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[doveyblues]

“it’s all right. there is no way illusions can come to life.”

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[sorryitsmyfirstdayonearth]

A noxious thing

(Soldier Boy x female supe!reader)

Summary You've been asleep for a long time. When he finds you, a chance at a new life opens up. A war hero. Your hero. If only you can get him to let you in. CWs This fic features non-con, and while it's not explicit on the page, it is part of the story. If this topic upsets you, please steer clear. Supe!reader. Referenced medical and sexual abuse. Mind control. Out of character Solider Boy (you'll see why). War heroes. Reader is not the hero of this story. Canon-typical violence. Explicit sexual content. Breeding kink, size kink, lots of "will it fit?". Unreliable narrator. Character death. 6.7k words AN Boy oh boy, was I nervous about posting this one! It's been finished for a while, first as a standalone, then I was gonna make it a multi chapter, then back to standalone. Anyhoo, here we are. I hope this speaks to someone.

The Boys masterlist

You hear voices.

For a moment, you don’t think they can be real. You haven’t heard actual voices in so, so long. Maybe they’re a remnant of a dream. You had a good one, the other day - or what to you feels like the other day. 

You were dreaming of the supermarket. The fruit and produce isle, to be exact. The coolness of it. Plump, big tomatoes and plump, big apples. You imagined the crunch when you bit into them. The juice running down your chin. You’re starved, empty. Kept alive, but not living. 

The supermarket isn’t one you dragged from your own memories. It belonged to a nurse who worked here for a few weeks, must be years ago now. She was pretty and ambitious and so, so open for you. You snuck your way into her. Not an attempt to escape - you’d given up on those already at that point. But sat in her head, let her carry you with her. All the way out to the security doors. There you’d jump off. Got in her again the next day the second she walked inside. 

You took the memory of the supermarket, held it in your hands. Figuratively, that is. Your hands are tied down with thick, big metal shackles, as are your ankles. But you held them in your hands in your mind, gave the memory a little kiss and then sent it back to the nurse, some adjustments made.

She didn’t show up anymore after that. 

The voices are the voices of men, and that makes you tense. You push against the thick blanket of sleep, but as usual, it’s impenetrable. Could it be? Could they be back? New doctors, sent here after you made the last ones so angry? 

But they don’t sound like doctors. Their voices - you can differentiate three of them - aren’t as measured and calm as the ones of the doctors you know. They’re still a way off.

“Look a’ that,” one of them says. “It’s an all-you-can-supe buffet.” 

They’re close, but not right up to where you are now. So you concentrate, gently probe at the boundaries around you. Lay your hands flat against it, and push.

Not much of you can make it outside. It feels like touching something through three layers of gloves. You can barely guess at the shape of them. Three men, yes, and they think like men, move like men. Bluster, ego. Big thoughts about the world, but really only about themselves. One of them is soft tissue and one of them is gelatinous like congealed blood and the other is, is… what is he?

They come closer. They must be walking along the curved wall of windows. You’ve barely ever seen it, can only guess at it, but from what you understand and remember, a big, round room opens up from the elevator. The different labs are arranged around it in a circular shape, each connected to the main room with a singular door and a wide, one-way window.

You’re not sure what’s in the other labs anymore. Time was you would keep track, but ever since the doctors and nurses and security staff left, you haven’t felt much in those other rooms. Maybe they’re all dead. Or maybe they’re just asleep, like you.

The men are walking the length of the room. Maybe peering into the different labs. In one, there used to be a guy who could grow fungi from his brain. You have no idea what in the world that was supposed to be good for, but you imagine him now, grown all over the room. Maybe it looks real pretty.

Shoes scruff the floor, one pair two pair three pair.

“What in the ever-lovin’ fuck is that?” you hear the one who spoke earlier. For a second, you’re worried they’re now standing in front of your window, looking at you. But they must be one room off. No idea who’s in there.

Now that they’re closer, you can feel them a little better. The one who spoke is the gelatinous one. His brain, when you press your fingers into it, feels squishy. Not quite malleable, just different. Maybe he’s more smoke than squish. You giggle at your own words.

“So they’re all, what, used to crowd control other supes?” the soft one says. He’s hard to grasp too, but in a different way. Layers upon layers, but also flimsy and breaking, like pastry dough. Smells like it too, and you know it’s not a real smell. It’s just your mind experiencing his mind with all of your senses.

“Project Friendly Fire,” smoke-squish says, voice a little lower. “Though beats me how the fuck that is supposed to stop a supe.”

“Who gives a fuck?” the third one says, and it’s like inhaling ice.

Your mind goes blank for a moment. Hurts, like you sipped a cold drink too fast. The pain travels from your temple to the front of your head. Your throat hurts, like you woke up with a cold, for a second. Then it’s all gone. If you could gasp, you would.

They step closer to your window. You can hear them so clearly now. Your consciousness keeps slipping off the icy one. Strange, yet you can’t seem to stop yourself from trying again.

“Jesus,” the soft one says, “is she alive?” You can almost see the smokey one move his hand. See him press the little button on the screen at your door. Tiny beep. It must be thick with dust.

“Noxious,” he reads. “Mind control, power of suggestion… This could work.”

“I told you,” the cold one says, “I don’t need any fucking help. Certainly not from whatever the fuck they cooked up in this lab here.”

“And I told you,” smokey shoots back, “I’m not riskin’ it. We get one shot at Homelander. It works, or we’re done for.”

“You, maybe.” 

“Alright, Captain Prick.”

“Guys.”

“Shut it, Hughie. Listen, I know you think this is all gonna be so easy, but where’s the harm in playin’ it safe? Just your big, bleedin’ ego?”

“I’m not a fucking babysitter, okay? I have no interest in some little bitch flitting along while I take this son of a bitch out. She’s just gonna get in the way.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Guys.”

“Shut up. It’s fucking insulting, you hear me? Thinking I need help–”

“Guys, it doesn’t matter, this lab is dead, there’s no way we can get anyone out of here anyway. I mean, she’s probably dead, and–”

“Fuckin’ optimist, aren’t you?”

“Just press that button.”

“What button?”

“Jesus, are you fucking blind? The button that says disable stasis, the–”

“No, no, no, don’t!”

Darkness.

And then blinding light.

Waking.

Pain, and you don’t even really mean to reach out. It’s just an instinct. Some children bury their faces in their favorite blankets when they’re sad. You bury yours in the soft brainmass of whoever is near.

The tendrils of your mind shoot into the icy one. Coincidence, or maybe some immediate fascination with who or what he is. 

Now that the thick layer of sleep is gone, it’s easy as pie. You touch him, and immediately see he’s only icy in the first layer. Underneath he’s all scorching heat, bubbling lava. Too hot to touch but you can’t help yourself but be drawn to the warmth. You wrap yourself around him. You kiss his hippocampus and dive in.

Hero. He's a hero. And, oh God, he's beautiful. Angry, vicious, a soldier. Protector of his country. You hear a fanfare and it makes you laugh. It makes him laugh too. Or you think it would.

Deeper down, there’s other stuff. You can see it, peering down from where you’re nestled in him. Yellow like pus, and ugly. But who doesn’t have that in them? You know you do. You’ve done and thought some nasty things. But you never meant it. Well, you meant it a few times. The young nurse. The way she’d ram the needle into your arm. That one doctor who put his hand under your hospital gown. You made him think he had murdered his family, done really bad things to them. Sat with him at their dinner table, watched as he took a shotgun and shot them all in the head, one after the other. He didn’t come back to work either. 

Ooh, they were angry when you did that. Two weeks in the hole - down the elevator on a stretcher, perfect darkness, pissing and shitting in the corner. That oughta teach you! they said. You’re not sure that it did.

But the man, the hero. He’s been in a hole too. He wants to be appreciated. He wants to be loved. It breaks your heart a little. So big and strong and, oh, he’s pretty, all that and he still just wants everyone to love him. 

You rub yourself against his temporal lobe like a cat marking her territory. Maybe… but no, you shouldn’t. They’ll be mad. Put you in the hole again where there’s nothing but you and darkness and no thoughts and memories to feed you. Nothing. The absence of everything. But there are no more doctors. No one to punish you.

You lick your lips, open your eyes.

The three men are standing just inside the room you’re in. You hesitate for another second, until your gaze falls on him. 

And then, almost as if on instinct, you grab and pull and then you’re inside.

The supermarket isn’t busy this time of day. As you push your cart past thick, juicy fruit, you see a woman up ahead. The woman is older than you, not bad looking, but you know she envies you for your youth and beauty. A few more lines in her face. Is a scar too much? Yes, let’s not overdo it.

“Don’t you look happy!” she says when she approaches you. Your face, but happy. Excited. You smile at her. “I heard it’s a very special day for you?”

You nod, smile a little less. Men. Men coming back from war. Hers isn’t. Her son, maybe. So it’s not nice to brag. But you show her you’re happy, without rubbing it in.

“I’m just so grateful,” you say. Make your face grateful. But humble. You look down. You’re wearing a dress. It’s prettier than her dress, but you would still compliment her on it. 

“Well,” she says, reaching her hand out and squeezing yours where it’s resting on the cart. “I know you two love birds will be very busy for the foreseeable future.” She winks. You give a small gasp, and she laughs. 

“We only had our wedding night before he had to leave,” you say. Would you say that? Isn’t that oversharing? Or is this here, amongst the produce, right next to the cabbage, where women’s secrets like this can be shared? Is this where they say, he doesn’t make me feel good, or, he hasn’t touched me in a year, or, I fuck his brother. You’re not sure. Go with it for now.

“Well, I won’t keep you,” she says with another smile. “Say hi to him for me, won’t you?” What’s his name. Would she know his name? What is his name?

“Well, I won’t keep you,” she says with another smile. “Say hi to Ben for me, won’t you?” You smile back.

“Sure will,” you say.

You’re in deep now. Deep in his brain, in his mind. It’s like floating. He is so handsome. He is a hero. He’s hurt people, but you know it’s been to protect you and others like you. You’re so lonely, and so is he, but neither of you will be for long.

Farm. The farm.

The farm you grew up on. Wide fields and a few dogs running around, but nice ones, not dirty ones. You stand on the porch. A soft breeze. Moves your hair.

“He’ll be here soon, honey,” your mother says, and you turn to the side, look at her, give her a hopeful smile.

“What if I’m not how he remembers me?” you ask. She tuts, walks towards you, takes your hands into hers. 

“This man has been surrounded by nothing but guts and other men for two years,” she says. Is two years too much? Should you make it less? Surely if he’d been gone for two years, he would have… No. But he wouldn’t be interested in any of the women there. They’re not like you. But even if he was, you could forgive him. You think you could. One year seems too little, not dramatic enough. Stick to two years for now.

“He’ll see you,” your mother continues, “and he’ll think he’s died and gone to heaven.” You chuckle, still humble. A car approaches. Both of you look up.

Uncle’s George’s truck, the big, red one. You know it’s George, cause it’s his truck, and you know Ben is in the passenger seat, because George picked him up from the train station. There should be more family. More family members are standing at your periphery, but you don’t focus on them. Only on the car. 

It stops in front of the house, and you take two slow steps down the porch stairs. Hands folded in front of your chest. Try to slow your breathing. You look beautiful, feminine, perfect, bow in your hair, sweet smelling. Still, you’re nervous, afraid he won’t love you, because it’s womanly to be that way.

Uncle George gets out of the car but you barely notice him. Because then your husband steps out.

The shirt is just a little tight on him. Short sleeves, bulging over his biceps. Top buttons undone, revealing a white t-shirt underneath. Jeans, hugging thick, strong thighs. A noticeable bulge at the front. Bearded, but well groomed. Hair hanging over his forehead just a little. Good nose, just enough bumps in it to make his face interesting. Plush lips. Green, startling eyes that don’t look anywhere but at you. 

Your chest falls and rises and then he steps down from the truck, slowly walks towards you. Face neutral. Stops right in front of you and you have to tilt your head back to look at him.

Pause for dramatic effect.

“Goddamn it, baby doll,” he says and then one of his arms shoots around your waist, dragging you in as he kisses you. Your family cheers, claps, all so happy. The nameless, faceless extras at your periphery cheer too. He picks you up, just with the one arm, yours around his neck and whirls you around. It’s perfect. You’re perfect, he’s perfect, and when he puts you down again among the cheers of your loved ones, he presses his forehead against yours, looks into your eyes, and you up into his, filled with tears.

