[cursedrot]

╋━ REQUESTS : i’m only writing for sam & dean rnn

#rotrotrot - my works ; #lettersfromthedead - asks

© 2025 CURSEDROT. all rights reserved. no part of my writing may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means without prior written permission from myself.

[cookieebutter]

your boyfriend’s just too big !

his dick is heavy in his hand, flushed and leaking, the head slick as he runs it slowly through the slippery mess between your thighs. your folds are swollen, twitching with every brush of his tip.

his voice is rough when he whispers, “gonna ease it in, baby… s’gonna feel big. you tell me if it’s too much, alright?”

but you’re already nodding, legs spread wide, cunt stretched open and aching for him. the first inch pushes past your entrance and your body clenches around him immediately, sucking him in with a wet, squelching noise that makes his whole body jolt.

“oh—oh, sweetheart…”

his dick is so fat it forces your walls to stretch around him, snug and slippery and tight, and he’s biting his lip hard to keep himself from rutting deeper too fast. the air’s full of heat and moans, your gasps high and breathy while his are low, cracked, almost desperate.

he’s panting into your neck, trembling from restraint as he feeds you more. your pussy gives a sticky noise each time his hips nudge forward, and you can feel the drag of every vein along your inner walls, your muscles fluttering like you’re trying to spit him out but pull him deeper at the same time.

by the time he’s halfway in, your nails are digging into his back and your thighs are starting to shake. there’s a thick pressure deep in your belly, like your body’s being filled too full, and when you glance down, you can see the faint outline of him under your skin, stretching you out from the inside.

“just a lil’ more,” he groans, voice cracked. “you’re taking it—so good, baby, so soft down there, you’re squeezing me real tight…”

you whimper as he finally bottoms out, dick buried to the base, the thick root of it pressed firm against your overstretched entrance. he doesn’t move, breathing hard against your cheek, both of you dizzy from how deep he is.

your cunt pulses around him, dripping mess down onto the hairy base of his cock.

his hand finds your lower belly, palm spreading over that swollen spot where his dick bulges inside you.

“look at that,” he murmurs, in awe. “my sweet girl’s stuffed so full.”

he doesn’t even need to move. just the feeling of being buried inside you for the first time, the sight of your pussy stretched wide around him, your gasping mouth, your fluttering lashes, your slick dripping onto his thighs—it’s all too much.

he grinds in once—just to feel the way you tremble—and you both moan at the same time, breath tangled, filthy and flushed and soaking the bed.

and when he finally pulls back to push in again slow and deep, your whole body arches.

“there you go,” he groans, voice ruined. “that’s it, baby. open up f’me.”

﹫𝑐𝑜𝑜𝑘𝑖𝑒𝑒𝑏𝑢𝑡𝑡𝑒𝑟

[lemmegetasideofza]

RAAAAAAAAAAAAAW

credit to the original creator, op didn’t leave the name.

[theedaythatnevercomes]

Breathe Out, So I Can Breathe You In

(Stanford!Sam Winchester x fem!reader)

Summary: Weed can have an array of effects on people. Some get tired. Some get a feeling of intense euphoria. Some eat everything they can find in their fridge. And you? Apparently, getting stoned makes you really want to fuck your best friend. Or, maybe, it’s not the weed at all.

CW: Marijuana use, shotgunning, mutual pining, oral (f!rec), fingering, protected piv, praise kink, sweet Sam, littleee bit of a size kink, lots of communication, aftercare, soo much domestic fluff it’ll make you sick

WC: 13.4K

When you started at Stanford University, you weren’t expecting anything special. 

Sure, you were excited. Ecstatic, actually. Hell, you worked your ass off for four years, and maintained a weighted 4.0 GPA, just for this. So when you received your acceptance, you were over the moon.

But you’re smart. You kept your expectations low. Spent the first few weeks entirely focused on learning the campus. Made sure you knew all the best study spots. Memorized what to and what not to eat in the meal hall.

By week two, you could navigate to your classes so well, you could do it blindfolded. 

So, needless to say, when you’re so zeroed in on being the perfect student, making friends doesn’t come easy. Or, it didn’t, at first. 

But then he came along. 

The first time you ran into him, you were rushing out of your dorm, because you were ten minutes behind schedule. Well. Your own, personal, made up schedule… so technically, you were late for absolutely nothing. But that’s not how it felt. 

You’d been running to the elevator, since you lived on the ninth floor, absolutely determined to get to the library to study by six o’clock sharp (which, unfortunately for you, was in three minutes). 

That’s when you heard a yell. A deep, masculine voice, calling out for you to stop the doors before they could close. You didn’t.

Which, hey, maybe that’s rude. But you weren’t exactly in the mood to be holding doors for people (you could’ve), not when you were late (you weren’t).

It takes all of four seconds for you to realize your mistake, though, because he makes it into the elevator anyway. Oops.

When he slips inside the small space, the first thing you think is holy shit he’s tall. Like, at least six-foot-two, well over. No wonder he made it, with those legs. 

You make a point of not looking him in the eye, after you’ve just very rudely blatantly ignored him. But he doesn’t kick up a fuss. He doesn’t say anything, actually, which is almost worse than being pissed. Just breathes quickly from his little sprint, and nods at you when he leaves. Huh.

You thought that would be the end of it. Stanford is a big school, after all. But, because you have the worst (best?) luck in all of history, it wasn’t. 

You start to run into him. A lot. He’s kind of hard to miss, being massive and all (and gorgeous), so you notice. You meet him a couple times in that same elevator. A handful of times in your meal hall. Once or twice in the library. After a week, you’re almost sure that you’re being stalked— until you realize he just lives in the same dorm building as you. 

One day, a day that you were not late, and you were standing in the elevator, you saw him. He was walking towards you, or, more likely, the elevator. He didn’t call out, or run. But this time, you held the door. He smiled. 

And fucking Christ, he had a beautiful smile.

It’s that day that you learn that his name is Sam. He’s from Kansas, but his family moved around. A lot. He’s in his first year, just like you, but he’s studying pre-law. He likes to read. Doesn’t really party, but he’s not opposed to a fun night every once in a while. He hates Halloween (damn psychopath). Oh, and he’s six-foot-four. You were close. 

Somehow, despite your absolutely terrible first impression (which you have apologized about. A lot), you and Sam become friends. And then best friends. Until by the beginning of your third year, the two of you are practically attached at the hip. 

He knows everything about you, and you know everything about him. You study together. You grab breakfast, lunch, and, occasionally, dinner together. He knows your coffee order. He knows what shampoo you use. He knows that you crack your knuckles when you’re nervous, and grind your teeth when you’re focused. Hell, he knows everything down to your favourite pair of socks: the fuzzy ones with dogs on them, that you wear every time the two of you curl up in his dorm to watch a movie. 

Which, actually, is your plan for the night. 

You show up at Sam’s dorm at exactly ten o’clock, decked out in fluffy candy cane patterned pajama pants, because c’mon, it’s finally December, along with a black tank top. (Oh, and your socks. Always your socks.)

The halls are quiet. The only sound is the radiator buzzing at the end of the hall, the shuffling of your slippers on the carpet floor, and the crinkle of your chip bag as you manoeuvre the handful of items you’re carrying to knock on his door. 

He’s swinging the door open before you get the chance, though. Smiling down at you with those sweet puppy-dog-eyes, messy bangs falling over his forehead. He’s just as ready as you are, plaid pajama pants low on his hips, and some loose t-shirt. Well. It would be loose, if it wasn’t for Sam being fucking ripped.

Not that you’re paying attention to that, or anything. 

“Hey,” you greet, pushing past him before he can even invite you in, like you own the damn place. Because at this point? It’s yours as much as it is his. 

“Hope you’ve picked a movie already, because I really don’t want to watch you scroll through the menu for thirty minutes.”

Sam steps aside, watching you with an amused smirk on his face, an unlit joint slotted between his fingers. 

“Oh, I’m sorry, Your Highness,” he teases, nudging the door closed with his sock-covered foot. “Didn’t realize we were on a strict movie-watching schedule tonight.”

You make your way to his bed, dumping your collection of snacks onto his bedside table, Snickers, Jolly Ranchers, and M&M’s, before settling onto the pillows. You pry open the bag of chips you snagged without a word, but you roll your eyes at his teasing. 

Sam watches you with a look on his face that’s a little hard to decipher. Mock annoyance, yes. But there’s more. Something almost fond, that makes your heart skip a beat.

He follows after you a moment later, though, flopping down on the bed next to you, long limbs stretched along the length of the mattress. “But for your information,” he adds, pointing at you with that joint like it’s his finger, “I have picked one. A classic. The Thing.”

Oh, of course. Of course he chooses that one, again, like the two of you haven’t seen it more times than you can count.

Deep down, you know why. He does exactly this, every time it’s his turn to pick a movie. Picks something you’ve both already seen. So that way, when you inevitably start rambling about something stupid, he doesn’t have to pause or rewind. He can just listen. Because he’s sweet like that.

You don’t comment on it, though. You just hum at his words, and pop a chip into your mouth. 

There’s a fleeting moment where he just studies you. The way you made yourself at home. The way you look so at ease, relaxed. He even glances down at your socks for a moment, and you swear his expression changes again. Full of affection. Affection that only comes from seeing something that’s so you. 

But then his eyes flicker back to your face, and he laughs, watching you stuffing a handful of chips into your mouth without any shame. 

“…Sun Chips? Really? After last time? You said those were the reason that rat found my dorm—“

You cut him off by smushing your hand against his mouth, and his brows pinch together, nose scrunching up in such an adorable way that your face warms up just a little. Somehow, though, you manage to keep a straight face.

“Don’t talk about that rat, Winchester, or I’ll kick your ass.”

An empty threat? Probably. But you still grimace at the memory. Stanford may be a nice school, but the dorms are old. And apparently, not rat proof. 

He peels your hand off his face, acting like it takes a lot more effort than it really does (because, c’mon. You’ve seen those biceps), before he’s speaking again.

“Fine, no rat talk,” he agrees, showing you his palms in mock surrender. But because he thinks he’s hilarious, and because he’s an ass, he continues. “Though, for the record, you screamed. I calmly assessed the sit—“

You cut him off by jamming your elbow into his ribs, which makes him yelp, before breaking out in a laughing fit that is way too boyish for a massive twenty year old man. And way too cute.

He does it on purpose, really. Riling you up so you shove him, pinch him, flick his forehead, before giggling like a schoolgirl. It’s masochism, seriously.

Even through your attack, a smile creeps its way onto your lips. Hard not to, when he’s laughing like that, with the worlds prettiest smile on his face, dimples and all. 

Sam mutters to himself, something about not knowing why he puts up with you, as he leans for the remote. Said remote is on his bedside table, or, literally right next to you, so why he doesn’t just ask for it, you’re unsure. But this means that he quite literally stretches on top of you, all massive, two-hundred-something pounds of Winchester, and you can tell he’s doing it on purpose.

“Sam!“ you protest, but you can’t hide the laugh that comes along with it, as you shove him playfully. He doesn’t stop, though, you see that dimple popping, grabbing the remote with mock innocence. 

The closeness means that all of his Sam-warmth is pressed against you. ‘I run hot’, he always says, which is the understatement of the century, based on how he feels like a human furnace over you. And God, you can smell him, all masculine and woodsy and so him…

Jesus Christ, what are you doing?

By the time he leans back to his side of the bed, your face has gone a little red. If he notices, he doesn’t bring it up. Just leans back against his pillows with an exaggerated sigh, clicking play, then tossing the remote somewhere on his blankets. That’s something for the two of you to worry about later, when you’re tearing his dorm apart to find it. 

The opening notes of ‘The Thing’s eerie track creep in as he scoots just a little closer, just enough so your shoulders touch, and he fidgets with the joint in his fingers like he’s spinning a pen. 

“Comfy?” He asks, quietly, and his voice isn’t full of playful teasing or mock-annoyance anymore. No, it’s fallen right back into sweet, soft Sam, that makes you feel like your insides have been set aflame. Your heart does a stupid little somersault. 

“Mhm,” you hum, and you have to forcefully ignore the sparks that are currently exploding under your skin where your shoulders touch. Get it together.

To distract yourself, and maybe as an excuse to get a little closer, you lean forward, grabbing hold of his blanket, and you tuck it over the two of you. You let yourself fall into a more reclined position, melting into his sheets. 

You make it all of five minutes into the movie, watching the helicopter chase the ‘dog’ with a grimace on your face, like you haven’t seen it a hundred times over already, before you’re breaking the silence.

“So… do you know what you’re doing for Christmas break this year? It’s in, like, two weeks, which is insane,” you start, crunching a chip between your teeth. “I’m still deciding if I want to book a plane ticket home…”

Sam smiles like he anticipated this (he did), and makes no move to pause the movie. He just stares at the screen, but tilts his head towards you slightly as he speaks.

“Two weeks? Jesus. Don’t remind me. I still have to study for finals…” 

He runs his hand over his face, before letting his head fall back against his headboard with a thud. 

“Honestly? I’m staying here. Again.”

It was an answer you expected, but you hum all the same. Sam was never the type to go home during holidays, or, well, ever. He barely spoke about them beyond the odd comment about his brother, Dean.

He finally turns to you, just slightly, elbow propped up on the mattress. “I mean, we’ve got heat now that they ‘fixed’ the boiler, so no more sleeping in ten layers like last year. And campus is practically empty, anyway. Can study wherever.”

You let out a little laugh at that, memories of receiving Sam’s whiny phone calls ringing through your head, when you’d slipped away after dinner on Christmas Eve just to call him. ‘It’s freezing,’ he’d complained, ‘I can’t even feel my ass!’

“Oh, yeah? So no more waking up not being able to feel your fingers?” You tease, turning to look at him, movie forgotten.

He hums in response, nodding exaggeratedly like this is the most important conversation in the world, before continuing. “Uh-huh. I mean, why fly across the country for a week for a family who doesn’t even do Christmas, when you can stay where it’s warm, and eat half-cooked turkey in meal hall?”

“Wow. Great upselling, Sam,” you tease, but you can’t keep the smile out of your voice. 

“Just saying. It’s kind of nice. Lonely, maybe, but I can always… y’know…” he makes a rolling motion with his fingers, before bringing that damn joint to his lips, still unlit— and you get the idea right away. 

“Get really high?” You prompt, raising a brow at him, and judging by a look he gives you with a shrug, you’re right on the money. 

“Right,” you laugh, looking up at him, and that’s when you see it. Really see it. The glimmer of something in his eyes, something like pleading. Like those puppy eyes are asking you to stay without him saying it himself. “Well, since you make it sound so great… maybe I’ll stay back this year.”

