunger encompassing each and every part of her. Each crazed inhale only works to further accentuate the muscular structure of her entire body. What feels like years pass before she finally removes the barrier obscuring the part of her that you want to see the most.
The sheer flawlessness of her favorite strap never failed to shock you, all perfect length and thickness, intricate veins, a slight upward curve that must have been molded for you and you only. You hold your bottom lip between your teeth.
Her shoulders flex when she reaches for your ankles, grabbing them and pulling you roughly down the bed with little effort, situating you with your thighs spread and your ass at the edge of the mattress. A shocked gasp leaps from your throat, she has her eyes on your waist where the cinch of her boxers hugs it.
Desperation fuels her movements, one rough tug and she has you completely bare beneath her. You’re soaked, have been for a while. When she steps closer, the height of the bed allows her hips to line up perfectly with yours. Admittedly, she’d chosen the frame for this very reason.
“I fucking love this bed,” she groans as the base of her strap presses into your warm cunt, the top pinned against her lower abs. Your clit throbs with each shift of her hips, the head brushing it lightly when she pulls back a little and grinds forward. The feeling has you wrapping your thighs around her waist, her grabbing the crease where your legs meet your hips with a clenched jaw.
When you buck up in search of more friction, she shoves you back down with so much force that you can see her biceps flex in the moonlit room, the veins weaving down her forearms and over her hands enough to make you feel like drooling.
“Stay still,” she orders through her teeth.
One of her hands releases you, gripping herself tight and watching her own movements as she drags the tip through you. Up, then down, then up halfway. And then, without warning, she snaps her hips forward and drives into you with force, skin flush against skin.
There’s a long period of time where she doesn’t move, just simply stares down at you with enraptured eyes and an open mouth, grasping your upper thighs while you pulse around her. She’s groaning slightly as you lay with your brows pinched together and your back arched, the shock of her pushing into you still coursing through your system, a moan dying in your throat. It’s excruciatingly good. It’s gut-wrenchingly pleasant.
In the beginning, there was a time when you would’ve begged for her to move. Back when you’d only known her for a few short months, back before you really knew her. At this point, the task has become redundant; she does as she pleases when she pleases however she pleases, and this moment doesn’t seem like the time to test that.
“Oh fuck,” you gasp out, sotto and frantic, gripping your scalp when she presses a strong hand into your lower belly and feels the muscles go taut as she pulls out of you, thrusting back in with quick and precise movements. “Just like that.”
Every couple of thrusts is broken up by one slow one that has you struggling to breathe, the ridges of her brushing the most sensitive parts of you, pushing against them so perfectly that you tighten impossibly and pulse around her, your whole body alight.
“That’s it,” Sam coos through a shaky breath, “look how good you’re taking it.”
With great effort, you manage to prop yourself up on your trembling elbows so that you can watch the way she slides effortlessly in and out of you, her toned abs tense and flexing. It’s a sight you could never get sick of.
Your whole body throbs with a need for more, a frustrated little wine sounding from your throat.
Sam cocks her head mockingly, an air of dominance surrounding her like an invisible fortress. “What?” she questions, voice gravely and thrusts quickening. “Am I not fucking you good enough?”
Her hand on your stomach shifts so that she can move her thumb down and press it into your swollen clit. She doesn’t move it, only deepens the pressure she applies.
“You fuck me so good,” you force out. Your voice is high and strained, needy moans splitting up your words and sharp gasps making you slightly incoherent.
Your mind gets fuzzy. The fear from earlier fading into sick pleasure as she fucks you. She’s breathing heavily, sweat making her hair stick to her forehead and you can’t process anything but the way she hits the perfect spot with each and every movement.
Keeping her thumb still on your clit, grip tightening on your thigh, she switches up her tactics and opts for fucking you so hard you almost pass out at the first rough drive into you. The pain causes you to momentarily panic before it settles and makes every muscle in your body tighten in anticipation.
Sounds of your own wetness reach your ears and you realize that you’ve been dripping onto the sheets for a while now. Sam’s hums and the vibrations of your own muffled moans reverberate through your head as you try to keep quiet.
Sam makes a sound of disapproval, noticing your attempt to not disturb the neighbors. “Let me hear you, baby. I love how desperate you sound when I’m taking you like this.”
You’d never been one to turn her down, and now was no different. Desperate sounds flood the apartment, the concern for your neighbors long gone as she lands a particularly hard thrust, her thumb beginning to move in quick circles.
Tight pressure builds rapidly in your lower stomach, almost too much to take. It's intense and spiraling and you’re not sure how to release it without blacking out.
“Come on,” Sam encourages, knowing the tells of your impending release, “just like that. Let go for me like a good girl.”
All it takes is her words of encouragement before you’re thrown violently into the waves of your orgasm. It's so intense that it almost hurts, your brain short circuits. Your neck strains as you throw your head back, eyes shut and rolling back, thighs shaking and tightening around her waist before giving out and dropping.
In the background, you can hear her talking to you in a sweet voice, words jumbled by your paralyzed mind. It's grounding. It's perfect. It’s her.
Hey I am absolutely in love with your writing and was wondering when will you upload another Melissa or Sam fic and what’s it going to be about
thank you so much bff! I'm debating writing a g!p request... I'm pretty much just gonna scroll through my requests and pick the one that makes me want to write.
It MIGHT be out in like a few days but i've got family visiting and boring life things keeping me busy rn :/
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