“I’m home, baby,” he says.

“What the fuck is wrong with him?”

And scene!

Kitchen. You’re in the kitchen, scrubbing one of the pans. Just quickly, before everyone sits down. Laughter from the next room, everyone having a drink, and you just quickly slipped in here.

He walks in looking for another beer, or pretending to. But really, he’s looking for you.

You flinch, then giggle when he wraps his arms around you from behind.

“The heck are you doing hiding in here, sugar tits?” 

No.

“The heck are you doing hiding in here, sweet cheeks?” he mumbles into your ear, his mouth just above it as he hugs you tight, pressing you against him. You hum, bite your lip. 

“Just trying to get a headstart on the dishes,” you reply. Your hands are wet and soapy but his are wandering over your hips, your tummy. 

“Let your mom do them,” he whispers. “Come sit on my lap in the other room. If I have to listen to your fuckass brother say one more word without you to distract me, I’m going postal.”

“Ben,” you chuckle, only half reprimanding. He smiles against you, kisses the top of your ear. Pulls you closer against him. 

“Course,” he says, “we could sneak out for a minute.” One of his big hands wanders a little lower, feeling for you. Your eyes fall shut as he presses himself against you, into the small of your back. 

“Baby,” you whisper and his hand presses harder.

“Fuck, I missed you so much,” he says. “You can’t even imagine. I was over there, killing men with my bare hands, receiving medal after medal, but all I wanted was to be here with you.” A soft moan leaves you. You turn in his grasp, look up at him. He looks so hungry, so needy for you. Hands dry, no wet, soapy hands on his shirt. Your brows are pulled together.

“I missed you so much,” you say. He dips his head low, ghosts his lips over yours.

“I missed you,” he answers. His gaze wanders lower. “She miss me too?”

Heat shoots to your cheeks and your hands tighten on his arms.

“Ben…” you say, voice low, but he won’t let it go.

“She did, didn’t she?” he says. He raises his chin, a smile playing on his lips. “Had to get her all stretched out on our wedding night. She’s probably all small and tight again.” His hand wanders lower and then he leans in so his fingers can trace the hem of your dress, press under it.

“Let me feel,” he says and your breath catches in your throat, mouth dry. His fingertips run along the soft skin of your inner thigh, higher. You swallow down air like a fish on land but he only grins at you. 

He presses aside your underwear, and then one thick finger runs along your opening, up to the, the, your petal. Your petal. Don’t be a fucking baby. Your clit. He runs along you, once, twice, once more, a deep groan leaving him.

“Fuck, that’s why you’re hiding out here?” he asks. Your eyes are closed and his deep voice is everywhere. “Cause you’re sopping wet?”

“I–” you start, but as always, you don’t have to say anything. He understands you.

“Just one finger, baby doll,” he says, and you make a worried little sound. “Only one, it’s not gonna be too much.” And he’s already doing it.

You whine as he pushes in, grab at him and he shushes you. 

“That’s alright, doll,” he mutters, then groans again. “Goddamn it, you’re tight. Gonna really have to work you open before you get my dick, huh?” You whimper again.

“It’s not gonna fit,” you press out, voice cracked. Ben tuts.

“Sure it is,” he says. “It did back then, didn’t it? Just gonna have to work on it.”

Flash to your wedding night. You in white garters and lingerie, whining and crying while he fucked you open. Useless, jelly-boned as he kissed your tears away. “That’s my good fucking girl,” he grunted. You remember it now.

You turn your head up at him and he kisses you while his finger still wiggles in you. You really don’t know how the hell you’re supposed to fit more of him, but that doesn’t seem to be the issue on Ben’s mind. He slowly drags his finger from you.

“I still got my homecoming present for you, sweetheart,” he says. You blink your eyes open, widen them. 

“You brought me something?” you ask and he chuckles. 

“Kinda,” he says. “This is something they do over there. Thought I’d bring it back to the good old US of A.” You frown at him, and just in that moment, Ben sinks to his knees before you.

 You’re still confused. He didn’t do this on your wedding night, in fact you’ve never heard of anyone doing this. Is he going to propose to you again? But then he pushes up your dress, all the while keeping your gaze. You blink in surprise, and then he’s leaning forward and pressing his mouth against you there.

Your head drops back and your hands go into his hair, gripping. You’ve never felt anything like this. Underwear is gone, around your knees. He pushed it down. It’s there now. Even when Ben was inside you that one time, it didn’t feel like this. This is hot and wet and sudden and perfect. 

You tug at his hair, if only to give yourself something to do, to have somewhere to push the sudden pleasure surging through you. You mumble his name, over and over. His big hands are holding your thighs, fingers gently pressing into your skin.

The moans leaving you are louder and louder. Someone will hear, someone might hear, but you can’t care. Too intense is the love you feel right now, too right is the fact that you and your husband are reunited again, even if he is doing this thing you don’t think he should be doing. But it’s hard to care when it feels so good.

It feels like someone wringing out a wet cloth, twisting it tighter and tighter. It feels like what you felt on your wedding night, but a hundred thousand times more intense. As you press yourself against him your hold on him tightens and then your entire body convulses as white light and heat explode within you.

You cry out, loud and uncontrolled, and Ben pushes his fingers harder into your skin to keep you in place. The sounds coming from you are cracked and you can almost see them traveling through the house around you. Into the old wood of the building. Filling it with life.

You nearly sink down when your body relaxes, but Ben’s got you. He detaches from you, then lets your dress drop down again before pressing a kiss against your hip and standing. Your cheek sinks against his shoulder as you catch your breath.

“Oh my God,” you pant. “What was that, you magical man?” A deep, rumbling chuckle leaves him.

“That,” he says, “was just the beginning, sweetheart.”

“Oi! Where the fuck are you going? What– Jesus flippin’ Christ.”

No. More. Come back.

“Ooh, I walk in on something?”

You blink your eyes open, straighten. Look at the door to the kitchen. Uncle George is standing there, your mother right behind him. He’s got his hands raised and is chuckling. You frown at him.

“Hey Georgie,” Ben says, turning towards your uncle as well. “Remember when you used to hit my girl when she was little? Made her feel like shit every time she so much as made a peep?” You feel dizzy, nauseous. Remembering. Don’t remember. Remember how he hurt you if you dared to make a sound anywhere in the house while he was watching TV.

“That’s all a long time ago now,” George says, still grinning broadly. “We’re way past that, aren’t we?” Ben looks down at you, and you tilt your head up. Look at him. Then he looks back at Uncle Georgie.

“I don’t think we are,” Ben says. He moves his hand, brings it behind his back. Pulls out whatever he’s got there - a big fucking gun. Points it at Uncle George.

“I really don’t think we are,” Ben says and then he shoots him in the head.

Uncle George’s brains go flying, covering your mother in them. She starts screaming, high-pitched, shrill. Ben looks down at you and you look back with big eyes, a dreamy smile on your face.

“Now,” he says, “we gonna eat?”

“Anything?” Butcher asks as he hurries towards Hughie, but he can only shake his head. 

“He went down the elevator shaft, but I don’t know…” he lets the sentence taper out. Butcher shakes his head, pushes his hands into his sides with an angry snarl.

“What the fuck happened?” he says, breathing hard from running around the facility. “He just grabbed her and got out.” Hughie shakes his head.

“He fucking tore through those metal doors,” he says, voice a little more quiet. “You saw them too, right? Those… tendrils, or whatever?” 

Butcher doesn’t confirm. He’s too busy stewing in anger at the fact that his best asset just stormed off with some little bitch that can apparently control minds thrown over his shoulder.

“We gotta find him,” is all he says, and then the two are moving again.

Dinner scene. Everyone’s happy. Ben keeps his hand on your leg almost the whole time. Fast forward. Laughter. Eventually everyone gets up. Now you’re in the hallway. It’s already dark. Georgie’s still on the floor, big puddle of blood around where his head fell. You killed him cause he did me wrong. You did it cause you love me.

Stop struggling.

Your mother puts on her coat, then drags you in for a hug. 

“I’m so happy for you, sweetheart,” she says as she lets go, hugs Ben. “And you two are coming over on Sunday, right?”

“Course we are,” Ben says. “Dreamed about that pot roast while I was in the trenches.” Your mother laughs, like he just said something hilarious, but you see the truth behind his words. The fear, the terror, the violence.

See? I understand you. 

They walk out, Ben closing the door while you remain behind him. He turns around, looks at you. Like a wildcat at its prey. You shift around.

“I should get started on the dishes,” you say, just as he starts walking towards you. “They’re gonna be all gross and crusty tomorrow.” 

You want to say something else, but he’s already on you. Leans down to grab you, hoists you up into his arms and then you’re there, carried by him, bridal-style.

“Ben,” you breathe but he’s already moving again, towards the stairs, not taking his eyes off you for a second.

“Fuck the dishes,” he says as he takes the first step. 

You sling your arms around his shoulders, give yourself to him. He carries you to the first floor and then through the open doors into the bedroom.

He lays you down on the bed, one of his knees on the mattress. You press up on your elbows, look at him. He keeps watching you, then lowers his head.

“The things I saw,” he says, voice pensive. “The things I did…”

“Shh,” you say. You sit up, bring your hands to his face and gently hold him. He looks up at you, emotions warring on his handsome features.

“None of that matters now,” you say, making your voice quiet and soft. “You’re here. You did what you had to do, and you’re here now.” 

You see it on his face, his need to disagree, let you know how bad he is. But he’s not. You really believe that he is not, no, you know it. If only he could know it too.

“You did all that to come back to me,” you say, your thumb running along his cheekbone. He nods a little.

“I did,” he answers. 

“Then show me,” you reply, your breathing getting heavier. “Show me how much you needed me while you were over there.”

Ben hesitates for a second. Not because of doubt, but because he knows if he really shows you he’ll tear you apart. He’ll have to hold himself back. At least a little. 

His hands go to his front as he grabs his shirt, tears it off him. Buttons go clattering and you gasp. The white t-shirt is gone. Scratch it, it was never there. He’s naked underneath, rippling muscle everywhere. Your hands run along his arms, the warm skin there, all yours.

“Kiss me,” you say, and he does, hard, passionate, like you’re breath and he is drowning. Like you’re water and he is fire. You get the idea.

“Baby doll,” he says into your mouth. “I’m gonna fuckin’ ruin you.”

He climbs on the bed fully, pushes you back. You squeal, on your elbows again as he pushes both hands under your dress, tears at your underwear, rips it down. You gasp, moan, bring one leg up and press your foot flat against his chest. He brings his hands up, takes your foot, kisses along your toes and you bite your lip. Then his hands wander over your ankle, down your leg, back to the heat between your legs.

“Gonna need to open you up quick,” he says, eyes dark and fixed on you. “Don’t know how long I can wait before I need to fuck that sweet little cunt. And I don’t wanna hurt you.” That’s how much he loves you. He doesn’t want to hurt you, not even for his own pleasure. You raise your chin.

“I’m scared it’ll hurt anyway,” you say, “but I want it. Want you. Inside.” His fingertips press against you harder.

“Careful what you say, sweetheart,” he growls, “or I’ll be fucking you into this mattress so hard you won’t know what hit ya.” You moan again, bring your hands down and pull the dress up over your head, drop it somewhere. Ben looks down between your legs. He purses his lips, then spits. You feel the wetness land on your lower lips and you’re almost surprised there’s no sizzle.

“Touch yourself,” he says. “Play with that little bean like I know you did while I was gone.”

“Ben,” you say, turning your head but his hand shoots out, grabbing your chin, softly, turning you back towards him.

“Nothin’ shameful about it, sweetheart,” he says, looking into your eyes. “Just so long as you were thinking of me.” You bite your lip, nod.

“Of course I was thinking about you,” you say, one hand wandering down your body slowly. “I was always thinking of you. But, but nothing felt like you, not my fingers, not the pillow—”

“Oh goddamn,” Ben groans. “You fucked the pillow thinking of me?” You nod as your fingers reach between your legs and you start touching yourself, spreading your husband’s saliva there. 

“I cried sometimes,” you say, your voice small. “Cried from how badly I needed you, and nothing else could even come close.”

“Fuck,” he presses out. His hands disappear from you and shoot to the front of his jeans. He undoes the button, opens it, as quickly as he can, still looking at you. “You’ve done it now.”

He pushes his pants down, they’re off, he doesn’t get off the bed, and you look at him between your legs, gasping. He’s even bigger than you remember. Girthy, long, fully hard, a pronounced vein that you’re pretty sure you can see pulsing.