His expressions changes immediately. Disbelief, at first, then softening into something so quietly excited, that your heart rate picks up a little. He smiles again, the kind of smile that brightens his whole face, and you can’t help but return it.

“Really?” He asks, like you’ve just told him he won the damn lottery.

“Why not? I mean. I flew home the last two years, it wasn’t all that great, and then I was all jet-lagged when classes started back up,” you explain, but Sam really didn’t need an explanation. No, he was excited as soon as the word ‘maybe’ left your lips.

He doesn’t respond to you right away. A little lost in his own thoughts, by the looks of it, and you don’t comment on it. His eyes flicker over you, that dopey smile on his face, before he briefly looks at the bedside table, then back at you. 

“Well… since you’ve decided…” he starts, stretching his long arm over you, towards the nightstand (so he can reach without leaning over you. Huh). “We can count today as the first day of holiday break. Let loose.”

He snags the lighter off the tabletop, bringing it back to his lap, but not without making sure he elbows you in the head first. Asshole. 

But even with the lighter in his palm, the joint between his two fingers, he makes no move to light it. Simply fidgets with it like it’s personally offended him. You raise a brow. 

“You gonna smoke that, or just stare at it?” You ask, teasing, and he shoots you a look. 

“Maybe I was trying to be polite,” he smirks, tilting his head at you, those cute little bangs falling over his eyes. “I’d like to not give you a contact high every time I breathe, thanks.”

He says it like he’s joking. Keeps that little grin on his face, all light and sweet, but you know there’s something genuine underneath it. He’s gotten high around you before, God, more times than you can count— but he’s always so cautious first. Like he’s worried he’s doing something wrong. Making you uncomfortable. 

If there’s one thing Sam Winchester will never do? It’s make you actually uncomfortable on purpose. 

The first time he got high around you, at the beginnings of your friendship, he’d been careful. Asked if you were sure it was okay, probably, like, over a thousand times before he even rolled it up. Then a few more times for good measure once it was, before finally taking the first hit, and offering it to you. And oh, when he found out that you don’t smoke, at all? He felt like a prick.

But that was two damn years ago, and even after your constant reassurance… he still tiptoes around the subject, like the little people-pleaser he is. 

“Sam,” you start, voice dropping low, almost like you’re a mother scolding her child. “It’s weed. I’m not going to be poisoned from second hand smoke.” 

He rolls his eyes again, a little dramatically. “Whatever,” he grumbles, like he’s annoyed with you, but you don’t believe it for a second. 

There’s another pause as the joint dangles between his fingers, before he exhales the world’s heaviest sigh. “Since you insist…” he teases, before flicking the lighter. The flame catches, shadows dancing across his face as he takes a slow pull, and leans back into the pillow, eyes fluttering closed. 

He holds it for a moment, letting it fill his lungs, before letting out a deep exhale, tilting his head away from you (ever the gentleman). Smoke billows from his lips in a steady stream.

You try not to get distracted. You really do. But watching the orange flame illuminate his face just right, the way his lips curl around the joint, his eyes closing as he inhales, the sharp curve of his jaw twitching as he exhales… 

Jesus Christ, you’re so fucked.

Something about it is almost domestic. The warm sheets. The movie playing in the background. The smell of weed wafting through the room. Shoulder to shoulder with Sam.

He exhales again, the weed taking effect. Not quite a high, not yet— he’s a seasoned smoker, after all— just enough to take the edge off. He sinks deeper into the mattress, eyes opening back up, and he stares at the TV for a moment like he’s in a daze. 

And oh, he stretches slightly, just getting comfortable, and his bicep flexes as it moves across his chest. 

…Not that you’re looking, or anything.

Before you can be tempted to do something stupid, like, lick Sam’s arm, you speak up.

“Can I try?” You ask, voice coming out so quiet, you’re not sure he heard you. 

He did. 

His eyes widen immediately as he turns to you, brows furrowed. “What?” He questions, and based on the way he sounds, you’d think you’d just told him you were dropping-out and becoming a stripper. 

He looks more than a little shocked, to say the absolute least. He’s watching you like he expects you change your mind, or turn around and say ‘just kidding’, before bursting out into laughter.

But when you don’t, the surprise melts away into confusion. Just a quiet intensity, and a little something that looks like excitement.

“Are you serious?” He asks, sceptical, and you almost laugh at the way he’s staring at you. Like he just can’t believe that you, a college student, may want to hit his joint.

“Yes, I’m serious,” you respond, and this time, you can’t hold back your amused snort. You decide then and there that confusion is a very cute emotion on him, puppy eyes and all. “I mean. I’ve been curious, y’know? And what better person than you to show me the ropes?”

His gaze drops to the joint, looking at it like it’s betrayed him, before flicking back to you, brows pulling together. 

“You’ve been curious?” He laughs once, short, disbelieving. “For two years, you’ve watched me do this, and now tonight? Tonight’s the night?”

You shrug, and despite his words, his fingers are already turning the joint between the two of you, offering it to you with a careful kind of hesitation.

“Alright,” he relents softly. “But slow. One hit. And don’t inhale like I do. It’ll wreck you.”

Those words make you raise a brow, because, one, you don’t understand what the hell that means. And two, there’s that gentle concern behind them. The kind that never fails to make you just a little fidgety. 

After a moment’s pause, you take the joint from him tentatively, like you’re trying to disarm a bomb, not smoke some pot. His hand lingers just slightly, fingers brushing yours in that stupidly electric way they always do. Jesus, what the hell’s going on with you tonight?

When his eyes meet yours again, they’re a little wide. Soft. Nervous. Heart-wrenchingly sweet, to such a degree that you have to advert your gaze before your cheeks flush all over again. 

There’s a few beats where neither of you move. Like the silence between you is heavy, charged. But then you snap out of it, and realize that you really have no idea what you’re doing. Sam seems to have the same realization a moment later, because he mumbles something about ‘corrupting the innocent’, before shifting again.

He sits up, scooting closer to you so his side is practically pressed against yours.

“Okay, hold on. Wait,” he murmurs, eyes flicking down to the joint between your fingers. “C’mere for a minute.”

He motions for you to lean forward with a crook of his finger and a little head nod, and you roll your eyes at his sudden serious tone before complying. 

“Hold it between your fingers. Bring it to your mouth. Then, when you take a hit, pull in air without actually breathing in, like you’re sucking on a straw,” he instructs, voice low. “And don’t fully inhale it into your lungs. It’ll burn less. Shallow.”

You blink at him. Once, twice, then a third time for good measure. Right. Okay, then.

What?

You take in what he’s saying, you really do. The problem? None of it makes any goddamn sense.

And c’mon, you’re not the kind of person to lie to him. This is Sam, after all. So, you look him dead in the eyes, faces only inches apart from where he’d made you lean forward. And in the most deadpan tone you can muster, you respond simply:

“What the fuck does any of that mean?” You ask, and the question hangs in the air for a moment, before you laugh. “That sounded more complicated than those case studies you do in Criminal Justice. What do they teach you law-boys, how to make everything sound impossible?”

“Pre-law,” he corrects, not at all phased by your little dig, before leaning back, and turning his body just enough to look at you properly. 

His eyes are still so warm. Crinkled at the corners in that way they get when he’s trying really hard to not full-on cackle at you.

“Okay,” he drawls, shaking his head like you’re a lost cause. “Forget the lecture. Just… here.”

Before you can protest, or really fully process his words, he takes the joint gently from your fingers again. “You trust me?” He questions, and all he earns from you is a look. A ‘what kind of question is that?’ look, which apparently is enough for him.

Because slowly, deliberately, he brings the joint to his lips, taking a small hit. Holds it in his mouth for a beat.

Then he leans in just slightly, closing that lick of space between the two of you. And before your brain can catch up, or think holy shit, is he about to kiss you? His lips brush yours. Soft. Warm. Over too fast, barely even touched, but long enough for heat to flood your system, and lets the smoke slide between your parted lips before pulling back.

“Just like that,” he murmurs, voice low and rougher than before, eyes searching yours with a mixture of nerves and something dangerously close to hope. “Learned?”

You can’t answer. Not right away. 

Because holy shit, Sam Winchester just half-kissed you.

What the fuck?

There’s a beat where you don’t move. Completely stunned, even just for a moment. But then you process that he’s exhaled smoke into your mouth, and you breathe in. Not at all like a straw, and not at all shallow like he’s told you.

It burns, and it takes less than a second for you to break out into a coughing fit. 

At the sound of your coughing, and the sight of your eyes watering, Sam’s concern comes rushing back like a tidal wave. He’s already moving, one palm finding your shoulder, the other smoothing over your back.

“Woah, woah, slow down. Breathe,” he urges, running his hand gently up and down your back. “Told you not to inhale like me,” he teases, before his voice drops low again. “You okay?”

There’s real worry in his voice now, and a furrow between his brows. But he can’t help it, he still grins. And you could swear his cheeks look a little pink. 

“Yeah, I’m fi—“ you’re halfway through a choked cough when it hits. It’s like your senses all relax at once, giving way to something lighter. Deeper. Like your heads filled with air. It’s not intense, but it’s certainly new. “—Woah,” you mumble, lifting your gaze, the burning subsiding.

And when your eyes find Sam’s, puppy eyes so full of worry, his brows pinched together so adorably? You’re not sure if you’re closer to laughing or whining at the sight.

“Slow,” he repeats again with a soft, huffing chuckle, watching your eyes go glassy while the coughing fit finally subsides. 

“You sure you’re good?” He asks quietly, eyes still narrowed with concern. His hand is still on your shoulder, and he’s leaned into your space like he’s afraid you might suddenly pass out. 

That little bit of carefree, heat-of-the-moment confidence seems to have died out, and he looks almost shy. Maybe a little guilty, like he’s done something wrong. “Listen, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have—“

“Sam.”

You cut him off before he can spiral. Maybe it makes you weird, but seeing him all sweet and concerned, leaning into you, holding you like he’s worried you might fall? Yeah. It’s sort of doing it for you, in some fucked-up way. Not to mention the fact that your lips are still tingling. 

“I’m okay. It just feels… new?” You start, you melt into his touch just a fraction further. You don’t mention the half-kiss. Not right away. Instead, you continue, voice slightly dazed, and you can’t contain the little laugh that slips out. “Good new.”

He looks hesitant for a moment, like he’s not sure if he believes you. But whether it’s the look on your face, or your words, he relaxes. And when he laughs with you, warm and soft and God, you could get lost in it; his shoulders fall loose, letting go of some tension.

He studies your face again like he’s searching for any signs of nausea, or, God forbid, discomfort. But all he finds are flushed cheeks and dilated pupils.

“Yeah?” He prompts, and that boyish smile makes you feel all tingly. Butterflies rising in ways they shouldn’t, in places they shouldn’t. You’ve felt it before, of course you have. Deep down you know you’ve been falling for him for years.

But, apparently, getting a little high makes it a whole lot harder to ignore.  

“Uh-huh,” you nod, inhaling a breath that comes out more shaky than it should. “Really good new. As in, wanting more…”

He swallows hard. 

He almost looks conflicted for a second before he speaks, but there’s no doubting the way his gaze flicks to your lips for a fraction of a second, before he’s clearing his throat. 

“More?” He echos, eyes finding the joint still held between his fingers. “More as in… another hit? ‘Cause I swear, if you end up flat on your back because you take another one right now…”

Yeah. That image is doing absolutely nothing to help your racing thoughts. Flat on your back, in his bed, under him… you certainly have no objections.

And you catch it. The implication behind those words. Because taking another hit doesn’t just mean taking in more smoke: it means his lips brushing against yours again. Teetering into uncharted territory all over again. 

“Just… more,” you whisper, eyes trailing over his face, and the way your gaze lingers on his lips mirrors his own actions just moments ago.

His eyes lock onto yours, and for a second, you swear he sees right through you. But then that soft smirk comes back, the one that makes your stomach flip, and he lifts the joint slowly. He gets it.

“Alright,” he murmurs. “One more hit.”

He takes it himself first, not deep, just enough to warm the tip, and holds it in his mouth just like the first hit. Then he leans in again. Closer than before. 

And when his lips meet yours this time, still soft, but less hesitant, it’s not just smoke that passes between the two of you. It’s everything. 

He doesn’t pull away once all the smoke has been passed to you. You could blame it on the fact that it means you have to hold the smoke in your mouth for a moment longer before inhaling it. But the way he lingers?

Yeah. It’s not because of the smoke.

When you break away to inhale, neither of you pull back. Not really. The moment just holds. Smoke exhales from your lips, creating a haze between you, your breaths mixing in the few inches of space between your mouths. 

His free hand is at your cheek, thumb skimming over the edge of your jaw almost reverently, and when he finally does pull back, it looks like it takes physical effort.

He keeps those pretty eyes on yours the whole time, watching those blown-out pupils grow wider, a hint of a smile on his lips. And when he finally speaks, his voice is so low, it’s barely even audible.

“…How do you feel?”

How do you feel?

That’s a loaded question. Your head is all light and airy. The touch of his hand on your cheek feels dialled up to a hundred. It makes you feel warm, intensely so. Flushed. Needy. And those butterflies? Yeah, they’re fluttering pretty low tonight.

But you don’t say that.

“Feeling… a lot,” you murmur after a moment, and you really can’t stop your gaze from dropping to his lips just once. And oh, he definitely caught it.

His breathing changes, just slightly. Deeper. Slower, like he’s trying really hard to steady himself (and failing). His thumb brushes your jaw again, the movement absentminded, and this time, it lingers.

“Me too,” he admits, soft enough that it almost gets lost in the hum of the movie that’s been long forgotten. His eyes drop to your lips just as yours did.

And when he leans in this time? There’s no smoke between you. Just him. Warmth radiating off of him like a furnace. He doesn’t bring the joint back to his lips, doesn’t take another long drag. No, this time, he gets so close, that your noses brush together. 

And when your lips meet, this time it’s real.

He inhales into the kiss, soft and warm, like he’s been waiting forever for this moment. His hand slides from your jaw into your hair, gentle but sure, holding you just close enough that you can feel his heartbeat through the small space between your chests.

It’s not rushed. Not desperate.

It’s Sam. Careful, present, full of something quiet and deep. The kind of kiss that’s been building up for years, hiding behind stolen glances, shared blankets, and late-night talks.

When your lips part, only because neither of you can breathe, it’s only an inch. Your foreheads rest together like neither of you want to risk being apart. 

“…Okay?” He asks, voice low, and a little unsteady. Like he’s half-way to falling apart from a single kiss. Careful and sweet, in that overly worried Sam Winchester way that makes your heart just ache. 

You don’t miss a beat before responding.

“So much better than okay,” you whisper, and then your lips are chasing his all over again. Like you got one taste, and you’re already addicted. 

His lips are just so soft. And he’s so gentle, so reverent, holding onto you with those strong arms like you’re something precious. Like you’re made of porcelain.

The second your mouth is on his again, his eyes flutter right back closed. He reaches past you just far enough to chuck the joint into his ash tray haphazardly (because oh yeah— maybe making out with a burning joint in your hand isn’t the best idea), before his hands are settling on your waist.

The only thing buzzing between the two of you now is pure heat and need that’s been building for years. His fingers trace across the sliver of exposed skin between the hem of your shirt and the waistband of your pants, leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake, tingling up your spine in a way that makes you shift. One of your hands is trapped between you, gripping his shirt like it’s the only thing keeping you steady, the other sliding into his hair at his nape.

His fingers flex against your skin like he’s fighting the urge to grip your waist, to really feel. Dig his fingers into your flesh, leave pretty marks that he can look back at and know this is real.

He resists, just for a moment, before the intensity wins, and he’s hauling you into his lap like you weigh nothing. And when your legs settle around his hips, the sound that escapes his chest is almost desperate.

You let out a high pitched mewl of your own, one that is swallowed by him immediately, drinking up every little sound like a man dying of thirst. His breathing is laboured, coming out in little puffs from his nose that warm your cheek. 

He breaks just far enough to look you in the eyes. Breathless, flustered, and disheveled: hair messy from your fingers, lips pink and slightly swollen, and that look on his face that tells you he’s barely holding back from ravaging you.

But still, even with that spark in his eyes, the flame in his chest, he presses his forehead against yours again. Slow and honey-sweet. Like he needs a moment to catch up with his thoughts. 

“You’re so beautiful,” he breathes, and his voice is rough around the edges. His words tumble out like he didn’t have time to catch them, and the warmth that blooms in your chest feels like fire.

The look on his face is… intense. More intense than a random kiss between best friends. More intense than some high mistake that’ll be long forgotten by the time the sun rises. Intense like something you’ve been aching for for years, but have never allowed yourself to admit. If you thought your brain was going wild before, then it’s going bat-shit crazy now. 

After a moment of silence, nothing but the sound of your pants blending together, you speak. 

“Tell me… tell me this is real,” your voice is barely audible, but he hears. He always hears you. “Tell me this means something to you. Because if… if it doesn’t, I don’t know if I can—“

He doesn’t let you finish. 

His expression shifts instantly, eyes locking on yours with a fierceness that steals your breath.

“No,” he says, voice low and steady, like steel wrapped in velvet. “Don’t.”

At first, those words scare you. The doubts flow in like a wave. You fucked up. You’ve ruined this. The best thing you’ve ever had, and you ruined it—

But his hand cups your cheek, thumb brushing the curve of your jaw like you’re something sacred. 

“This is real,” he murmurs, leaning in until his lips are just a whisper from yours. “This has been real for longer than I’ve let myself admit.”

He swallows hard. The hand on your cheek shakes in a way that you only ever see from him before a difficult final.

“I’ve wanted this for so long,” he admits, voice cracking slightly, and he grimaces at the sound. “Not because I’m high or lonely or drunk on whatever movie-night thing we have going on…”

A beat, and his eyes stay locked on yours. Like if he blinks too long, you’ll vanish.

“You. It’s always been you.”

For a moment, it feels like time has slowed. Like the world has stopped spinning on its axis, and the only thing left is this. Like the only thing left is him.

“…Yeah?” You whisper, half disbelief, half unbridled need.

Your expression must be blank, or maybe he can see that you’re barely even a breath away from breaking down under his palm, because he looks almost panicked. His eyes are wide, almost pleading. His jaw is so tight that you worry he might break a tooth. You snap yourself out of whatever trance you’d fallen into.

“Fuck, Sam… you have no idea. No idea how long I’ve been waiting to hear that,” you say, shaking your head like you can’t believe this is real. Your hand that’s slipped free from his hair has found your forearm, pinching hard enough to bruise.

“It’s always been you. I just… I didn’t know how to say it without ruining this. Without losing you. I can’t… I can’t lose you, Sam. I can’t.”

The truth rushes out before you can stop it. All that fear. Fear of losing the one person who knows you, really knows you.

He starts shaking his head before your words even fully leave your mouth, and his free hand brushes your fingers off your forearm. Because he noticed. Of course he noticed.

“I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere,” he leans in, pressing a soft, almost desperate kiss to the corner of your mouth, then your cheek, before whispering against your skin.

“I’ve been terrified, too, you know. Of saying the wrong thing. Of pushing too hard. Of ruining us,” his breath hitches like he’s choking on his words. “But I can’t pretend anymore.”

Another kiss. This one’s slow, deep, like he’s trying to pour every unsaid word into it. You swear his tongue darts out to brush against your bottom lip like he’s dying for a taste. 

He moves to pull away again. Probably to search your face for doubt. For any implication that he’s fucked all this up, despite everything you’ve said. Because Sam Winchester is nothing if not thorough.

You don’t let him. 

No, not a second passes before your lips find his almost desperately. Deep, and full of need, every ounce of longing poured into the action. 

His big hand splays along your back, and he’s pulling you closer, bodies flush together like he’s trying to erase every bit of space that’s left between you.

His fingers find the edge of your shirt, slipping just under the hem, like he can’t stand not touching you. The long digits slide under fabric in patterns that are almost rhythmic.

Your head feels like it’s spinning. Waves of pure need pulse through your veins with each gentle circle of his thumb. Your brain is still caught up in everything: that this is real. That this is happening. Because holy shit, you’re making out with your best friend.

You’re making out with Sam.

And you really, really never want to stop. You swipe your tongue along the seam of his lips, pressing into him with just a little more force, your hand finding his hair again. A silent question.

Can I?

And oh, the answer is abso-fucking-lutely, because Sam doesn’t miss a damn beat before his lips part.

It feels like an electrical current runs through your spine when his tongue meets yours, hot, feverish, and holy Jesus.

And when he groans, deep and ragged, it goes straight to your core.

He cups the back of your head with those massive hands, tilting you just slightly, so his tongue can slide against yours. Teasing, tasting, like he wants to memorize the moment. 

He doesn’t even pull back to start trailing his lips across your jaw. He mouths at your skin, slipping down to your neck, tongue darting out to lick your pulse point just to see you squirm. And oh, the second a moan slips past your lips?

Sam is done. 

He shudders like you’ve just ripped through every defence he’s built up over the years of pretending this wasn’t what he wanted to do. His thumb brushes along the strap of your tank top, sliding it down just slightly, his teeth grazing softly over your collarbone. He mouths at your skin with fever, sucking softly before releasing with a pop, and smoothing over with his tongue. Yeah. That’ll be a mark tomorrow.

Between peppered kisses against your neck, he murmurs, voice rough, almost pained. “You gonna drive me crazy, or let me taste you properly?”

He doesn’t let you answer the question, or even think about the implication (holy shit, he doesn’t mean—?) before he’s nipping your pulse point just hard enough to make you gasp, and the sound just about drives him wild. 

He’s barely holding back now. Like he’s lost in the feeling of you, and you have absolutely no complaints in the matter. Your fingers fist his hair like it’s the only lifeline you have left. His hands slide under your shirt completely, palms hot against the small of your back, pressing you close where you’re perched in his lap.

And when you whimper? That’s it.

He flips you gently onto the bed beneath him in one smooth motion, hovering over you with dark eyes and kiss swollen lips. But despite the way his pupils are black with desire, he doesn’t move. Doesn’t press his weight against you.

“You… you’ve gotta talk to me. Tell me if we’re going too fast,” he breathes. “Need to know if I can keep going. Please.”

Your heart aches at his words. They’re just so… him. Sam, the man who’d die before he did anything you didn’t want. Before he took anything that wasn’t his to take. 

“I want this. I want you, Sam,” you say, and your voice sounds way more wrecked than you’d intended. “We’ve waited long enough, don’t you think?”

His eyes scan your face, taking in your words, your flushed cheeks, the way you look sprawled beneath him.

His hands slide up your sides, your collarbone, down your arms, thumbs tracing a circle at your wrists. Not even sexual, just feeling you like he can’t help it. He watches the way you shiver, and swallows. Hard. 

Then his brows furrow, like he’s thinking, or lost in a thought, and for a moment, he looks almost conflicted.

“…How… how high are you?” He asks after a beat, and his voice is so low, that you barely hear it.

You blink at him for a moment. Because you’ve wanted this for so goddamn long, that you know it’s not the weed. Not just being lost in the heat of the moment. Fuck, you’d barely even taken a full hit. But this is Sam, after all. Terrified of misstepping. 

You almost shake him. Grab his shoulders and knock some sense into that thick Winchester skull, but you don’t. 

“I’m not,” you tell him, voice earnest. “Two, barely there hits. Nothing.”

He starts again, more insistent this time. “But it was your first time, you don’t know your—“

“Sam.”

Your voice cuts him off on the spot before he can spiral. Before his brain can twist things, or panic his way into thinking he’s doing something wrong (he hasn’t). Taking advantage (he’d never). Because you know him.

“I’ve wanted you for so long, Sammy,” the nickname slips out before you can stop it, and you don’t take it back. But instead of chastising you like he usually does, he just… softens. “All of you. Not just this. Everything.”

He hesitates for just a beat longer. His eyes rove over your face again, taking in every little nuance. Your blown pupils. Your swollen lips. The way your cheeks and collarbones are tinged pink. Your hair fanned over the pillows, his pillows, like a halo. His hand moves, smoothing over your fluffy pajama pants like he’s trying to soothe you, or himself.

“You’re sure?” He asks, just one more time. Because he has to know. (No matter how crazy it drives you.)

You nod, before realizing that that might not be enough for him, and you run your hand along his forearm. Soft. Soothing. “More sure than anything,” you say, and you’re not sure your voice as ever sounded so honest. “Are you?”

His hand stills on your thigh, but it doesn’t move. Stays warm on your pants, a comforting weight. 

“God, yes,” he whispers, voice low and raw. He leans down again until his forehead touches yours. “I want it all with you. Not just sex. The movies in pajamas, the stupid socks, the morning coffee runs… just us.”

Warmth pools heavy in your chest, and a wave of emotion crashes over you. Emotions you haven’t let yourself feel out of fear of overstepping, of ruining what you have.

You let out a shaky breath before you’re nodding again, “Yeah. I want it all. With you.”

He doesn’t say another word. Doesn’t have to.

He settles over you again, his lips finding your throat. He kisses down your neck like he’s tracing a map he’s memorized in his dreams, slow, reverent, but with an edge of pure hunger that makes your pulse jump. 

Each touch of his lips sends heat spiraling low in your stomach. And when he nips at that spot just below your ear, you gasp, and he groans, deep in his chest like you’re undoing him. 

His hands slide under your shirt again, this time peeling it up slowly, giving you time to stop him. But you don’t. Fuck, you never would, you arch into his touch instead.

When the fabric clears your head and falls away, he stares down at you like you’re something holy. “Jesus,” he breathes. “You’re perfect.”

His hands slide up your sides, thumbs brushing the underside of your breasts just enough for your breath to hitch. But he doesn’t rush. He won’t— not with you.

Instead, he kisses lower. Slow, open mouthed, each one a promise. A vow written in heat and need. 

When his lips finally reach the waistband of those stupid Christmas pants, the little fuzzy candy canes soft under his fingers, he pauses. Looks up at you from under his lashes. Still asking without words: Is this okay?

Uh, hell yes.

You’re half lost in the feeling of his lips leaving wet marks along your bare skin, and half in the way he looks over you. Lips swollen, eyes dark with desire, hair messy from your fingers tugging at the chocolate locks. 

You’re nodding before your brain even fully catches up with the movement. Because somehow, his gaze is a thousand times more intoxicating than the weed. “…Please, Sam.”

That’s all he needs.

Slow and deliberately, he hooks his fingers into the waistband, tugging them down just enough to expose the curve of your hip. His lips follow. A hot, open- mouthed kiss pressed just above your pelvic bone that makes you jolt beneath him. Another follows, then another, each lower than the last as he peels the fabric away.

“God,” he whispers against your skin. “You’re so damn beautiful.”

His hands are warm on your thighs, squeezing your soft flesh with a groan that he can’t quite keep contained. And for a moment, he just… looks.

Pupils blown wide. Barely even breathing.

Your face flushed. How could it not? The way he’s looking down at you like you’re some kind of angel, even in your mismatched, plain cotton bra and panties, silly little dog socks reaching mid-calf. Yet he’s staring like you’re the most gorgeous sight in the world. 

His thumb brushes over your inner thigh. So close, but not where you need it, and you have to resist the urge to just pull him where you want him.

“You’re everything,” he says, pressing a trembling kiss just above your knee. “I’ve thought about this… about you, just like this… for so long.”

Another kiss, higher now. Slower.

His breath fans across sensitive skin as his hands gently part your thighs wider, giving him better access. And when you whimper again, because holy shit, this is really happening— his eyes flutter shut.

Then he looks at you one more time, eyes wide and full:

“Can I taste you?”

Your brain short circuits. Because, um, what?

He says it like it’s not just for you, but also something he wants. Something he needs. And that just about takes you apart right then and there. But you’re still… nervous. So while your core aches for it, your voice comes out low.

“You, um. You don’t have to do that…” you whisper, but even then, you don’t pull away. Don’t close your thighs.

“I want to,” he says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. Like there’s nothing he’d rather do. 

Oh.

Still— you crack your knuckles where your hand is resting against the sheets, and he notices. He always notices. His gaze drops to the nervous fidgeting, the way your hand clenches and unclenches, and his gaze softens. He catches one of them, bringing it to his lips, a gentle, soothing kiss.

“Hey… we don’t have to,” he promises, thumb brushing your knuckles. “Not if you don’t want to. There’s no rush.”

It’s so tender. So fucking sweet that your heart feels like it might explode in your chest. So despite the nerves… he breaks you down, just a little. So finally, the need wins.

“…Fuck, okay. Yeah, please,” you plea, and his response is immediate. Lips trailing down your inner thigh with wet kisses that have you aching. 

Your fingers fist his shirt subconsciously, tugging the fabric at his shoulders, and he doesn’t hesitate. With one hand still cradling your thigh, the other reaches up to tug his shirt over his head, the movement stretching at his muscle, skin glowing faintly in the golden light.

And holy fuck is he ever beautiful. But you barely have any time to ogle (or do something stupid, like drool), before he lowers himself again. His mouth finally meets your centre, soft at first, just a kiss through soaked cotton, and he groans like he’s the one being worshipped. 

You’re halfway through a whine when he hooks a finger into your panties, pulling them aside.