“Oh,” you say, but nothing else will come out. He knees forward, brings himself between your thighs, that monster of his bobbing in front of him. There’s some wetness at the tip.

“Remember to breathe, doll,” he says. His hand goes to it and he pumps himself twice. You don’t have time to answer, much less to regulate your breathing when he leans down, grabs your hips and angles you, rather than himself, up.

The tip of him pressing against you has your eyes roll up and a cracked sound coming from your lips. He presses forward and the stretch is intense, burning, but perfect. It’s the feeling of being made right.

“This fucking tight little pussy,” he grunts as he pushes deeper. “Gonna have to make you fit me, huh? ‘S gonna require some work.” You can only whimper in return. You can actually feel the vein, and you don’t think that should be possible, but on him it is.

“B–Ben,” you moan, “y–you’re gonna break someth– ah!”

“Let me,” he says, his fingers pressing against your clit where your hand has stopped moving. “Let me.” He flicks his middle finger over you, fast and hard, and while the feeling is almost too intense to bear, it does open you up.

“Fuck!” he more barks than says. “Fucking fluttering around me. Perfect. Perfect little thing.”

You can’t answer. You can’t.

See? I told you you’d like it. 

When he pushes all the way in, you can’t breathe for a second. You’re just gasping, trying to suck in air, but it’s impossible. One of his hands finds its way to your face, petting your cheek.

“It’s all good, baby doll,” he mutters, drunk enough on you to slur. “It’s all good. I’m home. That burn? Jus’ means I’m home.”

You whimper again. Grab his hand and push his thumb into your mouth. Suck on it, obscenely. You can’t categorize the sound he makes at that. You don’t have time.

He grabs you again, lifts you. He leans back a little, your legs around his hips, him pushed deep with the gravity of the position, making you squeal. He wraps one arm around you, hand squeezing your ass cheek and then he pulls back his hips and fucks up.

Your nails must almost bite through his skin where you’re holding on to his shoulders as you scream. He’s fast, nearly violent, his thick cock punching into you over and over and over, while his arm holds you in place. It doesn’t take long before your head drops back, and you feel like you’re nearly going blind with the orgasm that rips through your body.

“Oh, fuckin’ gripping me,” he roars. “Yeah, you want more? You want more?” Again, no way to answer, but your head drops forward, forehead landing on his as he keeps fucking you.

You see him, the real him, just for a flash. Eyes rolled up. Some drool at the corner of his mouth. Hear your own panting. But he’s not really there, and neither are you. You’re in your marriage bed.

Ben presses his cheek against your chest, wraps his arm so tight around you it hurts. He’s panting like the big bad wolf now. 

“I’m home,” you hear him say. “I’m fuckin’ home. Nowhere, nowhere else.”

“Ben!” you cry out. You tense and untense your legs to assist him in fucking you, but then your thighs begin shaking violently with another orgasm. Your hand grips the hair at the back of his head so hard you’re sure it’s about to come away with tufts of it between your fingers.

He’s fucking you so fast and violently you’re pretty sure no living woman could actually survive it. But you can. Because you love each other.

“Ooh, here it comes,” he grunts and he looks up at you again. His lip is pulled up in an angry snarl, his eyes pure fire. “Gonna make you full, gonna make you so fucking full, you’ll be dripping for days.” You whine and then he nearly screams too, and you can feel it, can feel him growing thicker and harder in you and then a warm explosion, can feel it splatter your insides, full full full of his love.  His eyes are squeezed shut and he looks like he’s in pain as he empties himself into you.

And for the first time in as long as you can remember, maybe for the first ever, you’re sated.

But Ben is not done.

He fucks it into you for a few more strokes, then pulls you off him and tosses you on the bed. You land on your front, bouncing off the mattress once, and then his big, strong body is already over you again. One hand grabs your hip and then he’s pushing into you again, fucking you again.

“More,” he says, and you’re not sure if he’s telling or begging. “Fuckin’ more, need more of it in you, need you so fuckin’ full.” You cry out again, but there’s nothing you can do as your hands grab the blankets under you, Ben pounding into you, making you feel so good you think you’ll be sick. His balls slap against you, loud and obscene, while his sperm is seeping out around his dick, each thrust making a loud squelching sound, and you burst into another orgasm in the same second he does. 

He pushes deep, and you arch your back so far you’re sure you’ll hear it crack, but it doesn’t.

He screams this time. A sound to wake the world.

Your eyes are closed, tears of pleasure running down your face as your husband grinds into you, nearly sobbing himself. Your lips shake when you try to speak, that’s how much he’s taking care of you. Your lashes stick together from your tears, and your eyelids are heavy, but then you open your eyes–

You open your eyes, and you look right into the barrel of a gun.

The gunshot is painfully loud in the small room, but it’s enough to rip Soldier Boy out of it. He gasps, flailing, disoriented.

“Oi, calm down, son,” Butcher calls out, worried the supe will decapitate him or Hughie by accident. He actually settles, and that’s its own wonder in itself, but what Butcher doesn’t know is that it’s from his knees buckling. His ass lands on the chair he was just on, and he needs to squeeze his eyes shut for a second as nausea and dizziness overwhelm him.

He’s never felt like this. Not quite like this. It’s horrifying. 

When he rips his eyes open again, they land on you.

You’re lying on the ground, on your side. Limbs pointing away from you and it doesn’t take someone with the kill count of Soldier Boy to see that you’re dead. Another giveaway is the bullet hole right between your eyes, red blooming like a flower.

“Y–you okay?” Butcher’s boy toy, Hughie, says and Soldier Boy only groans. No, he’s not okay, he feels like he’s about to heave up his stomach, but he’s not gonna tell the little shit that. 

“What the fuck?” he says, not clarifying. Butcher steps forward, the smoking gun still in his hand. Looks down at your limp body.

“Some kind of mind control bitch,” he says, eyes going over you, the hospital gown you’re in. “When you flipped that goddamn switch she musta’ locked on to you. You grabbed her, smashed your way into the lower levels. We been lookin’ for you since.” 

Soldier Boy frowns. He doesn’t remember any of that.

“Found you two and shot ‘er in the head,” Butcher continues, pointing out the obvious. “Before she could latch into Hughie or I. Must have severed your connection. Hence the dizzies.”

“I’m not fucking dizzy,” Soldier Boy says, needing to close his eyes again for a moment as he feels vomit crawl up his throat. “How the fuck did I not notice any of that happening?”

Silence. Then…

“Well,” Hughie says, in that pussified tone of his. “You were kinda… busy.” Soldier Boy looks at him, sees the little asshole nod at him. No, not at him. At his crotch.

He looks down. His dick’s out. Lying there, outside his pants, thick jizz still leaking onto his dark pants. He swallows. New nausea, but not because of the dizziness. Because of something else.

He grabs himself, pushes himself back into his clothes. Tries to think of something to say as understanding slowly dawns on him. 

“Guess she was awful lonely down ‘ere,” Butcher says, but he makes his voice a little less snarky than he usually does. And that’s worse. Fucking pity.

Soldier Boy stands, ignoring the way it makes the world tilt. Walks towards the only door in the room, which he distantly realizes is some kind of office, messy and abandoned. 

“Burn the fucking place down,” he says.

“But–” Hughie starts.

“Burn it down!” he repeats, not leaving room for questions.

He stops at the door and even though he doesn’t want to, he turns back, looks at you. There’s something glistening on the inside of your thighs where the hospital gown has ridden up. That’s probably him. You died while he was still inside of you, after all. 

Soldier Boy - Ben - feels something on his cheek then. Like gentle fingers caressing him.

“It’s alright,” you whisper to him, lips close to his ear. He’s still asleep after your night of love making, but now it’s early morning. Everything smells fresh and new.

“Don’t worry,” you say, “I’ll never leave you.”

He makes a sound in his throat. Then he turns and walks out.

Thank you for reading! ♡ Want just my writing? Follow me at @yayitsmylastdayonearth. ☕Support me by buying me a coffee!

[nugparfait]

you ask for requests I shall deliver.

sam teaching f!reader how to get out of binds like rope or handcuffs. tying her up and talking her through how to lock pick the handcuffs or untie the ropes. at first it's serious lesson but it turns playful and flirty with teasing, both of them being kinda into it hehe🤭

btw your last story was soooo good

|| everything, everywhere (1.2k words)

sam x reader, established relationship, smut, bondage

“Not too tight, is it?” Sam asked as he carefully bound your wrists behind your back, the rope scraping the skin of your arms. You were seated on a flimsy chair, courtesy of the inn you and Sam were currently staying at. The room around you was clean and warmly lit, the smell of rosy air freshener and cedar clinging stubbornly to the air.

After a close call during a hunt with a demon, Sam had insisted that you needed to learn how to get out of restraints, more specifically being tied up. You knew the idea of you ever being helpless and in danger scared the life out of Sam, so you agreed. Now here you were, seated with your arms uncomfortably locked behind you behind the chair, Sam’s fingers ghosting against your wrists, his breath just behind your ear as he secured the ties.

“No, Sam. It’s fine,” you replied, turning your head to look at him over your shoulder. Admittedly, the situation had you a little flushed. What girl wouldn’t get a little hot being tied up by her sweet, careful, very handsome boyfriend?

He gave the ropes a small tug, then stood up and walked around the chair to face you. “Alright. Feel the rope with your fingers. Can you reach it?” His voice was low, a little husky, and it only made your cheeks burn.

Your fingers strained, the tips just brushing the coarse rope. “Yeah, I can,” you replied.

“See if you can hook your fingers under it anywhere. If you can, see what’s loose, what you can tug and move,” he went on, those hazel eyes trained on you, watching you shift and move in your seat as your hands worked, how your back bowed forward as your shoulders moved.

“I-I think I got it,” you murmured in concentration, nibbling your lip as your hands worked and tugged at the rope, your slender fingers hooking the fibers.

Sam swallowed, an odd wave of arousal washing through him. He wrung his hands together, clearing his throat. “Ah, uh, yeah. Good. You’re doing so good, honey. Just keep doing that,” he murmured, his voice a pitch deeper than normal. And his words, god, he could be so accidentally sexy at the worst times. It made you puff your chest just a little more, tugging the rope looser around your wrists.

“Jeez, Sammy, you’re gonna make me blush,” you mused. You met his gaze, a playful glint in your eyes. “You know, I think I’m more of a hands-on learner, now that I think about it.”

A red blush spread over Sam’s cheeks. “I- uh, um, really?” he stuttered, awkwardly adjusting the collar of his shirt. You could read your boyfriend like a book. He was so easy to fluster. “I-I guess I could… give you a few tips…”

He shifted on his feet, standing over you. “Just… tell me how I can help,” he mumbled, his large hand cupping your jaw and tilting your face up towards his. His thumb stroked absently over your lower lip. You gently nipped it, keeping eye contact through it all.

“Baby,” Sam croaked. A tent was already forming in his jeans, straining the fabric. He reached for his belt with his free hand, unhitching it and sliding it through the loops of his pants. “Is this okay?” he asked.

You nodded, smiling. “More than okay.”

He unzipped his fly and tugged his pants and boxers down just enough to free his half-erect cock. The sight was mouthwatering. You’d seen it before, of course, but the sight of it was never less exciting than the first time. You brushed your thighs together, needy for friction that you knew he could satisfy, if he’d only give it to you.

Sam gave himself a few rough strokes, spreading pre down his length with a few muffled grunts and sighs. “Baby,” he crooned again, his eyes lidded and dark as he gazed at your pretty face, patient and waiting. “You ready f’ me?”

You nodded. To emphasize, you parted your lips in a careful ‘o’, batting your eyelashes at him. He let out a strangled whine, the sight making his cock twitch in his hand. “God I love you,” he murmured, carefully setting the tip of himself on your tongue. Your lips closed around him, suckling his head, dragging a shaky whimper from his throat.

You bowed your head slightly to take him further, your tongue dragging skillfully down the bottom of his shaft. Sam moaned, his head falling back while his hand slid into your hair, not tugging, just gripping the strands for support. “Shit…” he breathed. His hips bucked faintly, tears stinging your eyes as you fought the urge to gag around his length.

Your wrists strained slightly in the loosened rope, wishing to feel him, touch him with your hands and drag your palms across the plains of his abs, hips, chest. And wishing you could reach between your legs and ease the throb of your heat.