“Christ,” he breathes, sending a jolt of need through your core. “You’re fucking drenched…”

One slow lick, from bottom to top, and you arch off the bed with a cry. “Holy shit, Sammy—“

He wastes no time practically tearing your panties off, and before you can even whine or complain, he’s hooking your thighs over his broad shoulders, fluffy-sock covered feet meeting his muscled back, and his mouth is back on you. 

His hands lock around your hips, holding you down as his tongue moves with slow, torturous precision. He’s studying you, how you twitch when his tongue flicks just above your clit, how you whimper when he dips his tongue just a little lower.

He loves learning, always has. That was one of the very first things you realized about him, when you first became friends. And now? he’s learning you.

He flattens his tongue, licking a broad stripe through your cunt, thumbs sliding through your lips to spread you open for him. Each pass is slower than the last, deeper somehow, not just physical. Like he’s not just tasting you, but claiming you. Drinking up your juices like a starving man.

One of his fingers slowly circles your entrance, just teasing, and you sob out his name like a prayer. He lifts his head, lips glistening, and smirks. A real one. Dangerous, and yet so tender.

“What do you need?” He asks, voice rough as gravel mixed together. But it’s laced with teasing, like he wants nothing more than to make you squirm. “Use your words, and I’ll give it to you. Promise.”

Your hips try to roll, just once, like if you move just enough, that finger might slide inside. Because that tone is just not fair. But you can’t. Not with his strong arm pinning you to the bed. 

“I— fuck, I want… want your fingers, please,” you all but beg, and your cheeks burn immediately. You almost want to tug on his hair to chastise him for turning you into a mess, but you’re too worried he’ll stop.

He hums, low and approving, like your pleads are the best sound he’s ever heard. And those vibrations? Yeah, they shoot through you like an electrical current. 

One thick finger slides in slowly, just to the first knuckle, testing, watching your face like a man studying salvation. 

“So tight,” he groans, pressing a kiss just below your navel as he sinks deeper. “You take me so well.”

Apparently, Sam Winchester has a filthy mouth. Which is not only insanely hot— but should be illegal.

Then a second finger joins, the stretch making you cry out, and Sam? He thrusts slow, curling them just right. Rubbing circles over that sweet spot inside of you like he knows your body better than his own. 

His mouth never leaves you. Tongue circling your swollen clit as his fingers work in and out, building rhythm, heat, pressure, until you’re trembling beneath him. The room fills with sweet, sopping wet sounds with each glide of his fingers, only drowned out by your blissed out moans and whines. 

He finds the perfect rhythm. One that has you teetering right there, your thighs shaking around his head, your fingers fisting his hair like you never want him to go. Pleasure sizzles in your core like a firework about to explode.

“Oh my God, Sam, Sammy, fuck—“

The sounds that slip from your lips are too incoherent to be words, and far too loud for a dorm room with such thin walls. But you’re way too far gone to notice, eyes rolling as your back bows beneath him. 

And holy shit, they only ebb Sam on. He speeds up those perfect, thick digits, curling and rubbing against that spongy part inside of you with fever, his lips sealing over your clit as he sucks. Hard. Cheeks hollowing as he gives you everything.

The wave of pleasure that crashes over you just then is intense.

Your back arches off the bed, thighs squeezing his head, your head thrown back with a cry that’s muffled by his palm because God, those thin dorm walls are a death sentence.

But you still make noise. Sam’s hand somewhat saved your dignity, but you let out high-pitched desperate whimpers into his hand, your cunt clenching around his fingers like you’re trying to keep him inside forever.

He doesn’t pull those fingers out. Doesn’t stop. Just keeps thrusting slow and deep, riding out every euphoric spasm with soft kisses to your inner thighs, and quiet murmurs of: “That’s it… let go, baby…”

When the last of the tremors finally start to fade, he eases those thick digits free with one last teasing stroke. He eases your legs off his shoulders with so much gentle care, and crawls up your body like a man claiming what’s always been his.

Lips swollen. Chin slick with you. Eyes wild and proud and so in awe that it takes your breath away. And when he kisses you this time, you taste yourself on his tongue. And damn if it doesn’t make your pulse jump all over again.

It’s dizzying. You can’t help the way you moan into his mouth, and he swallows it whole like he’s craving it. Your body is still shaking with aftershocks, tingling and sensitive, but you can’t help but crave more. Like he’s turned you into nothing but a greedy mess. 

He only breaks the kiss to let you breathe, before his lips are brushing every inch of your face in reverent little kisses as he presses you further into the pillows, settling between your trembling thighs like he belongs there.

He takes a moment to look at you, like you’re a masterpiece, and something about it just makes your heart just flutter. His lips quirk up in a smirk that he just barely is able to stifle, like he does when you know he’s about to tease you, but the look in his eyes is dark. Hungry.

“You’re a bit loud,” he says, that familiar playful look on his face. “I don’t even think you were that loud when you saw that ra—“

Immediately, you clamp your shaking hand over his mouth again (and holy shit his lips are still all wet from you), and you can feel him smiling against your palm.

“S-shut up, Sam!” You laugh, head falling back against the pillows, cheeks burning with embarrassment and lingering arousal.

But if there were any remaining nerves— they’re long gone. Because only one person can make you feel like this. Only one person who can make you feel so fucking good, then turn around and make you laugh.

“You’re insufferable. And way too fucking good at that,” you breathe, letting your eyes flutter closed. 

You’re still panting, still shaking from the intensity of your orgasm when he peels your hand off his face. His expression shifts into something softer. Something sweet.

He presses a kiss to your palm before letting go, then drags his lips to your wrist, your forearm, the soft inside of your elbow, each one slower than the last.

“You’re insufferable,” he murmurs against your skin. “Making me wait three goddamn years to do that.”

His hands slide up your sides again, fingertips dancing just under the edge of your bra. Then he stops. Looks at you, eyes tender, filled with silent question. You don’t waste any time nodding, arching just enough for those nimble fingers to unclip your bra with ease, sliding it off. 

He stares shamelessly like you’re the most gorgeous sight in the world, before his head is dipping back down. Pressing his mouth back to your throat, trailing along your collarbone, while his warm hands cup the underside of your breasts, thumbs swiping over your pointed nipples softly.

It’s sweet. It feels fucking good. And he’s still not pushing, even when you can feel how hard he is through the thin fabric of his pants pressed against your thigh.

“…Sam?” You whisper, and he answers with just a hum, sucking a mark into the soft flesh on your breast that will definitely be purple tomorrow. “I need to feel you. Please.”

He groans, low and rough against your skin, and you can feel his body tense above you. 

“Yeah,” he whispers, lips leaving a soft, wet trail of heat across your chest, tongue peaking out every so often to get a taste. His hands find your hips again, fingers curling against the sensitive skin beneath your ribs.

“Anything, honey. Anything you want.”

You can’t help but let out a strangled whine at the feeling of his lips, the deep tremble of his voice. The skin-on-skin of his bare chest pressed against yours electrifying. 

But then he pulls away.

Rude.

Peels those plaid pajama pants off, along with his boxers, in one clean movement, before crawling back over you.

And holy fuck, your eyes widen, mouth going a little dry at the sight. You knew Sam was a big guy. You have eyes. But apparently, he’s very well proportioned. As in— fucking huge.

“Jesus Christ, Sam…” you murmur, unable to peel your gaze away from the long, thick, hard, and aching sight of the gorgeous man in front of you. You weren’t aware cocks could be so… pretty. Your eyes are filled with desire. Need. Longing. And, yeah, maybe some nerves. Because holy shit, is that supposed to fit?

He notices the way your hips twitch, and his thumb comes to stroke your hip in a way that says you’re alright. You’re safe with me.

“Relax,” he coos. “I’ll go slow. Anything you need, honey, I’ll give it to you. Anything at all.”

His hand comes up to cup your jaw, gentle and sweet, so your eyes meet his again. “But I need you to talk to me. Can you do that, baby?”

You nod, melting into his palm like you were just made to be held by him. You can physically feel your body relaxing, easing into that familiar trust just from looking at those sweet puppy eyes of his. Fuck.

“…Yeah,” you say, voice barely above a whisper. Your hands wander as you speak like they have a mind of their own, trailing over his toned chest, down his abdomen. “You’re just… fuck, Sam. You’re perfect.”

A beat. And because you can’t help it:

“And massive.”

That earns a laugh out of him, low and teasing, his cheeks flushing pink in that sweet boyish way. But when your hand dips lower, fingers wrapping around him almost reverently, thumb sliding over the head, pre-come pearling from his tip, he freezes.

A gasp tears from his throat, low, ragged, like you’ve just lit a fuse. 

“Fuck,” he grits out through a clenched jaw, hips jerking into your hand once before he stills himself. “You gotta tell me to stop if it’s too much. I— I don’t want to hurt you.”

His voice is strained, every muscle in his body tight with restraint. But then you stroke him again, slow, curious, and he shudders. His forehead dropping to your shoulder with a groan that vibrates through both of you.

His hand finds yours, not to guide it, but just to press it tighter for one sinful second, before sliding it off of himself with a shaky breath.

“Please, I need you,” he groans. “Let me show you how good I can make you feel.”

You want to keep touching him. Want to stroke his pretty cock until he feels just as good as he made you feel. Until his come paints your chest, and he’s twitching under your touch.

But more than that? You want him inside of you. Need it.

“Fuck, yes,” you all but beg, and he sneaks another soft kiss before he’s moving.

You watch as he leans over you, every hard muscle in his abdomen rippling, bicep flexing where one hand rests by your head, and you have to resist the primal urge to just lick his skin. Like your brain has gone full cave-woman.

You hear a drawer open, the rustling of foil, and then he’s settling back between your legs, little square packet in hand. A condom. Without any prompting, or you having to ask, because that’s just the kind of man he is. And it only makes you want him more.

There’s a beat where you just watch him, until you freeze. Your hand reaches out to catch his wrist. 

“Wait, Sam,” you start, and just as the words come out, his expression shifts. Pure concern, already pulling away, so you speak fast. “I, um. I’m allergic to latex.”

He blinks at you for a moment, but then the panic in his eyes vanishes as quickly as it came. Instead, they soften into something so warm that you have to resist the urge to squirm or hide.

“I know,” he soothes, dropping his free hand to your thigh to run his fingers over your heated skin. “The, uh. The gloves, remember?”

…Oh.

Right. Nearly three years ago now, just a few months into your first semester. You’d been in a biology lab, doing some dissection— and whether you were just too excited, or too nervous to ask the professor for nitrile gloves, you’d ended up with a reaction.

And who fussed over you, practically sprinting to the pharmacy to buy you some antihistamines, not leaving your side for hours following? Sam.

But that was years ago. And it hadn’t come up sense. 

So for a few beats, you don’t respond. Staring at him with what had to be a pretty blank expression, because he immediately starts talking again.

“They’re latex free. Polyiso, uh… something,” he rambles, cheeks turning a cute shade of pink. “I can show you the box, if you want. Or— we don’t have to do this. We can stop. No hard feelings, I promise, baby—“

“No.”

You cut off his rambling immediately. Because fuck, stopping? That’s the last thing you want. 

But you’re just caught up in the implication. Because why would he, a broke college student, just… have latex-free condoms, knowing they’re more expensive? Unless…?

Unless he bought them for you?

The thought makes your heart rate pick up just a fraction. Makes you burn just a little hotter for him. Because holy fuck, he really has wanted you just as much as you’ve been wanting him. 

“I trust you. More than anyone,” you assure, locking eyes with him again. And when you find them— they’re so warm. “I need you.”

His eyes never leave yours.

For a second, you see it. The nervous hitch in his throat, the way his usually-steady hands tremble just slightly. Because this isn’t just sex. It’s you. And for Sam? That changes everything.

He rips the wrapper open, rolling the condom on slow, before he’s settling back over you, bracing himself above you with his elbow bent next to your head. The other reaches out just to brush your hair back from your face. 

“You’re sure?” He asks, just one last time, needing that confirmation. And when you nod, he presses a kiss to your cheek.

Then, one hand guiding himself, he pushes forward. Just the thick tip at first. A slow stretch that makes you gasp and your back bow beneath him.

He freezes almost instantly, concern flashing across his features. “Okay?”  

You nod again, can’t even speak, brain already going a little stupid, but the way you reach up to grab his shoulders tells him everything.

So he moves. Starts to slide deeper. So damn slowly, like he’s trying to savour every sweet inch. And fuck, is it ever a stretch. But he makes it better. 

He touches you like he can’t survive without feeling your skin under his fingertips. Hand traveling along your face, down your side, squeezing your hips. His body trembles like he’s about to snap, pressing messy kisses to your chest, your collarbone, whatever he can reach. 

His thrusts are so gentle. One small push, then he pulls back so just the tip remains inside, then sinks back just a little deeper. Every thrust allowing you to feel just a little more of him, thick and pulsing inside your dripping heat.

Before long, his hips settle against yours. He’s buried so deep that you think you can taste him. You can feel him everywhere. In your lungs, your bones, your soul. It’s so much, and yet— you need more.

Your core pulses to accommodate him, and it feels like you’re near stuffed to the damn brim. Like his tip is resting at your cervix, and you have to take a shaky breath to just relax. “…Oh, God, You’re so… fuck…”

“I know. I know, honey,” he coos, so soft and sweet that it makes you shiver. “You’re doing so good. Taking me like you were made for me, huh? So perfect…”

You moan right then and there, because who the fuck let him sound so hot, all blissed out and pussy drunk?

His damp skin glistens like honey in the low light, and you can hear how he’s holding himself back with each hitch of his breath. Can see it in the tension of his shoulders, the sweat beading at his temples, the taut lines of his muscles flexing with restraint. He’s trying to be so careful. 

He doesn’t move for a beat. Just stays, hips flush to yours, fingertips smoothing over your waist like he’s trying to soothe you. Give you time to adjust, even when he’s practically trembling. 

But despite how gentle he is with you, how much he cares, and as much as you adore how sweet he is, you’re not made of glass. 

“Sam?” You murmur, hands that were gripping his shoulders loosening to lace around his neck, and he hums against your throat. “You can move, baby. I’m not going to break.”

He stiffens. Just for a moment.

“…You sure you’re alright?” He asks, and his voice is ragged. Strained like every second of stillness is agony. But he waits. Because that’s Sam. Always putting you first.

When you nod, rolling your hips, just once to take him impossibly deeper, he shudders, a broken sound tearing from his throat.

Then he pulls back, just an inch, before sinking in again. And holy shit, it feels heavenly. 

Slow at first. Deep, deliberate rolls of his hips that make your breath hitch with every thrust. Each movement sends sparks spiraling through your core, stretching pleasure from every nerve like they were just made for him.

“God, you feel…” he breaks off in a low groan against your neck, your soaked core pulsing around him when he grazes deep, and he presses fevered kisses along your jaw. “So tight. So damn perfect.”

He starts to pick up the pace, still careful, but no longer holding back that hunger that’s begging to be sated. And when his hand slips between the two of you again? Find’s your clit with slow, maddening circles?

That’s it.

Pleasure explodes in your core like firecrackers, pure heat spreading from your lower belly though your limbs, your tight heat spasming around his cock uncontrollably.

“Oh my God, you— s’fucking good—“ you cry, neck craning back against the pillows, and he nips at your heated skin like he wants to ruin you. The sounds should be embarrassing, they really should. But with how you’re feeling? You really don’t care. 

He growls, low, possessive, almost proud, and then he’s shifting.

One hand slides under your ass, lifting you just slightly, hiking one thigh over his hip, and suddenly, he’s hitting you deeper. The new angle makes your vision whiten at the edges. You can’t even speak, just a sobbing gasp as he thrusts again and again. Harder this time. Not rough, but relentless, slamming into you with a new kind of fever that moves your entire body with the mattress. 

The sweet combination of him petting your clit while he drives into you at a dizzying pace has you seeing stars, and suddenly, you can’t contain the sounds anymore. 

Moans. Mewls. Whimpers, whines, cries— everything, far too loud for a goddamn dorm room.

And when the heavy tip of his cock glides along that spot deep inside of you, white hot pleasure igniting in your core, you learn that, apparently, you’re some-what of a screamer. 

His hand covers your mouth so fast, almost instantly, the movement so instinctive that it would almost be scary if it wasn’t so fucking hot. It’s not cruel, he’d never hurt you, but in a way that makes your stomach twist with need. 

But he still doesn’t stop. Just slows his pace a little, still hitting right there, and his fingers ease up on your clit. 

“Shh… you’ve gotta be quiet, yeah? Can you do that for me, baby?” He murmurs, hips still driving into you. His palm is warm, fingers splayed wide as another choked cry spills into them. “We have plenty of time for that during the break. When it’s just us. Then I’ll find out just how loud you can get for me, okay, honey?”

You’re not sure you’ve ever been more excited for Christmas in your goddamn life. 

The words seem to hit you just as much as a physical blow, and all the combined pleasure has you shaking beneath him. And despite his words, he snakes his hand back to your slit, pinching your clit just once, so you let out another cry muffled by his palm. And when you do? That dimpled smirk on his face only grows. 

Bastard.

“You gonna be good for me, huh? Gonna quiet down?” He teases, and you nod almost frantically before he even finishes his sentence. He grins again. Cocky, heated. He knows it’s a lie. “…You’re not fooling anyone, baby. Not with how you’re clenching around me… fuck.”

Even then, he pulls his hand back just enough to let a whimper slip free as his cock drags along your sweet spot with perfect precision, then he teases your clit again.

Harder this time. 

You arch off the bed with a strangled moan, and he captures it, mouth crashing down over yours like he’s starving for every sound, every twitch of your body beneath him. And holy shit, he’s relentless. 

You can tell he’s on the edge of losing it himself. His brows are pinched, his breaths are coming out ragged, and he can barely contain the moans of his own that slip right into your mouth.

If it wasn’t for his mouth covering yours, you’re almost sure you’d be reported to the RA. He feels fucking perfect, hot and thick and deep, stars shattering behind your eyelids with each perfectly timed thrust. 

You know you’re getting close. Practically dripping around his cock, sucking him in like a vice, your legs shaking around his hips, pleasure drawn tight enough to snap.

He groans, watching your face like you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. “You’re so close, aren’t you? Look at you, shaking f’me already…”

His thrusts turn sharper, each one hitting your g-spot like a goddamn homing missile. His thumb finds your clit again, not just pinching this time, but drawing tight, slick circles over the swollen bud.

“Come on. Let go for me. I’ve got you,” he all but growls into your ear.

He kisses the side of your neck, one soft, sweet press that contrasts his hard movements, then bites down just as his fingers move just a little faster.

It’s too much.

You shatter. Back arching off the bed, nails raking down his back as pleasure detonates through every nerve ending. A full-body wave of pure white heat that steals your breath and leaves you gasping his name into the air. Cries of ‘Sammy’ and ‘holy shit don’t stop’ muffled only by his lips. 

Sam doesn’t stop. He rides out every spasm with slower thrusts, still hitting so goddamn deep, as if he’s savouring every pulse around his aching cock. 

“Sam, oh my— fuck, s’much—“ you break off in another cry, incapable of holding back the pleads as pleasure explodes through you.

He can tell you’re already oversensitive when he slows a little, always so damn considerate, even when his eyes are darkened nearly black. He presses a kiss to your cheek, your forehead, your hair. “Just breathe for me, baby. That’s it…”

And the way he says it? Like he’s aching, voice rough, ragged, and desperate. Like it’s killing him to ease you down instead of chasing his own high.

He presses his forehead against yours, each puff of his breath fanning over your lips. “Can you keep going f’me, honey? Can you take it?”

And oh, fuck, can you ever.

“Mhm, please, fuck…” you barely manage the sound through your shaky breaths. But even through the overstimulation, the intense sensitivity shocking your nerves with each movement, it still feels so fucking good. 

And you really, really want to see him fall apart. 

His hips stutter forward at your words, a choked groan leaving his throat, hard and desperate. The angle shifts just right, so he’s hitting that spot again, and you can feel him pulsing inside of you. It’s so much. Almost too much.

“You take me so fucking well, I can’t—“ he chokes on his own moan as his body jerks, just once, twice, hips slamming into you with uncontrolled need as he spills into the condom with a sound that goes straight to your core.

You’re not sure you’ve seen anything so beautiful. His face screwing up in pleasure, abdomen clenching tight, biceps flexing where they’re caging you in.

He doesn’t pull out right away. Doesn’t move.

Just collapses gently onto his forearms bracketed around your head so he doesn’t crush you, face buried into your neck, as if trying to hide just how wrecked he feels. But still, soft lips press a kiss behind your ear. Tender. Quiet

You don’t let him hide, though. Your hands slide from around his neck to his jaw, pulling him in for a kiss. Deep, passionate, and so full of emotion. He holds onto you like you’re something fragile.

His mouth moves gently against yours, each kiss soft and slow, like he doesn’t ever want to stop. But he does pull back just barely to rest his forehead against yours, and it’s like he’s seeing you for the first time. Like he’s staring straight into your soul.

One hand slides through your hair, smoothing the sweat-slicked strands from your forehead. “You okay?” He whispers, voice thick, and sweeter than honey.

Are you ever.

Your thumb traces circles over his jaw, his cheek, like a moment spent not touching him is a moment wasted, and it takes a second for you to catch your breath enough to speak. 

“Uh-huh. Fuck. So good.”

Your response, so filled with exhaustion and lingering pleasure, has him huffing out a little laugh. He presses a kiss to the corner of your mouth, lips curving up against your skin. “Still think I’m insufferable?” He teases, because of course he does, and you roll your eyes. 

“Yeah. And annoying,” you shoot-back, but there’s nothing but fondness in your voice, still trembling with aftershocks.

He can tell you’re overstimulated, your walls fluttering around him like your body is trying to milk him dry. 

“…Sensitive, huh?” He murmurs, not a real question. Just knowing. He slowly eases off of you, leaving you to whine at the loss of his weight. “Sorry, sorry…”

Your eyes flutter closed, but you can hear rustling as he strips off the condom and tosses it. The sound of his footsteps on the creaky dorm room floor. The light over his tiny sink flicking on, then water running.

You reopen your eyes just to watch, and suddenly, you’re right back there. In that sweet, domestic bubble the two of you have been mingling in for years between not-date-dinners and movie nights you have to pretend are platonic. 

When he returns he’s got a warm wash cloth in one hand, but he stops at the edge of the bed, just looking at you like you’re something sacred. Then, that soft, dimpled smile. The one only you ever get.

“Hey,” he says quietly, like the moment is too delicate for anything louder. 

He sits beside you and gently drags the cloth over your skin, slow, careful strokes across your thighs and most intimate parts, just enough to clean without being too much on sensitive nerves. His touch is so tender that it makes your heart ache.

When he’s done, he tosses it aside and climbs back against the pillows, tucking the blanket over the two of you, pulling you close against his chest with a deep sigh. Your legs tangle together beneath warm sheets, your fuzzy socks smoothing against his calf. 

Your head finds its favourite spot, the dip between his shoulder and collarbone, and when his arm wraps around you, he places a kiss to your temple.

Neither of you speak. He just takes the remote in his hand (after finding it buried under his pillow, of course), rewinding the movie since the credits were rolling. Picks up a bag of M&M’s off his bedside table, ripping them open, and hands them to you. Like taking care of you is just second nature for him.

And maybe it is.

And lying there, in his arms, like it’s the most natural thing in the world, is exactly where you want to be. So different than before, and yet? Exactly the same. 

AN: Another one from my AO3! If you couldn’t tell… I wrote this at the start of the month, lol, but at the time, I didn’t quite understand tumblr (and I still don’t quite have it 🤣). But anyway, I’m a sucker for Stanford!Sam, and am a firm believer in stoner!Sam. Sue me.

As always… if you have any (Sam) recs, ideas, questions, God, anything, please don’t hesitate to leave an ask!

(Dividers, yet again, are from @saradika-graphics)

[alasdecas]

the concept of riding sam while you’re both drunk and giggly

cw: p in v (unprotected) drunk sex, est relationship, loving caring sammy MWAH .. i need him ALSO ty for my first inbox omg?? i had to write a lil smth bc.... when it comes to sam my mind starts racing TY AGAIN

walking in the motel stumbling as you laugh into each others kisses, just trying to get clothes off

and when you finally climb on top of him, his hands immediately fly to grip the plush of your waist

leaving happy sloppy kisses around your neck and jaw as you're laughing trying to get him inside!!

and when you do? he's moaning with a big smile on his face, gripping your hips tighter as your hands move 2 his shoulders

you move slowly, lazily almost. grinding your hips down. his hands move to bring you closer, helping you rock against him.

he breathes out "i don't think i tell you enough how good you are" squeezing your hips gently "takin' me so well, so perfect baby"

you smile happily, exhaling a breathy moan as you slur slightly "you do tell me... a lot" moving your hands to grip his biceps instead.

he shakes his head, closing his eyes as his mouth parts. "no, not enough"

his hand comes to cup your face. leaning in to press a kiss to the corner on your mouth.

your eyebrows furrow, mouth falling to an 'o' shape. his leaning in allowing him to hit deeper against your walls

"feels so good sam" you whine out, fighting to keep your head up as you begin to move faster.

"yeah?" he slurs, a smirk coming on his face, lifting his hips to meet yours as you move down

your eyes flutter shut, whining at how deep he is. grinding as you chase your high "m' close sam"

"me too" he groans, his grip tighter on your hips, rutting up into to you.

as you both reach your orgasm, whines spilling from the both of you, sam mumbling soft praises against your skin "love you so much baby, so good for me"

your head falls on his shoulder as you grind against him softly, riding out your high as his cum coats your walls perfectly.

you press soft kisses to his collarbone and neck, "love you more sammy." before finally taking his face in your hands to kiss him deeply. sighing softly as you feel buzzed and happy, complete and full with your perfect boyfriend.

🏷️ @dollivic | lmk if u wanna b on my taglist for little drabbles or oneshots i do!! <3 any comments or reblogs are super appreciated !!

[bigfatbitchdotcom]

Endlessly diabolical how you can't say words like rape and suicide uncensored without either being criticised by idiots or punished by conglomerates.

[bigfatbitchdotcom]

It's not r*pe, it's rape. It's not su*cide, it's suicide. Not unalive, dead. The backbone needs to be reintroduced en masse because softening the blow of these concepts with advertising language does absolutely nothing but allow people unaffected by them to feel not even a sting of what they can do, prompting inaction.

[bigfatbitchdotcom]

And it's been proven that on certain websites, you don't even face a repercussion for using the words as they are. People just started censoring themselves because they feared the potential lack of views and likes and followers which is so nasty itself.

[its-the-blob]

I attended an anti-suicide seminar in college. One of the big takeaways from it was that stigmatizing suicide increases the rate of suicide, because people who are feeling suicidal feel like they can't ask for help. Every time I see babytalk garbage like 'unalive', I think of that.

[ralfmaximus]

Use the real words. Words have power, and they matter.

[filthgf]

⸝ ʬʬ PRIEST!SAM fingers you in the confessional ✹˙

𔓗 fingering, size difference, dirty talk with major religious manipulation, implied age gap, in a church confessional !

. 🗯 ꒱ promised more of him after kinktober sooo long ago so heres a lil something for anyone that wants it :P

© snoopysnote

sam’s massive hand covered your mouth, muffling your moans as his hefty fingers stretched you out, plunging in and out of your hole repeatedly. the squelch was enough to warn someone, but he took the extra precaution, knowing how loud you can get.

you were perched on his lap, back to his chest, on his side of the confessional. his burly figure was already cramped into the tight space, but now he had to keep you stable on top of himself. your arms held up your legs, hugging them to your chest while your feet dangled in the air, toes curling as he easily hit that special spot each time he pushed his fingers back in.

“shh, angel, you haven’t purged all of your sins yet,” his breath warmed your ear, his shoulders shielding over yours. the crown of your head barely reached his neck that peeked above his clerical collar.

you whined into the palm that engulfed half of your face, lip gloss smeared on both of your flesh. your panties were pushed to the side, the sundress you picked out just for him was now all disheveled, and your hair was a mess—all of it somehow matching the unruly pace of his digging fingers.

his bulge twitched in his pants, pressing painfully against the spot where your back met your ass. his cock was aching to be let free, to replace his fingers and be buried inside your wet, sloppy cunt. all he could think about was sheathing himself to the hilt inside you, feeling your walls flutter around him as you tightly sucked him in, to hear the sweet and soft begs as he sat heavy in your hole.

his thumb had begun massaging your puffy bud, the sensation pulsating in your core. you were close. so dangerously close.

“don’t be filthy, hold it. you’re almost there, my angel, you’re so close to being pure. you don’t wanna ruin your only chance of saving yourself, do you?” his tone was condescending yet gentle, messing with your mushy, impressionable brain entirely.

you didn’t want to defy him, to be blasphemous and unworthy. he was wise beyond his years, he knew better than you, right? so why let go now, when you can have a more enjoyable release later on?

your thoughts disappeared as he slowly dragged his fingers out, a string of your arousal connecting to them. sam removed his hand from your face, turning your head up to meet his lips in a kiss, your mouth hot from panting.