Sam seemed to recognize the neediness burning within you. He groaned softly, his hips stuttering slightly. “I promise I’ll take care of you next, baby. Just a little more, I’m so close,” he whispered huskily, stroking your cheek with his thumb and staring at the way his cock disappeared between your swollen lips with an almost reverant devotion.

With a few more well-placed strokes of your tongue and sucks, Sam was coming, a broken moan leaving him as you swallowed down his release. He carefully drew back, caressing your jaw soothingly. “God, you’re perfect,” he cooed.

Sam knelt down between your legs, brushing his hands up your thighs and sending a jolt through your body. “Your turn, baby.” His fingers hooked into the band of your pants, drawing them and your panties down your legs and to your ankles. Sam’s gaze roved hungrily over your already soaked cunt, practically salivating as he leaned in and latched his lips around your clit, giving it a suckle that had your toes curling and a whimper vibrating through your throat.

“Sam–!” you gasped, shuddering as he began to lap at your folds with fervor, his strong hands gripping your thighs to hold them apart. The pleasure was mind-numbing, your body squirming and arching into him helplessly. “Shit–!”

Sam’s palms rubbed up and down your thighs in a gentle gesture that completely contrasted how skillfully and desperately he ate your pussy, completely drownig in the taste of you. You desperately wanted to brush your fingers through those brown locks of hair, hold him close until you reached your peak. Your trembling hands got back to work on the restraints around your wrists, tugging and loosening, pulling out knots like Sam had instructed until the rope slid free and fell to the floor. Instantly, your palm found the back of Sam’s head, holding him against you as you moaned and rode toward your orgasm.

Sam groaned against your cunt, his fingers digging into the flesh of your thighs as he brought you to your climax, a cry of delight leaving your lips. His tongue strokes slowed, coaxing you down from the high before he completely separated from you, leaning back and gazing up at you. His cheeks were flushed and warm as you cupped his face, Sam instinctively leaning into your touch.

“Hey, you got out of the rope,” he mused quietly against your palm.

You chuckled, leaning down to kiss his forehead. “I had a good teacher.”

|| note: sorry this concept was too freaky to not make smut 👀

[theedaythatnevercomes]

Cherry Waves 𑣲

(Stanford!Sam Winchester x f!reader)

Summary: When cramps are really kicking your ass, and a hot bath with your sweet boyfriend isn’t doing the trick… he offers a far more fun solution. (Even if things get a little messy.)

CW: Period sex/blood kink (this is Sam, guys. Are we surprised?), soft dom!Sam, fingering, oral (f!rec), no piv, praise kink, hurt/comfort, Sam’s a nerd, a really sweet nerd, caring Sammy turned filthy Sammy (this is really explicit. I’m not sure if I should apologize for that or not…)

WC: 4.2k

Based on this request!

Steam curls lazily towards the ceiling, softening the edges of the small bathroom in a way that makes everything look a little fuzzy, like you’re floating through a dream. The water’s hot, almost too hot, but you don’t complain. Heat helps. 

Or, heat is supposed to help. That’s how it works. And maybe, if you keep telling yourself it’s helping, it actually will.

You sink further into the tub, or, more accurately, further into Sam, your knees tucked up in a way that has them poking out from beneath the lavender-scented bubbles. You lean back into him, letting your head tilt to rest on his shoulder, your back pressed against the hard plains of his muscled chest, that still manage to be so soft. 

He smells like your shampoo. It’s comforting, in a way. Distracting, too. Distracting enough that for one blissful second, you’re not lost in the dull, twisting ache low in your abdomen, that drums and pulses in slow waves. It feels like a gut punch—if a gut punch involved those metaphorical fingers curling around your uterus, and clenching it hard enough to burst.

The thought makes you grimace. 

“…You okay?”

His soft voice cuts through the silence, warm, dripping with syrupy-thick concern, his chin tucked around your neck. Behind you, he shifts, careful to not let water slosh over the edge, trailing the palm that was stationed on your ribs across your body in a steady caress. One strong arm drapes around your middle, hesitant at first, like he’s trying to gauge where it hurts, or if his touch could make it worse.

It doesn’t. The pressure is nothing but welcome. You hum, a quiet sound, and he responds by rubbing slow, methodical circles over your abdomen.

“Could be better,” you say, letting out a sullen exhale that tells Sam everything he needs to know. His thumb presses into your side, right where the ache sits its deepest. 

“Yeah,” he murmurs, voice low with sympathy. Sympathy that would usually make you scowl, or maybe even deck someone, but coming from him? It just feels sweet. “I know, baby.”

The pain seems to pause for a second with those soft, rhythmic motions; before rearing its ugly head right when you start to think you’ve caught a break. It’s small at first. Easy to ignore.

Then it deepens.

You’re pretty sure day two is designed to find out who the strongest links are, and kill off the rest. ‘Aunt Flo’ must’ve been a bitch. The pressure builds, coiling inwards, slow, almost like some kind of warning, before sharpening in a way that makes you hiss. 

You try to shift, to breathe, Sam’s hand pausing on your abdomen. Pain radiates towards your back, settling at the tail of your spine, rippling in wince-inducing waves. You stretch one leg out, tucking the other further in, like your body can’t decide whether it needs space, or to be curled in so tight that it’s just about impossible for your lungs to contract. 

Behind you, Sam sits frozen. Unsure. His palm is warm on your lower belly, his brows furrowed into a worried frown. He feels your muscles clench, then relax, then squeeze again in a way that he can almost feel, and suddenly, he’s massaging you all over again.

“Hey, shh…” he whispers, a gentle coo, peppering a kiss to your shoulder that’s so soft it just about makes you want to cry. “Do you want me to grab you some ibuprofen? Or… I can make you some tea.” Another kiss. Your throat tightens. “Made that ginger stuff last time. You said it wasn’t half bad.”

His question, while thoughtful, has the opposite effect than he intended, resulting in a frown pulling at your lips.

“No. I’m sick of tea. And pills. And heating pads, and chocolate, and everything else that’ll just disappoint me.” It comes out as a grumble, and you know you’re being a bit of a bitch. But you can’t help it. And Sam, the sweetheart, doesn’t hold it against you. He never does. “I just want you. Here.”

“Okay.” His mouth curves into a gentle smile despite himself, just as he shifts, placing a hot, hard kiss to the column of your throat. Then another. And another. “That’s okay, honey.”

Those kisses, while simply affectionate, manufactured to soothe, have your heart fluttering in your chest. One hand stays heavy on your stomach, fingertips pressing against aches, the other dispatching on its own mission. His palm trails down your side, across the dip of your hip, smoothing along your thigh. So soft, so gentle.

Everything feels slower beneath the water. Warmer. Your body is already so sensitive all over, so when his thumb swipes innocently in a sweet circle on the inside of your thigh, you have to bite back a whine.

But Sam hears it. 

And oh, does he love it.

His eyes widen, not that you can see, but the picture of his face in the back of your mind is one of Sam-Winchester-curiosity, his careful exploration stopping as he studies you. That smart, law-boy brain of his working hard, gears turning, deciding just how much to push. How you’re feeling. What you’re feeling. Because if there’s one thing Sam will never do, it’s make your discomfort worse. 

For a moment, you’re both quiet. Quiet enough that the only sound filling the room is the drip of the faucet you never quite turned all the way off. But when you shift, letting out a shaky sigh, he speaks, voice dropping an octave. “I could… take your mind off things. If you want.”

It takes you an embarrassingly long moment to realize what he’s hinting at, and when it clicks, your brain seems to short circuit. 

Oh.

You can’t say you hate the idea. Not at all. In fact, if anything, your hormones fluctuating like some fucked-up seesaw only has you craving Sam like goddamn oxygen. And the way he’s been smoothing those greedy hands all over you in that stupidly comforting way for the last half an hour is certainly not helping your case.

But the blood…

“…What?” you whisper, voice coming out in a barely audible squeak.

“You’re hurting,” he says, simply, in that ‘duh’ tone of his that usually has you rolling your eyes. “And… I’ve done some research. Endorphins, oxytocin, dopamine… the best natural pain killers, baby. It can help blood flow, too. Lots of benefits.” He pitches the idea in that passionate way he explains his case studies, all smiles and a sweet, hushed tone. You feel a wave of warmth in your chest.  “And, y’know. I just happen to know a really great way to get ‘em flowing…”

“You’ve done.. research? When, between Economics and Criminal Justice?”

“I have my priorities.”

His hand wanders, just a little lower, skimming along the sensitive expanse of your inner thigh, and the way you squirm is entirely involuntary. Still, it does nothing to melt that tense expression on your face (that, let’s be honest, hasn’t left since the moment you saw the first spot of red on your favourite panties), your next breath coming out shaky.

“Don’t you—I don’t know. Think that’s… gross?”

His fingers stop their path immediately, curling lightly against your soft flesh. It’s a gentle press, just enough to leave pretty dimples, and if it’s designed to distract you, it absolutely works. His hand is big, so damn big, the heel of his palm to the tips of his fingers covering most of your thigh. He huffs, which you’re sure is meant to sound scrutinizing, but the Sam equivalent is so stupidly soft that it just makes your chest hurt instead. He certainly doesn’t sound disgusted, but, almost… offended? 

“Gross?” His voice comes out rough, incredulous. “Honey.” He scoffs, lips pressing hard against your shoulder, once, twice, before he trails up to press a kiss to your temple. Softer than the rest. “No. There’s not one thing about you that’s gross, ‘specially not this.”

“Are you sure? I mean, that sounds… it’s messy, Sam.” You tilt your head from where it’s fallen against his shoulder, and his expression is nothing short of sincere. 

“I brought it up. I’m more than sure,” he says, just a touch cheeky, but you know it’s only to soothe your nerves. And, well. It works. “…‘M not gonna make you do anything you don’t want. But… I love you. I love makin’ you feel good. And if it’s going to help…” he trails off, shrugging, bubbles fizzing beneath his elbows. “…Tell me why I wouldn’t want to.”

You can’t quite argue with that.

Not that you’d really want to, anyway. Little pulses of arousal prickle in your lower belly, sparking like embers in a fire that’s just begun to burn. You bite your lip, the rational part of your brain rivaling the more primitive parts, but in the end: the latter wins.

“…Okay. Yeah.”

“Yeah?” he presses, a little surprised, but you don’t miss the hint of excitement there. Cute. 

“Please.”

His hand shifts, far less innocent now, nudging your legs apart carefully, and you suck in a breath. “Just maybe not, y’know. Here.”

He stops, immediately, huffing a laugh against your neck, the sound low enough to have a shiver racing down your spine. He presses one last kiss to your shoulder, then pulls away, hands sliding across your body as he holds you in a sweet embrace.

“Okay,” he murmurs, breath hovering by your ear. “Bed. I’ll grab a towel.”

All that newfound confidence dissipates the second you watch Sam place that dark, navy blue towel over the covers, slow and careful, like he’s not just protecting the sheets, but setting a stage. 

The movement pulls at his shoulders just right, every shift of those perfect muscles in his back catching in the dim light. He’s broad, beautiful, like he’s sculpted from the Gods in a way that’s downright unfair. You stare, of course you do—ogle, even—and the heat that pools low in your stomach dances right along with those insistent nerves, and that uncomfortable twisting feeling that won’t quite give you a rest.

By the time he’s finished smoothing the corners of that damned towel just right, your heart feels about ready to beat out of your chest. Your legs carry you to the bed without a lick of help from your brain, and when you finally sit, you almost feel… stiff. Not because of him. Never because of him. But because of, well. Everything else.

Still, you stay where you are. Reclined, waiting, and acutely aware of everything.

Like the way the sheets are cool under your back when you shift, lying reclined against the plush covers. Or the way the towel is softer beneath your hips, warmer where it brushes your bare skin. Your still-damp hair fans out across the pillow like a halo, ends tickling your shoulders, making every tiny movement send a spark down your spine. Your knees stay drawn in, thighs pressing together like that’ll do anything to quiet the pulse between them.

It doesn’t. Not when Sam turns, and looks at you like that.

He exhales, slow and measured, his gaze dragging over you in a quiet, almost languid way, like he’s savouring the view. There’s nothing rushed in it, and absolutely nothing careless. He takes his time, committing every detail to memory, filing back the way your fingers curl nervously into the blankets, the subtle tremble to your thighs.

His fingers flex at his sides like he’s fighting some internal battle to hold himself back, before he finally steps closer. The mattress dips beneath his weight as he leans in, the shift subtle, but enough to make your breath stutter. 