“we must secure your place in heaven, sweet angel.” he spoke against your pout, shifting you back onto your feet as he unbuckled his belt, the sound sending shivers down your spine. your slicked cunt got wetter as he dragged his pants down, cock springing out with a flushed tip. he patted his thigh with a sly smile, “sit,” and you did.

[kblognar]

CEREAL AND COFFEE

“Nice undies. You always clean your place half naked?”

sam winchester x fem!reader (established, very casual relationship)

summary : Sam comes by for morning coffee.

CW : fluff with a dash of smut. oral (f receiving). fingering. bit’o’yearning.

Word Count : 2.9k

Prompt : Lazy Mornings, You have one new message.

a/n : written for @sorryitsmyfirstdayonearth’s fall fluff-fest challenge. what a fun little sojourn from my usual angsty proclivities, i had so much fun writing this. thank you, sorry!

title is an homage to the song "Cigarettes and Coffee" by Otis Redding

It’s morning, still early but late enough that the sunlight streaming in casts a warm, ethereal glow across everything it touches. It makes you feel languid and lazy, like lying around all day is the best idea in the world. 

Except, he is coming today, at some point, and the late autumn sun seems to be a spotlight for where your household maintenance has fallen short. Life is too short to bleach your countertops on the reg. 

✉️ 1 New Message

The volume on the turntable in your living room drowns out your off-key singing in the kitchen. At this point, you’re dancing more than you’re cleaning but you’re more or less finished, everything smelling faintly of citrus and lemongrass not quite covering the smell of bleach.

✉️ 2 New Messages 

You always scrub the sink last, like the finality of the sparkling chrome. You give the scouring pad a last rinse, pull off your dish gloves, and toss them into the drying rack, spreading your arms to span most of the width of the counter. You drum your fingers on it, surveying your work. 

Laundry’s in the wash, the apartment’s been tidied, bathroom and kitchen are clean. You vacuumed. Mopped. For a man. Your girlfriends would laugh at you, going full Molly Maid because you’re hoping to get laid. Strike that, you know you’re getting laid, you’re just not positive when. Doesn’t matter, they still wouldn’t get it. Can’t. They haven’t met this man. 

This man? Totally worth cleaning for. 

✉️ 3 New Messages 

You tut your tongue a couple times, hips canting in time with the beat, pull down a box of Honey Nut Oh’s. You unfold the top of the box, unroll the bag inside, start popping the sweet and crunchy rings into your mouth a few at a time. 

The thing about getting to see him is the waiting that comes first. It’s exciting, torturous, absolutely horny, not knowing when he’ll appear but sure that he will. It makes something low in your tummy turn somersault, thinking about him, makes you squeeze your thighs together, bite your lip. 

You do one of those exaggerated drama school sighs that are supposed to loosen up your lips and hop from foot to foot to shake it off. You dance it out, dispelling the tension from your limbs and laugh at yourself for being so wound up. You try to remember that it’s a casual thing, worth cleaning for, but he doesn’t even live in town. It’s never going to be more than a hookup and you refuse to freak out over hookups. Even if said hookup is a six-foot-four wall of muscle with the demeanor of a golden retriever. 

The music stops and you finally hear your phone buzzing against the counter. You yank it free of its charger and look at the small display.

✉️ 4 New Messages

Your brows knit together, shocked you’ve missed so many messages, worried for a second he might have bailed on you. It hasn’t happened yet, but there’s a first time for everything. 

You fold the cereal box under your arm so you can still keep munching while you check your texts.

Here. 

You wrinkle your nose, tip your head back, drop a handful of cereal into your mouth. Without the music, your loud crunching echoes inside your head.

Nice undies. You always clean your place half naked?

“Huh?” You pour more cereal into your mouth, crunch some more. It takes a minute for you to realize he must have let himself in already. Figure he’s on the couch, maybe in the bathroom. 

Your ass is perfect, you know that? 

Your crunching slows, you dust crumbs from the corner of your mouth with the back of your hand. You look up, take a quick glance around the kitchen, flip to the last message. 

You’re so damn cute. 

“Sam?” You look up again, scanning more thoroughly, freeze when you notice the figure leaning against the doorframe, looking down at his phone. He takes up so much space, you’re not sure how you missed him before.

You always forget how big he is, not just tall but broad, and he’s wearing a suit, which is new. You blink at him, heart hammering in your chest, very aware of the fact that you’re standing there in a t-shirt and panties and nothing else. Not that he hasn’t seen you in less, that’s kind of the point, but there’s usually some sort of preamble to the nakedness. 

✉️ 1 New Message

Your phone buzzes in your hand, it startles you so badly you yelp, nearly drop your phone, actually drop the cereal box trying to keep it in your hand. Honeyed, Nutty Oh’s scatter all over the floor you just finished cleaning and you stand there, stunned, staring at him. 

He flips his phone shut, slips it into his pocket, crosses his arms and looks at you. His eyes scan you top to bottom and back, meet yours as he comes back to look at your face. He’s laughing at you, trying and failing to hide it behind a twitching, pursed lip smile. It’s suddenly imperative that you look down at your phone, to check the message he sent while he was standing there, watching you. Definitely not to hide your embarrassment. 

Hi 

You look back up in time to see him toss his jacket over the back of one of your kitchen chairs, taking long strides towards you. You yelp again then start to giggle as he bends to scoop you up by the back of the thighs, almost tossing you into his arms, your legs wrapping around his waist like they belong there. 

“Hi.” 

You’re fully blushing, can feel it creeping up from your collar to your cheeks, flaring hot across the bridge of your nose. You try to hide it by burying it against the collar of his shirt. 

“Hey.” He shifts your weight so he’s holding you up with one arm, hand firmly cupping your ass, so his other hand can palm the side of your face, dragging his thumb over your cheekbone. “Don’t hide.” 

You bite your lip, watch his gaze flick from your eyes to your mouth rapid fire until he leans in and presses his mouth to yours. You hear his sharp inhale, feel it against your cheek, when you lean in, kiss him back. 

You wind your arms around his neck, tangling your fingers in his hair, it’s longer than it was the last time you saw him. You like it, give it a little tug, just hard enough to make him grunt, break the kiss. 

“You scared the shit out of me.” He hums, nods, kisses your cheek. “I just cleaned the floor.” He finds the spot behind your ear that makes you shiver, chuckles against you as he kisses you there. “It’s good to see you.” 

“Mhm. Yeah, you too.” He kisses a trail down your neck, teeth grazing your pulse point. “I said hi, you just didn’t hear me.” He nips at you, sweeps his tongue over the same spot immediately. You gasp. “I’ll help you clean up later.” He hitches you up higher on his waist, breathing heavy, grinning at you. “You got any coffee?” 

“We have to make it, but yeah.” You look over your shoulder at the coffee maker on the counter. He goes back to kissing your neck, carries you over, sets you down beside the sink.  

He grabs the carafe and fills it with water, you twist around to pull out a pack of paper filters and a canister of ground coffee from the cupboard behind you, squeeze your knees into his sides as you do. It makes him jolt, splash water over the side of the coffee maker as he’s pouring it into the reservoir. You hide a snicker behind your hand. 

He leans over to pull a spoon from the drawer where he knows you keep them, trades it for the filter you hand him. His fingers draw damp circles on your thigh as he pops out the now filtered basket, holding it out for you to scoop ground coffee into. You count each on quietly to yourself, glancing down at the reservoir to see how much water he’d poured in, see it’s enough for a full pot. He kisses your temple as you do. 

He drops the basket into the maker, flips the lid closed, turns the machine on. It chirps out an electronic beep. He encloses you, resting his hands on the counter, bracketing your hips. His nose rubs back and forth against yours, making you giggle again. For a hot guy, he is such a dork. 

“I’d offer you something to eat, but I’m all out of cereal.” You deadpan and he huffs, wrinkling his nose. You reach up to run his tie through your hands, rubbing the fabric between your finger and thumb. “What’s with the suit?” 

“Just wrapped up a job, had Dean drop me off on his way back to the motel.” That makes your stomach flutter, makes something else flutter too. He came straight here, didn’t even stop to change. “I’m not a big cereal guy.” He slides a hand up your leg, sliding the hem of your shirt up over your hip. “And I can think of something else I’d rather eat.”

“Sam.” It makes you shudder, the thought of his mouth on you again. You work your tongue around in your mouth, try to keep your thoughts straight. “It looks good on you.” He drags your thighs wider, pulling you closer to the edge of the counter. “I just cleaned the counter too, y’know.” 

“I know.” He kisses the corner of your mouth. “Got a great look at your legs while you did.” He’s dropping to his knees, hands falling to yours, each to each. “I’ll help you clean up later.” 

“Sam.” You can hear him sweeping cereal out of the way with his foot but some still crunches underneath him when his knees hit the floor. 

“Just a taste, til the coffee’s ready.” His hands are running up and down your thighs, slow and teasing. “Please?”

You bury your fingers in his hair, nodding as he leans into your touch. He closes his eyes, humming softly. He looks happy. “That why we’re making a whole pot for two people?” 

“Maybe.” Sam scrunches his nose and laughs, drops a kiss to your inner thigh. “But Dean said we don’t need to hit the road til tomorrow afternoon. I thought, if you’re up for it.” 

“Really?” He looks up at you, seems delighted that you’ve interrupted him, smiles at how excited you are.

“Really.” You gasp when he makes his way closer to your centre and he smiles against you. “You don’t have other plans, do you?” You shake your head, shift and widen the space between your legs for him, try to guide him where you need him. 

He runs his nose along your clothed slit, you don’t bother trying to hide your moan. “I can’t think of anywhere else I’d wanna be right now.” 

“Mhm. Me neither.” He mouths at you through the fabric of your underwear, breathes you in deeply. You half laugh, half groan, fully gasp when he slips his finger under the elastic nestled in your hip crease, pulling it aside to expose you. You’re not soaked, but you’re not far off. 

“Sam.” You run your hand through his hair, try to press his mouth closer. 

“Both hands.” He murmurs against you and it takes you a second to understand what he means. “Use both hands.” 

You do as you’re told, your head tipping back to rest on the cupboard behind you as he lets you push his face against your cunt. He alternates between long, sweeping slow strokes along the length of you with little kitten licks around your clit. 

You feel his finger, feather light, spreading your wetness along its length, readying it for you. He just breaches your entrance, your throat working soundlessly as you flex your hips, rocking close to him. You’re so close to falling off the counter, clinging to his hair so tightly it must hurt, that he pulls your knees over his shoulders. His lips brush your folds as he murmurs that it’s okay, you should hold onto him. You can’t help the way your thighs flex and squeeze around his head. 

The coffee maker gurgles, beeps, tells you your time is up. 

Sam pauses for a moment, then carefully retracts his finger, pulls away. He slides your underwear back into place. The kiss he gives you is soft, lingering. It makes you moan again, slow and deep and filled with yearning. You look down at him, his face half hidden by your mound, his closed eyes and creased brow make it look like he’s trying to memorize something. Maybe it’s you.

“Sam.” You tug lightly on his hair, slide your hand to cup his cheek. “Coffee’s ready.” 

“Yeah.” He takes another deep breath of you, eyelids fluttering, slowly stands back up. He kisses your mouth the same way he kissed your cunt. You taste yourself on him, think you taste yearning on him too. “Cream, no sugar?” 

“Yep. I’m sweet enough.” Arm around his neck you steal another quick kiss. He picks you up again, your legs wrap around him just like before, except he’s holding you lower on his hips this time. 

“Mhm. You are.” When your ankles lock together behind his back, it presses your arousal into his. You gasp, drop your forehead to his shoulder. “Bed?” He carries you out of the kitchen. “Or couch?”

“Couch.” You murmur it against his neck. “You forgot the coffee.” 

“I’ll get it in a minute.” He doesn’t let go of you when he lays you out on the couch, stretches out over you as your back sinks into the cushions. He hovers over you, just looking down at your face. “You’re so damn cute.”

“Yeah?” Hands cradling his face, you arch up, kiss him. You cinch your legs tighter, grinding your hips into him. He groans and you feel it vibrate through his whole body. “What’s cute?”

“You.” He closes his eyes as if reading through a list he’s made, somewhere in his mind. He drops his forehead to yours. “This is cute.” One of his hands slides up your leg, grabs your ass, gives it a light slap and you squeak. “You’ve got cute undies.” He slips a finger under the elastic of your underwear, gives it a snap against your hipbone. “I like your nose, that’s cute, too.” He nuzzles you, lifts his chin so he can run his teeth over the tip of your nose. You giggle, have to force yourself not to shy away from this adoration you asked him for. “Oh, that’s super cute. I love that little laugh of yours.” His hips are moving against you, barely, just the idea of friction. You can’t tell if it’s what he’s saying or what he’s doing, but your thoughts are going gooey. “Watching you wiggle around, cleaning your place for me. That was really cute.” 

“Sam.” You run your hands from his shoulders to his sides, sighing. His forehead is still resting against yours, so you can’t see his face clearly, just bits and pieces. He has a mole by his nose, another beside his lip, keeps flashing you those dimples that shouldn’t make you feel as filthy as they do.  

“I bet you’re a secret slob.” You see the flash of teeth, he has a great smile, it makes you feel gooey again. Gooier. “Are you one of those ‘don’t do laundry, buy new underwear people’?” 

“Sam!” You swat at his ribs, eyes snapping open when he pulls his face away from yours to laugh harder. “I’m doing laundry right now.” 

“Uh huh. Cute.” He kisses you and his mouth tells you he doesn’t just think you’re cute. It’s wetter, hotter than when he kissed you in the kitchen, he lets more of his weight settle on to you. 

You think you like him in slacks, can feel him through them way better than the denim he usually shows up in. You arch into him, moan his name into his mouth. “Sam.” 

“Yeah?” Everything about him is getting less and less tender, more urgent. “Fuck, I like the way you say my name.”

“Sam.” You let your voice get huskier, breathy and sensual. He kisses you, hard, comes away wet. You suck in a deep breath, pat his shoulder playfully. “Coffee. You were the one who made a whole pot.”

He groans, drops all his weight onto you, forcing the air out of your lungs. He sinks his teeth into your shoulder, not very hard, shaking his head to tug at the tissue carefully. 

“Ouf. Do you get bigger every time I see you?” 

“Yeah.” He ruts into you, a slow delicious drag through your heat, making his point. A promise of what will come later. “That’s how it works, you know.” 

“Not what I meant.” You swat him on the arm, can’t really laugh with his deadweight covering you like a thunder blanket. “Sam, I can’t breathe.” He pops up immediately, lets you push him all the way up to his knees. “Coffee.” 

“Coffee.” He grunts, leaning down to give you a quick peck before standing up, stretching, taking a second to adjust the noticeable bulge in his pants. He gives you a half smirk but still blushes a little when he catches you watching him. Cocky and shy at the same time. It shouldn’t be so sexy, but it is. Your girlfriends could never get it, but that’s okay. 

You do, and so does he. 

Thank you so much for reading! Gratitude for likes, comments, reblogs and vibes.

I appreciate you!

[ohangeleyes]

imagine dry humping sam winchester and he's getting too desperate...

the mini cotton shorts you wore to bed, which was barely even covering your ass, is what got you in this position. being seated on sam's lap, desperately grinding on his clothed shaft. you didn't even need to see his cock to know he was leaking precum and getting so painful.

your neck was completely covered in hickeys and bite marks, from when he couldn't control himself anymore. a few purple pigments covered his skin beautifully too. however, he has been pulling you off his neck by grabbing your hair every time he felt you sucking on his skin, because he was going to cum in his pants right then and there if you continued for a second too long.

he was rock hard underneath you. and it felt so good every time your clit rubbed against him. you could feel the thickness, the length, that one specific vein through his plaid pajama pants. you could feel everything even through 2 pieces of clothing separating you.

his hands are shaky when he grips your thighs around him, desperate to hold onto something. he grabs your face and pulls you in a kiss yet again, his tongue tangling with yours. you press your hips even closer to his and he moans in your mouth. deep and loud. god, he feels like a teenager all over again.

he pulls away slightly, a string of spit still connecting your lips. the beautiful mess of both your saliva mixing together is completely covering both your mouths.

"jesus- don't-" his shaky voice cracks, his head dropping back to the bed's headboard, "please don't stop."

you start speeding up, the feeling so overwhelmingly perfect for both of you, sam has to immediately grab your hips in a tight, painful grip to ground himself.

then he starts whimpering, and boy, can he whimper. he was a sight for sore eyes. sweaty, desperate, his eyes rolling to the back of his head.

his hands start gripping and clinging on everything. your hips, thighs, clothes, chest, anything.

he looks at you like you're the only real thing left in his life. and in this exact moment, you really are.

he really is too desperate.

notes this may be too short im sorry its 4am for me :3

tags @mostlymarvelgirl @charliesangel67 @videwly @everythingisaspectrum @that-stanford-girlie @wvyik @sequoia-roots @samsswife @multiversefanfics @infrqred @rxi-pop @southernimpala @snoopysnote @a-gay-alien @odessabram @firstlyferrari @stonersampilled @iigummysharkii @lunaleah @girlblogger-04 @brainspurvhs @abigolemess @mfstargrll @thesundontshineontheseeyebrows @pieandflannel @heapingfern @lavend3rdust @sunnyteume @spac3cowgir1 @bambisbabydollhouse @marlsvii

[wendichester]

⋆˚꩜｡ candlelight confessions,

summary. the power goes out in the bunker; sam finds a way to spend the time.

pairing. sam winchester x reader ( f )

wordcount. 628 genre. smut !!

warnings. explicit soft smut, slow, tender, love-making (unprotected, p-in-v), praise kink dialed to eleven, sam being devastatingly gentle and in love, candlelit intimacy, power-outage vibes, feelings so loud you can hear them

The bunker goes dark without ceremony. One second the war-room lamps are humming, the next, nothing. Just the sudden hush of electricity dying and the soft clunk of Sam closing his laptop.

“Generator’s out too,” he calls from the hall, voice echoing. “Storm must’ve taken the whole grid.”

You’re already in your room when he appears in the doorway, two candles in mason jars flickering in his hands. The glow paints gold across his cheekbones, turns his eyes into warm amber.

“Found these in the storage room,” he says, setting one on the dresser, one on the nightstand. “Figured we could… ride it out together.”

The way he says it makes your stomach flip.

He closes the door. The click is soft, deliberate. Shadows dance over flannel and bare forearms as he crosses the room, slow, like he’s giving you every chance to stop him.

You don’t.

Sam stops at the edge of the bed, thumbs brushing your cheeks. “Hey,” he whispers. “I’ve wanted to do this slow for months. No rush, no hunt, no world ending. Just us.”

You nod, throat tight. He kisses you like he’s memorizing the shape of your mouth, soft, reverent, then deeper, until you’re both breathing the same air. Clothes come off in quiet layers: his flannel, your shirt, his jeans, your leggings, until there’s nothing but candlelight on skin and the low crackle of melting wax.

He lays you back against the pillows, eyes never leaving yours. “You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs, lips trailing down your throat, across your collarbone, the curve of your breast. “Every inch of you. I’m gonna take my time tonight.”

His mouth is warm, worshipful. He kisses a path down your body like he’s mapping constellations, tongue tracing every sensitive spot until you’re arching, fingers tangled in his hair. When he finally settles between your thighs, he looks up at you like you hung the moon.

“Let me take care of you,” he breathes, and then his mouth is on you, slow, deliberate strokes that make your toes curl and your breath fracture. He brings you to the edge twice, pulling back just enough to kiss your trembling thighs and whisper, “Not yet, baby. Want to feel you around me when you come.”

When he finally slides into you, it’s agonizingly gentle, inch by inch, eyes locked, foreheads pressed together. You both exhale at the same time, like you’ve been holding your breath for years.

“God, you feel perfect,” he groans, voice shaking. “So warm, so mine.”

He moves like the world isn’t spinning outside, slow rolls of his hips that drag over every sensitive place inside you. One hand cradles your face, thumb stroking your cheek; the other laces with yours beside your head.

“Look at me,” he whispers when your eyes flutter shut. “Want to see you when you fall apart.”

You do. You watch the adoration in his eyes while he makes love to you like it’s a prayer, hips rolling, breath hitching, murmuring praise against your lips.

“There you go, sweetheart, just like that.” “You’re taking me so well, so beautiful.” “I’ve got you, I’ve always got you.”

The candlelight flickers across his face when you come, soft and shattering, clenching around him with his name on your tongue. He follows seconds later, burying his face in your neck, spilling inside you with a broken, reverent, “I love you, love you so much.”

After, he doesn’t pull out right away. Just holds you close, kissing your temple, your eyelids, the tip of your nose, whispering thank you like you gave him a miracle instead of your body.

The candles burn lower, wax pooling gold.

Outside, the storm keeps raging.

Inside, Sam Winchester holds you like you’re the only light he’ll ever need.

ꔛ. all works ; writing guidelines ; support my work .ᐟ

[wendichester]

⋆˚꩜｡ santa’s little helper, dean’s big problem,

summary. you have to dress up for the case; dean wants to dress you down.

pairing. dean winchester x reader ( f )

wordcount. 410 genre. kinda hot tbh

warnings. you in a very skimpy santa outfit, dean winchester.exe has stopped working, heavy sexual tension, dirty thoughts narrated out loud (dean has no filter), public setting, zero chill

Dean stops dead in the club hallway like someone yanked his plug out of the wall.

You’re leaning against the dressing-room door, adjusting the strap of a red velvet bralette that’s doing God’s work and breaking several laws of physics. White fur trim barely covers anything, the skirt is more belt than clothing, and the thigh-high stockings have tiny jingle bells sewn along the lace tops that tinkle every time you shift your weight.

You glance up. “Eyes up, Winchester.”

He doesn’t even try. “Nope. Not possible. Brain’s offline.”

You roll your eyes, but the corner of your mouth twitches. “It’s for the case. Succubus likes the holiday dancers. I’m bait.”

Dean’s throat works. “You’re bait dressed like the best damn Christmas present I’ve ever seen.”

He steps closer, voice dropping to that gravel-rough register that makes your knees weak. “Those bells jingle when you walk?”

“Every step,” you say, deliberately slow.

Dean’s pupils are blown wide. “I’m gonna need you to stop moving. Or keep moving. I haven’t decided. My dick’s filing a complaint either way.”

You flick one of the bells with a fingertip; the soft chime makes him flinch like you touched him directly.

“Dean.”

“Uh-huh?”

“Breathe.”

“Can’t. All the oxygen’s in your tits right now.”

You laugh despite yourself. He crowds you against the door, hands braced on either side of your head, careful not to touch the costume (yet).

“Five minutes,” he mutters, eyes tracing the fur trim that’s dipping dangerously low. “Give me five minutes in the supply closet and I’ll die happy. I’ll write ‘best case ever’ on my tombstone.”

“Focus,” you scold, but your voice is breathy because his mouth is an inch from the shell of your ear.

“Focusing,” he growls. “Focusing on how I’m gonna peel that skirt off with my teeth the second this succubus is toast.”

The jingle bells give another traitorous chime as your thighs press together.

Dean hears it. Groans like he’s dying.

“Fuck this case,” he decides. “We’re burning the building down and calling it an accident.”

You shove at his chest, laughing. “Later, horny Santa.”

He lets you slip past, but his eyes stay glued to every sway of red velvet and every tiny jingle as you walk away.

“Later,” he promises the empty hallway, voice wrecked. “I’m ripping the bells off one by one and making you scream ‘ho ho ho’ for real.”

The succubus doesn’t stand a chance tonight.

Neither does Dean.

ꔛ. all works ; writing guidelines ; support my work .ᐟ

[honeyroots]

𝐓𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄 ꒲ DEAN WINCHESTER .ᐟ

꒰ MINORS DO NOT INTERACT ꒱ 𖦹 𝐔𝐒𝐄𝐑 𝐃𝐈𝐒𝐂𝐑𝐄𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 ⦂ fem!reader, making out, au: bestie!dean, mentions of spit, dry humping, 𖦹 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄 𝐋𝐄𝐓𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐒 ⦂ based on this

Dean Winchester has perfect, pillowy lips. They're plump with a natural pink hue that makeup formulas would be envious of. When he speaks, his voice low and his words slow, sometimes you can't help but watch the way his lips move rather than focusing on what he's actually saying. You lay next to Dean, like you've always done with your best friend, but instead of watching the film playing on the tiny motel television, your gaze is fixated on the way his teeth pull and tug on his bottom lip in concentration. "What?" Dean says, looking down at you as you prop your chin on his chest. "You're going to burn a hole in the side of my head if you keep staring at me like that."

You marvel up at your best friend, eyeing the veins in his neck, the intensity of your need for him pins and pricks at your lower belly. With courage you didn't know you had, you take in a soft breath and let out a whiny tone, "You're my best friend, Dean… Can't we kiss?" Dean looks conflicted for a moment before his brain is clouded with ill judgement. Your whine is enough to make him fold, deciding that if his best friend needs something from him, who is he to say no? With careful movements, Dean hooks his hand around your jaw, pulling you closer to him by the back of your neck. "Yeah, sweetheart, let me show you. Let me show you how best friends kiss."

It starts slow, his lips colliding with yours. He nips at your bottom lip with his teeth, suckling and nibbling on it in a way that makes your body feel like it’s on fire. Moans escape from you in staccato-like vibrations. The taste of Dean's spit is sweet like candy, and the part of your brain that is still able to create coherent thoughts wonders how you lasted so long without Dean's mouth on yours. Without much thought, your hips begin to rock against him, and even though you aren't completely aware of what you're doing, Dean's movements freeze. He pulls your head back, his fingers laced in your hair as he scans your face for any nonverbal signs you might be offering him. Slowly, with a caution you've never seen Dean Winchester possess, he picks you up by your hips and positions your crotch above his. "Take what you need, honey."

As soon as the words tumbled from his mouth, your hips were rocking against him. The slickness in your underwear was sticking to your folds and the seams in Dean's jeans only acted as the stimulation you so desperately needed. Your voice is hoarse as you rock your crotch against Dean, "this is okay, right? Best friends do this?"

"Yeah, yeah," Dean presses your cheeks in between his hands, pulling you forward so you're hunched just enough for your lips to connect once more. Muttering against you, Dean whispers, “all best friends do this.”

[hanasnx]

Maybe size difference with Sam where reader is one of Dean's friends and a bit older and always saw him in a brotherly way cause of that but after not hearing from him for so long loses her mind after seeing the man he's turned into (ig this could have fauxcest too?? Idk?)

MINORS DNI 18+

LINK. it’s a supernatural christmas! request smut for the big three of supernatural. WARNINGS. fem reader: fem anatomy. established relationship. sexual content. flirting. smut: p in v. dirty talk: praise. pain kink: too big of a dick. size difference, size kink.

little SAM WINCHESTER‘s always been that—little. half your size and following you and dean around like a lost puppy. you’d ruffle his hair and tell him, “go away, sam, me and dean are about to play house.” only for said older brother to loudly and dramatically exclaim yeuck! in the background in response to your joke. it’s not that you’ve been around the winchester boys all the time, you’d just see them around and your folks ran in the same circles, it was only natural for some overlap because sometimes daycare just wasn’t in the cards. sam and dean would frequent your house occasionally, at one point they were even your neighbors for a stretch. however, all good things come to an end. as you all grew older, you’d see less of each other. years go by without so much as a carrier pigeon.

it’s a good amount of time before dean comes walking back through your door. you greet him as an old friend, a hearty hug and a polite, “you’re a sight for sore eyes.” as you give him a once-over. it earns you a throaty chuckle.

“you’re not s’bad yourself.” he replies, and you can see the lines of age in his face. it brings a smile to yours. “sam’s on his way in he just had to fix his make-up.”

“hardy-har-har.” you respond flippantly, rolling your eyes. you cross your arms as your straighten and your attention is grabbed at the sound of the door opening. little sam winchester, not so little anymore, fills the doorway as he practically ducks in. it’s enough to take you aback, blinking up at him. you manage to choke out, “sam?” in disbelief, and you’re quick to mask it with some feigned scoff of a relief as you bring him in for a greeting hug.

“hey.” he replies, stooping to meet you, and you try not to linger on how hard his body is—even underneath all the layers. he rears, and you can finally see his grin. he’s handsome. the kind of handsome that has your knees wobbly and your heart fluttery. those dimples are still there. your neck aches looking up at him like this and you chew on your lower lip to fidget.

“hi.” you say back, lofty and dreamy, sighing as you stuff your hands into the back pockets of your jeans. dean looks between you two with a narrowed gaze, uncomfortable with the awkward pause. you could hear a pin drop in this room.

it takes a bit for the boys to get settled but instead of talking dean’s ear off like you used to do, you’re on sam. it’s all about where he’s been, what he’s been up to, how long he’s been on the road, and whatnot. hearing about school and california reminds you he’s a totally different person. “you know you, uh, you grew up nice.” you comment, vaguely gesturing to his person as he unpacks while you sit up on a dresser. he flashes you a look that demonstrates he doesn’t want to assume what you mean.