Then his eyes find yours, and they soften.

Maybe not completely. The hunger is still there, unmistakable, burning just beneath the surface, but it slows. It turns careful in a way that makes your chest ache, and has your muscles releasing tension you weren’t even aware was present.

“Still okay?” he asks, quiet, hovering over you, his bangs tickling your forehead, and there’s something about the sound of his voice that has arousal twisting in your core like a cord about to snap. You swallow, nodding; more to keep yourself from letting out an embarrassingly blissful whine than anything. But oh, that’s not enough for him. He tuts at you, a slow exhale and ridiculous shake of his head, but his expression stays sweet enough to drown in.

“Words.”

“Yes, Sam. More than okay,” you breathe, and that’s the A-plus answer. One of his hands comes to rest over your knee, large and warm and oh so grounding. His thumb moves absentmindedly at first, soothing little circles over the swell of your thigh. Slowly, so damn slowly, it becomes more deliberate, dipping into the crease between your legs, fingertips brushing your inner thighs. Each pass is lighter than the last, like he’s coaxing you to melt, rather than just pulling them apart.

“Just relax…” he croons, his voice low, threaded with something so sweet, so him, that it just about hurts.

He bends over you then, careful of his weight, his body enveloping you completely, but without crowding. His lips press to your forehead first, gentle and lingering. Then to your temple. Your cheek. The tip of your nose. 

And when he finally reaches your lips, it isn’t rushed. It’s slow. Almost restrained at first, just the faintest brush, before deepening in a way that feels inevitable.

His lips slot against yours like they were made to, his free hand coming up to cup your jaw, long fingers spanning over the expanse of your cheek. Sam’s kisses never feel confined to his lips, when he kisses: you feel it everywhere. That massive hand tilting your head back to give him more access, his nose smushing against your cheek when he presses you into the pillows, his bare chest brushing against yours as his lips move with a slow kind of fever. His hot tongue swipes at the seam of your lips, asking permission, and when you open up for him, he groans like it’s tearing him apart.

When your legs fall open, it’s of their own accord, your body melting into the kiss entirely, and it’s about the most ‘yes please’ response Sam could’ve asked for. His hand slips, dipping from your thighs to the pretty jut of your hip, shifting to your belly to take a needy handful of the softness there. He lets out a panty dropping hum of approval against your lips, sucking spit back through his teeth. “That’s it, beautiful. Openin’ up for me,” he murmurs, dropping an open-mouthed kiss to your neck, hot and wet with just a touch of perfect suction.

He pulls away only enough to blow a cool puff of air over that shiny little circle his lips left behind, making your body give a happy jolt, a gasp tumbling from your lips at the prickling sensation. He snickers at your shiver, the bastard, but then his fingers are wandering again. Lower this time. 

The first brush over the swell of your mound is featherlight, testing, but you’re so sensitive, that it already feels like you’re seconds away from falling apart (pathetic? Maybe. Not that he minds). His thumb brushes your clit, the softest of circles, and you’re pretty sure every coherent thought you’ve ever had falls straight out of your head. You must look a little stupid, going slack jawed, eyes glazed over, brows pulled in silent pleasure, but he doesn’t tease. Those thick fingers glide through your folds, spreading you open with his middle and index digits, his eyes trained on your cunt like it’s the prettiest view he’s ever seen.

You’re wet. Real fucking wet. A string of slick connects your pussy to his fingers as he pulls away just to shuffle himself back, and… oh. That pale, milky red hue clings to his fingers, glistening in the low light, your face growing hot in an instant. It’s just as mortifying as it is, put lightly, completely fucking erotic. Your expression twists into that of an embarrassed frown, just as Sam exhales roughly. But his expression… yeah. Not repulsed. Not even close. 

His jaw seems to tighten at the sight of that pink-streaked slick on his fingers, and you swear his pupils only dilate even further. His thumb finds your clit again, thick ripples of pleasure sparking from your core, rubbing precise and firm as his gaze finds yours. And when he sees that less than amused expression, you swear he bites back a grin. 

“It’s natural, baby.” His voice comes out butter-smooth, dripping with lust, damn near sultry. 

“It’s blood.”

Sam simply mm-hmm’s at that, unphased, free hand moving to splay over your thigh, nudging your legs further apart. Spreading you open for him, wide open, just as he goes right back to practically eye-fucking your dripping cunt. His fingers slide back through your folds, gathering more slick, spreading it slow and filthy. Coating you in your own wetness like he just needs to feel how soaked you really are. “Just makes you even more wet for me. So needy.”

You don’t get to think, let alone respond, before he dips lower and slides one thick finger inside, stretching you out just right, the heel of his palm pressing against your clit when he reaches the last knuckle. Your lashes flutter, eyes fighting to not roll straight back into your head as fire sparks and pulls at your core. “You think I give a damn about a little mess?” he pulls back, letting out a huff, just to thrust right back home with a second long digit to stuff you full. “Y’don’t gotta be nervous, honey. ‘M just gonna take good care of you, yeah? Make you feel alll better...”

You let out a whine at that, one that comes entirely involuntarily, slipping through parted lips. And oh, Sam loves it so much—he makes it his personal mission to hear a thousand more. Your legs fall further apart, knees thumping against the soft towel below, his tongue darting out to lick his lips like the sight of you spread before him has his mouth watering. His fingers pump in slow, rhythmic thrusts that squelch in the quiet room, just as he drags himself back just enough to lower himself between your parted thighs like he’s been waiting to do so all damn day.

His mouth drops to your ribs first, lips tickling just beneath your breasts, before drifting lower, lower, lower, until he’s smudging a sloppy-wet kiss below your navel. He groans, his breath hot and ragged against your belly, butterflies twisting deep in your core. “Fuck… look at you,” he rasps, smushing his lips against the inside of your thighs, sucking sweet red splotches, his shoulders spreading you impossibly wider. 

Those perfect, leather tough fingertips drag over that spot deep inside your pussy that makes your vision go white, your back bowing with a euphoric: “oh God, Sam!” 

Your own fingers thread through his hair, silky and still a tad damp, and there’s a part of your brain that screams at you to just pull him back up to your lips before he can reach his destination: but it’s damn near impossible to care about taboo when his tongue swipes its first long, deep lick from his fingers to your clit. 

It’s so good. Too good. Your hips jerk, chasing the feeling and shying away and oh God another pass comes, timed with a curl of his fingers that almost makes you sob. His free hand pins your hips down hard, keeping you from squirming away, and you’re sure that if he had it in him to come up for air: he’d probably be scolding you again.

Luckily for you, though, he’s addicted the second he gets that first taste. 

A low, appreciative noise rumbles from his chest as he laps at you, his tongue broad and hot and filthy, laving over your folds in wet circles that have you rattling out choked moans and pleas. His fingers pump steadily inside you, matching the flow of his mouth with Stanford-levels of accuracy, until your thighs tremble around his head and his name spills from your lips in a broken gasp.

The cramps that twisted and pulled at your core like they were trying to tear you apart? Forgotten. It’s hard to focus on pain when Sam dives right into your cunt like he’s starving, making wet, lewd slurping sounds that have your cheeks heating up and your stomach flipping. His fingers stuff you full, pausing their thrusts just to zero in on that spot—wrist rolling in circles as he presses again and again right fucking there. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, Sam, Sammy—ah, don’t stop,” you curse, and you don’t think once about pushing him away anymore. Instead? You only pull him closer. Your fist curls in his hair as you sling one leg over his shoulder, soft skin meeting the broad, hard muscle of his back.

He grunts approvingly in response, the vibration shooting through you like an electrical current, and you swear he almost sounds drunk. Like that tangy, coppery-taste he sucks from your core is the finest wine he’s ever gotten his greedy hands on. His tongue laps at you feverishly, swirling around your puffy clit, before sealing around it with those swollen lips like he’s trying to drink you down.

He doesn’t stop. Can’t. Not when his chin drips a shimmery red, not when your thighs squeeze by his ears, not when your voice breaks on his name. The rich combination of blood and slick slides down your thighs, soaking the towel beneath, staining the fabric with evidence of your need.

He smushes his face against you, so damn close that his nose scrunches against your mound, his lips suckling hard against your sensitive bundle, like even a lick of space is far too much. Inevitably, he has to part for a breath—but Sam doesn’t waste a single one.

“Wanna fuck y’like this, baby,” he babbles, curling his fingers, peppering an almost urgent kiss to your pussy between words. “Fuckin’ slippery wet. So good for me.” Kiss. “You’d let me?” Kiss. “Let me fuck you so good? Take all that pain away?” Kiss kiss. 

“Mmph… y-yeah,” you croak, thighs shaking so hard, you wonder if he’s already fucked you dumb. 

“Yeah? Yeah what?” he urges.

“Want—wan’ you to fuck me, Sammy, just like this. Please.”

He doesn’t answer at first, but he sure as hell groans, muffled, guttural, kitten licking your clit, tonguing at your folds to keep you spread open the way he wants you. One hand is still bruising on your hip, the other hooking talented fingers so perfectly against your sweet spot. His breath punches out in rough grunts, eyes closed like he’s savouring your taste. 

“I will,” he promises, sealing it with a broad lick that steals your breath. “Maybe not tonight, baby, but I will.”

His jaw flexes as he swallows around your clit, and you know it must be aching. You’re close, so fucking close, and he knows it: doubling down on his efforts like he wasn’t already one good vibration away from making you pass out into a messy puddle of ecstasy. 

“C’mon. Come f’me. Forget all ‘bout the pain, sweet girl.”

He finds that abused bud again. Sucks. Hums a moan like he’s seconds away from falling apart, just enough to make you jolt.

It doesn’t take much more than that.

Your climax washes over you, crashing down in wave after wave of pure, overwhelming pleasure. You writhe, sob, squirms pinned by his big hand still splayed over your hip, every word you try to speak dissolved into a slurred moan. Sam rides it out with you, fingers buried to the last knuckle, tongue swirling tight, until your body sags against the sheets, boneless and spent.

His fingers slip free after a moment, but apparently, Sam hasn’t quite gotten his fill. Because the second he does, he’s dragging his tongue right back through your oversensitive cunt, dipping into your weeping hole to really get a proper taste, right from the source.

You whine, stumbling out a ‘too much’, and it’s only then that he draws back. Slow, languid, licking his lips clean with a satisfied hum.

And oh. Oh God.

His chin, his fingers, God, even sliding down his neck—it’s all slick. Dripping. Stained a glistening reddish-pink, that seriously shouldn’t make you stupid levels of horny, and yet, somehow? It really fucking does.

“S-Sammy, you look… oh, fuck.”

He grins, shamelessly, looking a little more than proud, as he follows your eyes to his fingers, coated in red, shimmering as he raises them to his mouth. Without hesitation, his tongue swipes once, slowly, over his stained fingers, humming at the coppery-sweet flavour with a pleased hum.

Well, fuck.

You’re barely able to swallow back your moan when he leans in, boxing you against the pillows, hands skimming over your still-trembling thighs (and… yeah. He definitely left fingerprints).

“You taste real good, y’know,” he soothes, breath ghosting over yours. You can almost smell the metallic tang in his breath. “And… it looks like you’re feelin’ better, yeah?” he shifts, hands following a path across your body. So damn gentle, a featherlight touch. And when you nod, he smiles. “Good.”

You can’t even pretend to be surprised when he starts lowering himself right back down between your thighs. 

“Though… one trial’s never actually enough. Right, honey?”

AN: So, I asked for fluffy requests, because I thought maybe I wouldn’t end up writing way too much… just for me to start writing way too much. So, hopefully, I’ll finish that soon! I’d just started this one a while ago, and finally got around to finishing it.

Side note, sorry for not posting for almost a month. Life is kicking my ass… but! Hopefully I’ll finish up some more drafts.

Also! I figured out how to do the gradient thing, and will be overusing it now 😆

Dividers from @/cursed-carmine

TAG LIST: @spectralgalaxygauntlet @vfwwm

[conleches]

some fucking resources for all ur writing fuckin needs

body language masterlist

a translator that doesn’t eat ass like google translate does

a reverse dictionary for when ur brain freezes

550 words to say instead of fuckin said

638 character traits for when ur brain freezes again

some more body language help 

[bellero]

REBLOG TO SAVE A WRITER

[milleniumpire]

... ☆ ... DOCTOR SAM ... ☆ ...

how you meet c. page

... ☆ ... It started when you got lightheaded after a blood draw. Sam could tell you were nervous about it during the whole appointment, your eyes darting away from his to make sure the needly was still sitting safely on the desk. Being the gentleman that he is he offered to do it himself, not wanting to risk you getting a nurse who was in a rush; someone who couldn’t take care of you the way you obviously need. He told you to close your eyes and try to picture yourself somewhere else, murmuring ‘good girl’ when all you do is flinch when the needle punctures your skin. Your eyes stay crunched closed the whole time, not opening until you hear him say ‘all done. Did so well for me’ with a squeeze against your shoulder. Your vision was hazy, and trying to stand up only intensified the rushing behind your eyes. He helps you with a bottle of water, insisting you let him raise it to your lips so you don’t spill. Ever-so-attentive he sits with you while you try to rest, his brows furrowed in concern at your lack of improvement.

... ☆ ... When he offers to drive you home you feel like you have to refuse. He’s obviously a busy man; you don’t want to be a burden when you can so easily call a taxi. You pull out your phone, trying to show him how easily and cheaply you can book an uber, that he’s only tried calling your friend a few times and she’s sure to pick up the phone soon, but he just won’t have it. The way he paints your situation is that you might not make it to the car.

... ☆ ... From the moment he helps you up from the chair his hand stays glued to your back. It doesn’t wander or push, it just feels like a gentle guide. You can feel the heat through your clothes, and you force yourself to think of something other than the way that his hand spans what feels like your whole back. When you reach his car he opens the door for you, supporting your transition into the vehicle like you’re about to break. He even goes as far as to buckle your seatbelt for you, telling you that you should rest your eyes now that you have the chance. He’s so caring, so attentive, that despite the logical part of your brain screaming at you to stay alert, that instinctual fear you so often got around men was quiet.

... ☆ ... When he pulled up to your house he was out of the car and at your door before you could protest, and soon he was helping you unlock your door and slip your shoes off. Once you were free from your outer layers he led you to your couch, somehow instinctively knowing your favorite spot. ‘Take a seat and let me take care of you, okay? If you really want some alone time we can always check in tomorrow now that I know you’re safe.’ He gave you an out, a way to politely say that you were done for the night, but as much as you felt like you should, you simply couldn’t bring yourself to do it. You had tried to brush off most of his fussing, not wanting to be a burden, but when it came down to him actually leaving you stayed quiet. ‘Okay,’ you responded simply, not wanting to get stuck in a slew of words that somehow told him to leave.

... ☆ ...You hear some clattering around your kitchen, thankfully only soft hits of a pan and the wash of running water. When he walks out with a steaming bowl you feel your breath catch. It’s been so long since someone has cooked for you. He sets the bowl on an end table, scooting it close so it can be your little table for the evening. It’s just simple boxed mac and cheese, but it looks like fucking heaven to your growling stomach.

“You really should go grocery shopping, you know. Looked far and wide for a vegetable and somehow cheese is the closest thing.”

You shrugged, humming when the warm food hit your tongue. “Never make time for it, I guess. And why would I when I have this?” You pointed at the bowl gleefully, feeling your personality returning more and more with each bite.

He tracked each motion to your mouth. “How often do you eat this?” His face lacked judgement, but the concern in his eyes clued you in to the fact that he wasn’t simply curious.

“You know…” you started, hoping that he would somehow forget that he asked a question. When he kept looking at you expectantly you finished with a heavy sigh. “Most nights. It works, and it’s good, and it’s just me so there’s no reason to make a whole feast.”

“Wow, you really don’t take care of yourself, do you,” he said, laughing incredulously and leaning back on the couch. 

You shrugged again, not totally sure how to respond. You couldn’t deny it, but it didn’t feel right to agree, either.

“Do you have anyone looking out for you?”

“I talk with my parents and friends, and get along with my coworkers,” you responded, wanting to assure him that you’re not lonely or desperate or an easy target.

“No, do you have anyone looking out for you. Taking care of you, helping with things you forget? If someone had thought to pack you a snack you probably wouldn’t have gotten so dizzy at the office.”

The idea was such a foreign concept that you had to laugh. “I’m an adult, sam. I can look after myself.”

“Have you ever thought that you shouldn’t have to?” His gaze had become searing, and you started to feel uncomfortable in a way that had nothing to do with your safety. “It’s obviously really stressing you out, sweetheart. Doesn’t take a doctor to see that.” His eyes softened, and he leaned forward. “Can I try something? I won’t be offended if you say no or ask me to stop.”

You shrugged your shoulders, a strange lump creeping up in your throat. The way he was looking at you made you feel like he had found a chink in your armor.

“Close your eyes.” His voice felt as comforting as the blanket you were curled up in, and when you felt his warm hand at your back you really, really, wanted to let out a sigh. He dragged his fingertips across your spine, the light scratching motion only making the lump swell. It felt so good, and you couldn’t remember the last time someone had touched you like this. “Feels good, huh,” he said softly, his voice barely above a whisper to keep from spooking you. You nodded, closing your eyes tight against the emotion you felt brewing. He kept the same predictable, light touches until they squeezed a tear out of you. His thumb silently swiped it away, his other hand not straying the course. You sat there together, silent and pensive, until sam broke the silence.

“Can I put you to bed tonight, sweetheart? All I’d do is run you a bath, read to you, that sort of thing. Nothing to be nervous about.”

Maybe if he caught you on a different night that would’ve snapped you out of your spell, re-lit your streak of hyperindependence, but when all you wanted to do was melt into him turning that down felt impossible. You gave him a small bob of your head, feeling like a child that had fallen asleep in the backseat of the car to be carried inside.

Like earlier, he led you with a warm, steady hand on your back. 

“I’ll wait out here while you get in your robe, okay? Then I’ll fix your bath and wash your face.”

“Okay,” you whispered, feeling like a tiny little scrap that a gentle giant was kind enough to carry in his pocket.

... ☆ ... read all doctor! sam ... ☆ ... doctor!sam m. list ... ☆ ...

[sinsilk]

foggy glasses ── . ✶ s. winchester

summary: sam loves it when you wear your glasses

pairings: established sam winchester x reader, sam winchester x gn afab!readerノwc: 1.4k warnings: 18+ MINORS DNI, fluff, loverboy!sam, reader described to have glasses/contacts, smutty, making out, tit sucking, glasses kink? (i have no idea if that's a thing lol), praise, reader is called 'good girl', a follow up to heart-shaped glasses but can be read as a standalone, kinda edited; all mistakes are my own a/n: wrote this in two hours last night bc i got inspired to write this from mads' feedback on my other fic that i posted yesterday and i couldn't resist making it smutty LOL so thank you @tusk-rumours for inspiring me for this <3 sam winchester masterlist

SAM LIKES—NO, HE LOVES IT WHEN YOU WEAR YOUR GLASSES. 

Not that Sam didn’t like you without them. He loves any and all versions of you—you consumed every thought of his regardless of the situation. But there was something about the sight of you in your glasses that made something inside of him wake up. He didn’t know exactly what it was, but he did know that he didn’t hate it one bit. 

Sam always stole a kiss from you when you had them on. Whether it was when the two of you were in the kitchen quietly making breakfast, clothes slightly wrinkled from sleep, or if the two of you were alone in the library and sat right next to each other. Hell, he even stole a kiss from you when you were walking past him in the hallway as you made your way to the bathroom. 

You didn’t exactly understand why he’d kiss you at random times but never protested having Sam’s lips against yours. You didn’t think that it was because of your glasses, but you proved wrong when you were relaxing in your shared room with him. 

You were lounging in bed, just wearing your pajamas that you didn’t bother to change out of for the day since there wasn’t a hunt, and you didn’t plan to go out that day. You were reading a book that you had been meaning to read. You were so absorbed in your book that you didn’t notice Sam leaning on the door frame, looking at you with a fond smile as he took in your relaxed form. 

You glanced away from your book for a moment, your eyes catching a body in the doorway, and you smiled when you recognized your boyfriend staring at you. 

You pushed your frames up your nose bridge. “Hey.” You smiled at Sam before looking back down at your book. 

God, you look so beautiful right now. Sam thought to himself before kicking off the door frame and making his way further into the room and towards the bed. 

You paid no mind to Sam as you were reaching the end of the page you were on—before the book was swiped from your hands. “What the hell?” 

You looked up to see a satisfied smirk on Sam’s face as he slid your bookmark into your book—he must have grabbed it while you were reading and placed your book on the nightstand. 

You let out an annoyed noise. “Excuse me? I was reading that.” You let out an amused scoff, letting Sam know you weren’t mad at him. 

“Really, I couldn’t tell? Besides now you’re not.” 

“Yeah, because someone grabbed my book from my hands.” A huff escaped you as Sam turned from your nightstand to face you. 

Sam let out a chuckle. “Sorry, honey.” Sam was sitting on your side of the bed, by the edge, as he leaned towards you, his eyes filled with mirth. 

You rolled your eyes. “Sure you are.” 

“How can I make it up to you?” Sam was in a playful mood tonight, which never failed to make you smile. He grabbed your hands as he looked at you with a small pout on his lips—his hazel eyes were wide and pleading, but a glint of amusement flashed through them. 

“Hmmm.” You pretended to think for a moment. “You can make it up to me by letting me finish the page I was on.” You sent him a mocking smile. 

“I can do anything but that.” 

“Well then, I’m out of ideas.” You shrugged. 

A smirk pulled at Sam’s lips. “I can just show you.” 

“Show me?” You questioned with a raised brow. 

“Yeah, show you,” Sam repeated as his eyes darkened, and a jolt of anticipation went through your spine at the familiar glint in his eyes. 

“Then show me.” 

Sam smirked before bringing your left hand up to his soft lips, pressing gentle kisses on your knuckles. His lips slowly trailed up your hand, leaving a burning trail in his wake as he made his way up your arm, pulling your loose shirt off of your shoulder and pressing hot kisses along your skin.

Your breathing became a little heavier as he left sloppy kisses on your exposed collarbone and neck. His lips eventually made their way to your face, kissing your jaw and cheeks before they hovered over your lips, brushing against him. 

He was teasing you, and the both of you knew it. You met Sam’s heated gaze as his eyes raked over you. 

“Still want me to show you?” Sam breathed against your lips. 

“If you don’t I’ll leave the room right now.” 

A low chuckle rumbled from Sam’s chest as he finally placed his lips against yours, instantly drawing you in for a passionate kiss that lit the familiar fire that Sam’s lips never failed to ignite within you. You responded with the same fervor that Sam had—leaning up to meet him, and your right hand found its way into his hair. You pulled at the chestnut strands, pulling a groan from him. 

Sam’s lips never failed to make you feel like he was consuming you—his tongue swiped at the seam of your lips, and a soft sigh left you at the feeling of his tongue dancing against yours. The feeling of his lips against yours made you lose any sense of time or space. Every sense was dialed up to ten and drowned out anything else, leaving you to just focus on Sam. 

The familiar burn in your lungs signaled that you needed air, but you didn’t care, wanting Sam to devour you whole as the two of you kept kissing. Sam eventually pulled away from you, a small whine leaving you as you chased his lips. An amused chuckle left Sam, pressing soft kisses on your jaw and down your neck. Your eyes were closed as your head rolled back against the pillows. 

Sam’s hand grabbed the hem of your shirt and slowly pulled it up, revealing your bare skin underneath it. You peeled your eyes open to help him take your shirt.

Somehow, during your heated makeout session, your glasses had fogged up slightly, and you could barely make out the fact that your position had changed and Sam was hovering over you now, in between your open legs. 

You made the move to take them off, but you felt Sam grip your wrist before you could. 

“Keep them on.” Sam’s voice was thick with desire as he looked down at your heaving bare chest as you tried to regulate your breathing. 

“What?” 

“Keep them on. Please.” Sam let go of your wrist as your own hand fell from your glasses. 

Your mind was spinning before it clicked. “You like me in my glasses don’t you?” You said with a sly smile on your face. 

“Yeah, I do.” Sam kissed you hard and rutted against you—being able to feel his hard cock pressing against the denim of his jeans. 

“Who knew you had a thing for glasses.” You said when his lips made their way to your breasts, a soft moan escaping you as you felt his warm mouth lick and start to suck at one of your nipples, his free hand kneading at your other boob. 