“thanks. i think.” he furrows his brows, downturning his lips at the notion but he gets right back to it. “you, too.” he talks like he’s not sure what he’s allowed to say, keeping his head down in a way that reminds you he’s hulking. his broad shoulders curl down into his great back, catching the light even under his shirt as he plucks a pile from his duffel. you scan his figure shamelessly.

“thanks.” you’re spacey at best while watching him. “you were this dorky kid the last time i saw you, what happened?” he glances at you and the wheels in his head turn as he narrows his gaze on you.

“i dunno. ate my greens, drank my milk, normal stuff.”

“right.” you nod. after a beat, you clap your hands against your thighs and push off, landing on your feet with a bound. “well, let me know if i can help you get settled in.” your tone is more than inviting, and intensely suggestive as you coyly take your leave. “my room is, uh, just down the hall.” when you give him one last once-over, you let him catch you doing it. you lean on the door knob, and softly close the door behind you . . .

you should’ve guessed he’s too quiet when he’s getting fucked. “didn’t think you’d take me up on my offer, champ.” you taunt, “thought i was coming on too strong.” your chest bounces with each sheathe in, your back against the wall of the room while he suspends you over air. strong hands keep you pinned, one cupping your ass while the other hooks under your knee. it’s the kind of position that makes you feel heavy, but sam’s got the body to handle it, sculpted muscle damn near glistening in the dull light like he’s trying to show it off.

“just enough.” he says, but it’s only to cut the conversation short by pressing his lips to yours. he kisses unlike anyone you’ve tasted before, it’s fervent, and involves a lot of tilting his head as if to wedge his way in while the back of your head is stamped to the drywall. you let his tongue have its way with you, you’re mostly here for the free ride. fingertips press into the fat of your flesh as he bottoms out, his tip brushing that spot inside of you that lurches you forward when your core aches.

“mmngg—fuck,” you break the kiss, “sam, you’re big.” you say with the awe of being hurt, gasping for air as you throw your head back. the boy needs to do something with his mouth, and you feel that hot sensation on your neck just under your jawline, sucking into you and traveling down fast. “you’re fucking big. you’re huge. not just this but—fuck.” you dissolve, unable to keep your sentence on track as your eyes roll into your head. he arches back at a slight angle, but enough to change the whole game, somehow the stroke hitting you just right. “oh, my god, sam…” you drag out the words, bubbling out of you as he makes your body jump whenever he lands fully seated inside of you. you’re not even sure how he’s keeping you up, your legs on either side of his hips bobbing from the motion. your nails claw into his broad shoulders.

the way he’s looking down at you, there’s a certain darkness in his eyes, watching you take his every inch while you’re calling him monstrously sized.

[hanasnx]

Maybe size difference with Sam where reader is one of Dean's friends and a bit older and always saw him in a brotherly way cause of that but after not hearing from him for so long loses her mind after seeing the man he's turned into (ig this could have fauxcest too?? Idk?)

MINORS DNI 18+

LINK. it’s a supernatural christmas! request smut for the big three of supernatural. WARNINGS. fem reader: fem anatomy. established relationship. sexual content. flirting. smut: p in v. dirty talk: praise. pain kink: too big of a dick. size difference, size kink.

little SAM WINCHESTER‘s always been that—little. half your size and following you and dean around like a lost puppy. you’d ruffle his hair and tell him, “go away, sam, me and dean are about to play house.” only for said older brother to loudly and dramatically exclaim yeuck! in the background in response to your joke. it’s not that you’ve been around the winchester boys all the time, you’d just see them around and your folks ran in the same circles, it was only natural for some overlap because sometimes daycare just wasn’t in the cards. sam and dean would frequent your house occasionally, at one point they were even your neighbors for a stretch. however, all good things come to an end. as you all grew older, you’d see less of each other. years go by without so much as a carrier pigeon.

it’s a good amount of time before dean comes walking back through your door. you greet him as an old friend, a hearty hug and a polite, “you’re a sight for sore eyes.” as you give him a once-over. it earns you a throaty chuckle.

“you’re not s’bad yourself.” he replies, and you can see the lines of age in his face. it brings a smile to yours. “sam’s on his way in he just had to fix his make-up.”

“hardy-har-har.” you respond flippantly, rolling your eyes. you cross your arms as your straighten and your attention is grabbed at the sound of the door opening. little sam winchester, not so little anymore, fills the doorway as he practically ducks in. it’s enough to take you aback, blinking up at him. you manage to choke out, “sam?” in disbelief, and you’re quick to mask it with some feigned scoff of a relief as you bring him in for a greeting hug.

“hey.” he replies, stooping to meet you, and you try not to linger on how hard his body is—even underneath all the layers. he rears, and you can finally see his grin. he’s handsome. the kind of handsome that has your knees wobbly and your heart fluttery. those dimples are still there. your neck aches looking up at him like this and you chew on your lower lip to fidget.

“hi.” you say back, lofty and dreamy, sighing as you stuff your hands into the back pockets of your jeans. dean looks between you two with a narrowed gaze, uncomfortable with the awkward pause. you could hear a pin drop in this room.

it takes a bit for the boys to get settled but instead of talking dean’s ear off like you used to do, you’re on sam. it’s all about where he’s been, what he’s been up to, how long he’s been on the road, and whatnot. hearing about school and california reminds you he’s a totally different person. “you know you, uh, you grew up nice.” you comment, vaguely gesturing to his person as he unpacks while you sit up on a dresser. he flashes you a look that demonstrates he doesn’t want to assume what you mean.

“thanks. i think.” he furrows his brows, downturning his lips at the notion but he gets right back to it. “you, too.” he talks like he’s not sure what he’s allowed to say, keeping his head down in a way that reminds you he’s hulking. his broad shoulders curl down into his great back, catching the light even under his shirt as he plucks a pile from his duffel. you scan his figure shamelessly.

“thanks.” you’re spacey at best while watching him. “you were this dorky kid the last time i saw you, what happened?” he glances at you and the wheels in his head turn as he narrows his gaze on you.

“i dunno. ate my greens, drank my milk, normal stuff.”

“right.” you nod. after a beat, you clap your hands against your thighs and push off, landing on your feet with a bound. “well, let me know if i can help you get settled in.” your tone is more than inviting, and intensely suggestive as you coyly take your leave. “my room is, uh, just down the hall.” when you give him one last once-over, you let him catch you doing it. you lean on the door knob, and softly close the door behind you . . .

you should’ve guessed he’s too quiet when he’s getting fucked. “didn’t think you’d take me up on my offer, champ.” you taunt, “thought i was coming on too strong.” your chest bounces with each sheathe in, your back against the wall of the room while he suspends you over air. strong hands keep you pinned, one cupping your ass while the other hooks under your knee. it’s the kind of position that makes you feel heavy, but sam’s got the body to handle it, sculpted muscle damn near glistening in the dull light like he’s trying to show it off.

“just enough.” he says, but it’s only to cut the conversation short by pressing his lips to yours. he kisses unlike anyone you’ve tasted before, it’s fervent, and involves a lot of tilting his head as if to wedge his way in while the back of your head is stamped to the drywall. you let his tongue have its way with you, you’re mostly here for the free ride. fingertips press into the fat of your flesh as he bottoms out, his tip brushing that spot inside of you that lurches you forward when your core aches.

“mmngg—fuck,” you break the kiss, “sam, you’re big.” you say with the awe of being hurt, gasping for air as you throw your head back. the boy needs to do something with his mouth, and you feel that hot sensation on your neck just under your jawline, sucking into you and traveling down fast. “you’re fucking big. you’re huge. not just this but—fuck.” you dissolve, unable to keep your sentence on track as your eyes roll into your head. he arches back at a slight angle, but enough to change the whole game, somehow the stroke hitting you just right. “oh, my god, sam…” you drag out the words, bubbling out of you as he makes your body jump whenever he lands fully seated inside of you. you’re not even sure how he’s keeping you up, your legs on either side of his hips bobbing from the motion. your nails claw into his broad shoulders.

the way he’s looking down at you, there’s a certain darkness in his eyes, watching you take his every inch while you’re calling him monstrously sized.

[honeyroots]

𝐓𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄 ꒲ DEAN WINCHESTER .ᐟ

꒰ MINORS DO NOT INTERACT ꒱ 𖦹 𝐔𝐒𝐄𝐑 𝐃𝐈𝐒𝐂𝐑𝐄𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 ⦂ fem!reader, making out, au: bestie!dean, mentions of spit, dry humping, 𖦹 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄 𝐋𝐄𝐓𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐒 ⦂ based on this

Dean Winchester has perfect, pillowy lips. They're plump with a natural pink hue that makeup formulas would be envious of. When he speaks, his voice low and his words slow, sometimes you can't help but watch the way his lips move rather than focusing on what he's actually saying. You lay next to Dean, like you've always done with your best friend, but instead of watching the film playing on the tiny motel television, your gaze is fixated on the way his teeth pull and tug on his bottom lip in concentration. "What?" Dean says, looking down at you as you prop your chin on his chest. "You're going to burn a hole in the side of my head if you keep staring at me like that."

You marvel up at your best friend, eyeing the veins in his neck, the intensity of your need for him pins and pricks at your lower belly. With courage you didn't know you had, you take in a soft breath and let out a whiny tone, "You're my best friend, Dean… Can't we kiss?" Dean looks conflicted for a moment before his brain is clouded with ill judgement. Your whine is enough to make him fold, deciding that if his best friend needs something from him, who is he to say no? With careful movements, Dean hooks his hand around your jaw, pulling you closer to him by the back of your neck. "Yeah, sweetheart, let me show you. Let me show you how best friends kiss."

It starts slow, his lips colliding with yours. He nips at your bottom lip with his teeth, suckling and nibbling on it in a way that makes your body feel like it’s on fire. Moans escape from you in staccato-like vibrations. The taste of Dean's spit is sweet like candy, and the part of your brain that is still able to create coherent thoughts wonders how you lasted so long without Dean's mouth on yours. Without much thought, your hips begin to rock against him, and even though you aren't completely aware of what you're doing, Dean's movements freeze. He pulls your head back, his fingers laced in your hair as he scans your face for any nonverbal signs you might be offering him. Slowly, with a caution you've never seen Dean Winchester possess, he picks you up by your hips and positions your crotch above his. "Take what you need, honey."

As soon as the words tumbled from his mouth, your hips were rocking against him. The slickness in your underwear was sticking to your folds and the seams in Dean's jeans only acted as the stimulation you so desperately needed. Your voice is hoarse as you rock your crotch against Dean, "this is okay, right? Best friends do this?"

"Yeah, yeah," Dean presses your cheeks in between his hands, pulling you forward so you're hunched just enough for your lips to connect once more. Muttering against you, Dean whispers, “all best friends do this.”

[w1tchester]

somewhere warm where we'd be alone ──── ♱. sam winchester

summary: you can’t stop staring at sam’s hands. he notices. wc: 783.

pairing: sam winchester x f!reader

tags/warnings: 18+ MDNI. public sex, hand & finger kink, fingering, finger sucking, quiet sex, pre-relationship.

⛧ ao3 ⛧ masterlist ⛧ make a request/ask ⛧ kinktober

Ultimately, you can’t exactly say you hadn’t daydreamed of this at least once. 

You swear it started off innocently. Sam was helping with some research at the local library – some werewolf case in town that needed a nudge of extra assistance – a milk run, really. You had sat opposite him with a mammoth of a tome opened in front of you. The problem was, you were distracted. Not by the weight of the case, which would have been reasonable. No, you were distracted by the way Sam’s hands were gliding over the pages of his own book. How his fingers would gently push the paper to flip the page or scan the text. The slow, considered and meticulous action looped in your brain and you found yourself unable to look away. When Sam reads, he’s steady. All his energy pours into the action and he treats the books he reads from as if they’re precious objects. 

It’s then that you feel the ache for him to touch you in a similar way. A piece of lore unraveling, making itself known to him in his hands with delicate intimacy.

This is how you find yourself in the position that you’re in. Pushed up against a shelving unit at the back of the library, away from the few patrons that sat on the tables toward the front. In an aisle where the fluorescent lights barely worked and flickered intermittently. Sam towers over you there, those hands that treated the tomes so gently are now holding your waist with an urgency that has your heart beating faster than you thought possible. 

Sam guides his fingers to your mouth, tracing your lower lip carefully, just to touch you, to feel the softness. You open your mouth – which surprises him for a moment, but you see that surprise quickly melt into something with a little more fire behind it as you suck his finger equally as slowly, eyes closing as they roll back somewhat. You can hear Sam huff a small sound – hushed – before he catches himself and turns it to a shuddered breath. Your mouth is warm, and he wants to savour the feeling. But he doesn’t have the kind of time he’d like. So he withdraws slowly, using the same hand to reach down and pop the button of your jeans. 

“You always keep things so close to your chest.” He utters as he presses kisses to your jaw. “Would never have guessed this is what goes through your mind.” As if to test the waters, he slips his hand beneath denim and lace, fingers dipping carefully between wet, soft skin. Exactly what he’d hoped to find. “This is what you wanted when you were staring earlier?” 

You nod, and a brief gasp follows. 

“Yeah,” you breathe, “God, most definitely.” 

It’s humbling that he noticed, but you can’t even think to care. Not when his fingers push into you slowly. Not when his breath tickles against your neck, kissing and nipping at your skin whilst he reduces you to a pool of need against the bookshelf. Sam’s thumb begins circling your clit, smirking against your skin. He knows you’ll have to force yourself to be quiet. So he works up into a pace that makes it borderline impossible for you to hush the sounds that spill from your lips. But it’s just another ruse, an excuse to cover your mouth with his hand. His hand which pretty much covers most of your face. You dwell on his size — mind racing — and it only brings you almost embarrassingly closer. Muffled whines hit against his palm as he works you to the edge and Sam’s more than proud of himself. 

Gentle quiet praises are whispered against your neck between kisses when he feels those first few tight pulls as you reach your peak. “Shhh,” he whispers, “shhh that’s it, let go. I’ve got you.”

When your eyes roll back and your breathing evens out, Sam stills, and you think he’s going to just help zip you back up and hurry out with you before there’s a chance of getting caught. But he’s not exactly done. When you’re looking at him again, flushed and gazing at him with a wide smile, he brings his fingers to his own mouth and sucks them slowly — tasting you like he’s starved for it. Sam leans in and kisses you, unable to help himself from smiling into the kiss, tongue swiping at yours to let you taste yourself before he pulls back. 

“I think the rest of the research can wait,” you manage to say, “there’s a perfectly good motel bed with our name on it. Shame to let it go to waste.”

[vo1dsspid3r]

When Sam Winchester came up on my screen for the first time I felt like i was floating