He took the hardened nub in between his teeth, biting at it lightly before letting go. “I have a thing for you in glasses.” He clarified before switching to your other breast. Sam sucked at your breast for a moment before kissing his way down your body, nipping at your skin occasionally. His hands found the hem of your sweatpants and pulled them off as he reached your core. 

Sam clicked his tongue at you. “Hey. Keep them on.” Sam ordered sternly when he saw you trying to take your glasses off again when you noticed them beginning to fog up from the amount of heat your face was emitting.

You hesitated before sliding them up your face again—you wanted to feel Sam’s mouth on you. Who needed to see when you had your boyfriend’s talented mouth on your soaked cunt.

Sam kissed your inner thighs before pulling your damp underwear to the side. He pressed a small kiss to your clit, making you jolt slightly at the sensation. 

A slight smirk appeared on his face as his eyes flicked up to look at you. “Good girl.”

[cumkissed]

no because wife swap soldier boy is actually unwell levels of hot. like he goes into it thinking it’s gonna be some bullshit publicity stunt, just two weeks of pretending to care about some soft little suburban wife with cameras in his face, and then he meets you.

you’re not even trying to impress him. that’s what pisses him off first. you don’t fawn, don’t giggle, don’t ask to touch the suit. you just look him up and down like he’s another loud man taking up space in your kitchen and go, “rules are on the fridge, ben.”

and he’s instantly ruined.

because at first he’s arrogant about it. he thinks you’re playing hard to get. thinks you’re doing the good wife act for the cameras, all polite smiles and clipped answers while your husband is off living in ben’s house with his actual wife. but then the cameras shut off for the night, and you’re still like that. calm. unimpressed. standing barefoot in the kitchen in your little sleep shorts, pouring yourself water while he leans against the counter and stares at your legs like he’s forgotten every commandment he’s ever ignored.

he starts breaking rules just to see what you’ll do.

walks around shirtless. takes up the whole couch. calls you sweetheart in that low, gravelly voice. stands too close when you’re cooking, big hands braced on either side of the counter behind you, his chest almost touching your back while he murmurs, “your husband let you boss him around like this too?”

and you don’t even turn around. you just say, “only when he’s smart.”

ben laughs, but it’s not funny to him anymore. not really. because he’s hard in his sweats and you’re pretending you don’t notice, and he knows you do. he knows by the way your hand hesitates on the knife. by the way your thighs press together when he leans in close enough for his beard to brush your ear.

by day five, he’s fucking unbearable.

he watches you fold laundry like it’s porn. watches you bend over the dryer and mutters something filthy under his breath. catches himself staring at your panties in the basket for too long. he starts finding excuses to touch you. hand on your lower back when he moves past you. fingers brushing your hip when he reaches into the cupboard. thumb dragging over your wrist when he hands you your coffee.

and then one night, after a fake dinner for the cameras where he plays your temporary husband a little too well, he follows you upstairs.

you tell him, “ben, the cameras are off.”

he says, “good.”

then he kisses you like he’s been starving for it.

not sweet. not gentle. not polite reality-tv fake-marriage shit. he backs you into the bedroom door and kisses you with one hand around your jaw and the other gripping your waist so hard you gasp into his mouth. he likes that. he likes hearing you lose that calm little voice. likes feeling you grab his shirt like you’re angry at yourself for wanting him.

“there she is,” he mutters, mouth dragging down your neck. “knew you weren’t as well-behaved as you looked.”

[tangledinlove]

phone works two ways, you know

pairing: sam winchester x fem reader 5.2k

summary: stories of that one time sam surprises you, that one time you surprise sam, and that one time you surprise each other

contents: childhood bsfs to ‘i sometimes want to kiss you but like the normal amount’ to strangers trope will always be loved by me

notes: title from baby came home 2 by the nbhd. this is set during season one because ive only watched the first season of spn lol. this fact also makes me not liable for mischaracterization ok enjoy please!

— thank u to the lovely @locknco for editing this love ya

Nightmares follow Sam Winchester like a moth to a flame.

Most of the time, they’re about Jess. Before the nightmare even starts, he knows what he’s about to see because it’s always the same.

The steady drip of blood against his forehead.

The burst of unbearable heat exploding against the ceiling.

The guilt that creeps in every time without fail.

He wakes up from those nightmares with his heart pounding and a blanket of grief smothering his lungs.

But sometimes, Sam Winchester is lucky.

Sometimes, Sam Winchester dreams of you.

—

Sam wipes his eyes as he stands over your bed.

It’s your actual bed, and not one at a crappy motel in the middle of nowhere. It’s unfortunately humid since it’s creeping toward the middle of August, but Sam doesn’t care. It’s a pretty special occasion — you’re taking a break from hunting for a few days.

He’d been beyond surprised when you’d told him. Catching you at your house during the summer was near impossible with the way your parents ran you around the country, so all your free weekends were taken advantage of.

John had dragged him and Dean to a case just a state over from yours, and Sam had realized it was the closest they’d been to your house in a while. The second the bones had gone up in a pile of salty flames, he was halfway to the nearest bus station and on his way to your city.

The bus pulled in late, and the long walk to your neighborhood meant Sam arrived even later. He wondered if your parents were home and decided he hoped they wouldn’t be. The last thing he wanted them to see was the pitiful sight of him walking through their front door at four in the morning.

And despite the way you insisted it wasn’t true, Sam knew your parents didn’t like him. He’d probably be seeing the barrel of your mom’s revolver before he saw her smile at him.

(“It’s not smart to be telling people the code to your house alarm.”

You laugh in that girly way you do sometimes. Sam imagines you twirling the coiled wire of your phone cord and his throat runs dry.

“Come on. It’s just you, Sam. And how else are you going to sneak into my house?”

Your parents change the code to disarm the alarm every two weeks as a precautionary measure, and you never forget to update him everytime it changes. Sam thinks it’s sweet, but the both of you know he’s barely lucky enough to get the time to call you. The stars would have to align for him to come visit.

“I’ll go in through your window,” Sam says.

There’s a small lift in your voice. “I’ll make sure to double check it’s not you when I throw a knife at the freak climbing up the side of my house.”)

Zero-five-zero-two-eight-three, you’d told him last week.

He’d gone silent on the other end when the numbers clicked in his mind — his birthday. The code to your house right now was his birthday.

Your dad had been too busy to set it, so you’d done it yourself, using the first six numbers that came to mind.

His birthday, apparently.

Sam tries not to think about it too hard.

But now he’s here, standing over your bed and trying not to pass out from exhaustion on your carpet.

Your room looks slightly different from the last time he visited. The walls are a new shade of your favorite color, and the old desk that was in the corner has been replaced with a vanity. There’s pictures of your hometown friends pinned all around the glass, but there’s a few photos he does recognize.

One is from your ninth birthday. Dean had smashed your cake in your face, as expected from the then thirteen-year-old, and you’d clocked him with your fist a second after. The photo was taken post-punch, and you’re grinning through the frosting on your eyes while Dean clutches his face.

The other picture is of you and him from when you were both about twelve. He’s sitting between your legs, laying against your stomach with your American Girl doll in his lap. He’s braiding her hair using the instructions in an old book of yours, and you’d shoved the camera in his face before he could stop you. The photo captured him glaring into the lens of the camera, his thick brown hair pulled into two pigtails on top of his head.

It’s nearly cut out of the frame, but you’re smiling so hard behind him it makes your entire face light up. It’s one of Sam’s favorite pictures of you.

Now, you’re a lump on your full sized mattress, a new step up from your trusty twin bed. The blanket thrown over you has little flowers on it that match your bedsheets, which he already knows you’re very proud of. Still asleep, you roll over onto your back, and that exhaustion from earlier comes back with a vengeance.

Sam drops his jacket onto the heap of clothes on your chair and works to unzip his jeans before his legs give out.

If you were awake, you’d slap him on the back for that, a teasing grin on your face. “I would’ve brought some cash if I knew you were going to strip for me!” you would probably say, like a menace.

He can’t wait for you to wake up so you can annoy him even more.

Sam’s left in a pair of boxers and a baseball t-shirt from a supermarket in Pennsylvania, sweating even in your air conditioning. When he lifts the covers off the bed, he freezes.

You’re wearing a shirt he’d given to you as a souvenir a few months ago. A movie theater in Jersey they helped with their ghost problem gave them a free shirt in return. The cartoon penguin smiles at him now, balancing on one foot with his arms out, like he’s surfing. Sam smiles back while he settles in next to you.

Now that your bed is bigger, there’s more than enough room for the both of you, which is good since it’s so hot out. It means there’s no need to sleep piled up like you had to in the past.

…but Sam hasn’t seen you since that time your families had run into each other in New Mexico, and he hasn’t slept with you like this since you’d been home during your finals week a few months ago.

Under the eye of the penguin on your shirt, he slides one arm below your side pinned to the bed and uses it to pull you against him.

You complain up a storm, even asleep, but settle down quickly. He wonders if you’ll kick him in your sleep again, claiming you were dreaming of being a soccer player.

With your face pressed to the spot between Sam’s arm and shoulder, he listens intently to the nonsensical string of words you mumble out against his skin. Your musings only get more muffled as you press even further into him, throwing your arm over his torso and staying there.

Sam’s hand kindly soothes over your hip, where your shorts have little pink clouds printed on them.

“Woah,” you grumble, dragging out the word. Your hand flexes and then clenches into the fabric of his shirt. “Woah.”

His eyes dart to you embarrassingly fast, guilty for disturbing you but more than excited that you’re awake. Your voice always sounds sweeter in person than it does over the phone.

When he finds your face in the darkness, he realizes your eyes are still shut. Sam runs his hand up your side, warm with sleep. “Hey. You okay?”

Your mouth twitches into a frown. “My friend. My friend’ll do it.”

Oh, he realizes. You’re just sleep talking.

“Okay,” he answers quietly. He wants to hear your voice again, but he also wants you to go back to sleep. You only really mumble like this when you’re about to wake up from a dream. “Sorry,” Sam adds, though he’s not sure what for.

Your face screws up, but then you sigh sweetly against his chest. “Dean?”

(Even when Sam dreams of this, he still feels like you’ve beaten him over the head with that single word.)

You’re dreaming, all right. Of his older brother.

“You gotta get rid of it,” you complain, a pout pulling at your lips.

“He will,” Sam agrees, just to appease you. Thankfully, the worry lines on your face flatten out, and you move yourself even closer to him.

You’re quiet for a few seconds, so Sam closes his eyes, squeezing your shoulder in hopes you go back to sleep.

It doesn’t work, though.

You jolt up and practically launch yourself off the bed, nearly slipping on your hardwood floor before you grab onto your bedside table.

Sam calls for you, but you don’t seem to hear him, busy fumbling in the dark for the lightswitch. He leans over and flicks on the lamp, flooding your room with warm, yellow light. “You okay?” he asks.

The way you spin towards him is comically slow, like you’re being spun in a microwave. There’s a crease on your cheek from being pressed to your pillow for so long, and your eyes are barely open. Sam laments the heartbreaking fact that he can’t see you everyday.

Within the next second, he’s being flattened back against your pillows. You’re by his side so quickly, he’s half inclined to ask you if you’ve gained the ability to teleport.

He squeezes your hip. You take the hint and loosen your hug.

“Sam!” you say, at a volume much too loud for four in the morning. You don’t say anything when he tries shushing you, too busy flitting your hands over whatever parts of him they can reach, laughter spilling from your lips. “You’re here!”

“Took you long enough to realize,” he teases. “I could’ve been some kinda killer, and you would’ve gone on sleeping.”

“What kind of killer would have a face as sweet as yours?” You’re kneeling over him now, smiling so wide it makes Sam feel winded. “I missed you so much.”

“I missed you too,” he says, matching your smile. “Do you wake up from all your dreams like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like you’ve been electrocuted.”

You smile. “I think my brain knew you were here. Made me wake up so I could say hi.”

Sam kisses your forehead. “Hi. Thank you to your brain.”

“Hi. And you’re welcome.”

The two of you sit like that for a little bit, taking in the sight of the other’s face for the first time in months. You seem to enjoy his new haircut, and he studies the new scar going down your bicep while you tell him the story about how you got it.

When the recount of how you were thrown out of a window starts turning into more yawns than words, he pulls you back down to the bed.

“How are you?” he asks, like he hadn’t just asked you that this morning.

Your tongue darts over your chapped lips. “Good. Missed you a lot,” you say, for the second time in the past five minutes.

“Your parents are—they’re good too?” he asks, stuttering over his words.

Whatever he feels for you gets stronger every day, but it’s only when he sees you again that he realizes just how much he likes you. He forces his eyes up from your lips and squeezes your side. Sam really wants to kiss you.

You nod, moving his arms around so you can cram yourself as close to him as the world and physics allows. “Yep. Yep, yep, yep. Your dad and Dean?”

Sam hums. “They’re fine. Didn’t even ask where I was going when I took off.”

“You didn’t tell them?”

“I think they know by now. My dad asked about you on the drive back to the motel.”

You’re curled against his left side, your chin resting against his chest so you can stare up at him. It means that his next few intakes of breath have to be done with a lot of careful thought.

“Can I just come join you guys?” you ask, and Sam’s surprised he can’t hear any hint of a joke in your voice. “I’m sick of missing you all the time.”

He makes a fist, and uses his knuckles to drag circles over your back from the hills of your shoulder blades to the jut of your hip bones.

Sam laughs. “I don’t think you’d want that.” He can tell you’re about to argue until he adds, “Moving in with my dad, that is. You know what he’s like.”

“I’d put up with it for you, though,” you say honestly.

“He treats you like shit,” he stresses. “And he likes you. Maybe it’d be better if I moved in with you instead.”

You push yourself onto your forearm so you can give him a real serious look. There’s a sore spot on his cheek from where he’d gotten shoved into a wall by some spirit, and somehow, you know.

You caress his face, dragging the pads of your fingers over it. Sam makes a weird sound in his throat, something like a hiccup, and you thankfully don’t smile too hard about it.

Sam decides that it’s probably best for his health that you don’t see each other too often. He knows without a doubt that his heart would give out if he felt any stronger about you. He soaks up the warmth of your hand on his face before you let it drop to his collarbones.

“What’s wrong?” he asks.

You lean down to press a kiss to his cheek before shifting your face into his shoulder. “Just appreciating your pretty face. If you moved in, I think my parents would have your head on a stake by the end of the week.”

It startles a laugh out of him. He can’t quite look you in the eyes because you’re trying to hide from him, but he tries to anyway. “Are you serious?”

“I’m sorry!” you groan, using one of your free hands to push at his face. “I thought they liked you, I really did. But my mom found out what I changed the alarm code to and made me clean every single gun in that stupid closet.”

Cruel and unusual. “All ‘cause of me?”

You think long and hard about it. “I think it was part of it. She was also mad because I forgot to do the dishes last week, so it could’ve been that, too.”

Your parents have quite the array of weapons. The jacket closet turned armory in your living room has enough rifles to arm half the state of Kansas, and Sam thinks about what a sad sight it would’ve been: you on the floor with a cleaning rod in hand, and about fifty more handguns to wipe down.

“Poor girl,” he says, pulling your palm into his hand. He presses into the calluses you have from where your gun usually sits. “You didn’t suffer too much?”

“Nope,” you say, awfully cheerful. Your next blink is slower than the others, so he resumes his ministrations against your back. You go limp again. “Only cause I… knew you were coming over soon.”

His face warms, but he has to poke fun at you before he lets you fall asleep.

“Sam, my parents love you,” he mocks, letting his voice go quieter. “Come over for dinner, Sam. No, my parents won’t mind, they love having you over.” He smiles at you. “Must be why I gotta show up here before the sun is up, right?”

Your chest stutters before you laugh, which usually means you’re really embarrassed.

The dream ends when he takes pity on you and kisses the spots on your arms you tell him are aching from all your hard work.

—

Dean wakes up that morning to the sight of Sam hunched over the old table in the corner of the room. There’s a pile of newspapers at his feet and one in his hands, which he stares at so intently it looks like he’ll burn a hole through it.

“Y’know, if you keep scowling, your face is gonna get stuck like that.”

Sam doesn’t grace him with a glance. It’s clear he’s been up for a few hours already. “I think I got something.”

—

Rachel Anderson and John Hansen were two college kids from the suburbs of Virginia. Both were from respectable families, both were straight A students, and both were well-loved by the community.

Two nights ago, John left family movie night to shoot himself in his backyard. And last night, Rachel drowned herself in her bathtub during a sleepover with her friends. In the center of their bedroom floors were identical suicide notes. Each in their own handwriting, but not a single difference in wording or sentence structure.

Sam has to park the car down the block when they arrive outside Rachel Anderson’s house. The street leading up to the building is lined with shiny new cars — Mercedes, Lexus, and BMW logos as far as the eye can see — making the Impala stick out like a sore thumb.

Dean cranes his neck to look up at the houses on the same street as the Andersons. Pretty suburban towns like these scare him a little more than he’s willing to admit.

He whistles. “Didn’t know they made BarbieLand a real place.”

Sam cracks a smile at that. “How many of these people do you think have a membership at that country club down the street?”

The two of them snicker all the way up to the front door. Sam knocks, his brother too busy looking around at the rest of the neighborhood.

“If any of your little college friends have houses as nice as these, maybe we should make a quick visit the next time we’re in California,” Dean jokes, eyeing a neighboring pool.

Sam stops rolling his eyes because the door swings open, and he plasters on his most sympathetic smile for whatever grieving family member is on the other side of the door.

It’s a guy about his age, wearing a crisp black sweater. The dark circles under his eyes make it clear he was close with Rachel — a man plagued with grief through and through.

“Hey,” Sam says. “This is Rachel’s house, right?”

The man flicks his eyes from Sam over to Dean, who’s only now looking away from the nice looking houses to join him at the front door.

“Yeah. This is it,” he answers, though he still doesn’t open the door fully. The three of them stare at each other for an awkward second before the guy clears his throat. “If you guys don’t mind me asking, who are you?”

“I’m Sam, and this is my brother Dean,” he explains. “Me and Rachel had psych together. She saved my grade in that class last semester.”

Sam’s not surprised at how easy the lie rolls off his tongue. Lying is almost as important to the job as the guns in their trunk are.

The man, satisfied with the answer, lets the door creak open. “Oh, I see. I’m Will. Thanks for coming, you two. Everyone’s out in the backyard.”

A girl’s voice floats to the front door from somewhere nearby. “Will, is it Deb?”

William Anderson was mentioned in the article about Rachel’s death. He’s the girl’s older brother, who pivots to face the girl speaking from behind him.

“These are friends from Rachel’s psychology class,” he says, stepping out of the doorway.

Olivia Anderson was mentioned in the paper too. The youngest child of the family, just a year younger than her older sister. For a second, Sam thinks he’s hallucinating. She looks just like her and a little like Will too, down to their twin black sweaters.

A different voice responds, and something about it makes the hair on the back of Sam’s neck stand up. “Psych class? Rachel didn’t—”

The closest Sam can get to describing this moment is like the seconds before a spirit manifests. His heart kicks up a little bit quicker. Alarms ring in his head, and the area around the Andersons’ front door turns electrified.

It’s you.

You get pulled into view by Olivia Anderson, a deer caught in headlights wearing your own matching black sweater.

Sam doesn’t want to blink, certain that your face will shift and it’ll be some sick trick of the light. A dream haunting him even while he’s awake.

“Rachel didn’t what?” Will asks, not suspicious, just curious.

Your mouth opens and closes, like you’re fumbling for something to say, and Sam doesn’t blame you.

For one, you’re going to lie for them. Both him and Dean are beginning to realize that Rachel didn’t take a psychology class at all, and you’re trying to figure out how to twist your sentence into an excuse that makes sense.

And two… you’re standing in front of your best friend who you haven’t spoken to in four years. Sam isn’t surprised that you have nothing to say to him.

“Rachel didn’t like anything about that class,” you decide on, your eyes shifting from Sam to Dean then back again.

You swallow hard. It looks like you’ve—

“—seen a ghost?” you ask, grinning.

The duffel bag in Sam’s hands hits the motel floor, but he’s too stunned to even wince at the sound.

“Looking a little scared there, Sammy,” you tease, pushing yourself off of the old bed in the center of the room. “A little old, too, honestly—”

He’s crossed the room before you can finish your sentence.

You squeak at the impact, your arms being crushed to your sides with the way he captures you in a hug. The two of you stumble two big steps back so you don’t tip over.

“You’re here,” Sam says, like he can’t quite believe it. You manage to work your arms away from your body so you can hug him too. “What are… How did you—”

“Dean finally remembered my phone number,” you joke, squeezing him with a big smile on your face. “I know you guys have to drive out early tomorrow — uh, I guess today, actually — but you know I had to come see you on your birthday, Sam. Even if it’s just for a few hours.”

It’s seven minutes past midnight on the second day of May.

Sam Winchester is eighteen.

“You’re here,” he repeats. He doesn’t bother trying to wipe the smile off his face. “I can’t believe it.”

When Dean had clapped him on the back and told him he’d booked him an extra room for his birthday, Sam was shocked. Birthdays weren’t anything special to either of them, so he’d been thankful, but also very confused. Buying another motel room wasn’t cheap, yet he’d done it anyway.

From the adjoining room next door, Sam’s sure his brother has a shit-eating grin on his face. He’s probably going to hold this over his head forever, claiming how much of a great brother he is, and Sam will let him.

He hasn’t seen you in four months. He thinks he might throw up.

“You drove here all by yourself?” Sam asks you, once the two of you have settled on the bed. He takes a seat cross-legged and both of you pretend like you’re not about halfway into his lap.

“Yep,” you say proudly. “Dean had to teach me how to parallel park over the phone so I would have my license in time.”

Sam’s heart swells ten sizes. “Thank you. I can’t believe you came out all this way.”

You hit him on the shoulder. “Of course. You’re my best friend, did you really think I was gonna miss your eighteenth birthday?”

He leans in close enough to the point that it’d be easy to kiss you. So, so, so easy.

He doesn’t, though, and you don’t push it. You reach for one of his hands in his lap and trace over the ridges of his knuckles, a little smile on your face.

His hair has finally recovered from the Nair that Dean had put in his shampoo a while back, so it hangs just over his eyebrows and curls around his ears again. You blow the brown locks out of his eyes and then smile a little wider.

“I have a gift for you.”

You slink out of his lap, and Sam tries not to frown when you get up to grab your backpack. “You didn’t have to get me anything.”

“Stop worrying,” you chastise, dropping your bag onto the bed to look through. “I’m your actual birthday gift. This one’s just extra, so it’s nothing fancy.”

“You being here is worth more than any fancy thing you could've bought me at a store,” he says, and you brush his hair from his face affectionately.

“I’m happy you think so, Sammy.”

Too wrapped up in the sight of your smile, he forgets to say something about the dumb nickname.

“I got this from the grocery store down the street before you got here.” It’s wrapped in the plastic bag you’d bought it in, but Sam takes it from your hands like it’s made of gold. “Consider this one… supplemental.”

You huddle close while he takes the gift out of the bag and reads it.

“Thirteen Ghosts,” he says, flipping the DVD case over in his hands.

“Figured we could watch a movie together.” You poke his side. “See how funny they make their monsters look.”

This isn’t the first time you and Sam have watched a movie together. There was that one time when you’d watched Notting Hill on your couch, but your parents kept giving him warning looks from in the kitchen and he’d made sure to keep the bowl of popcorn and half of the couch between you two.

And Sam will always hold some level of respect for your parents because they’re your parents, but he could not be more glad to be hundreds of miles away from them right now. Because the second that he comes back from popping the DVD into the player, you’re very kindly asking to spoon, and Sam is not well known for being able to say no to you.

You tuck yourself against his front, and he slips his arms around your middle. You trap his hands there by slotting yours together, tracing over the lines on his hands like a palm reader. Sam watches you while you watch the movie, pretending to follow along with the dialogue and your whispered commentary.

The lights of the TV flicker on the side of your face as you poke fun at the actors, and he’s hit with a wave of anticipatory sadness. Sam prays to whoever’s listening that he never falls asleep. Prays this night lasts forever, and that you don’t have to go home and he doesn’t have to leave in the morning. If the rest of his life is bad horror movies and sleeping next to you, he’d die happy.

You laugh at something that jumps on the screen, and Sam can’t help himself anymore.

When he says your name, he practically winces hearing the sound of his own voice. It’s shaky and nervous, and you shift to look at him with concern in your eyes. One of the actresses screams on screen, and you squeeze his hand that you still haven’t let go of.

“You okay? Did you wanna turn the TV off?”

“I love you.”

You turn to face him completely, and Sam Winchester, the luckiest eighteen-year-old in the world, is able to watch the smile light up your eyes.

You let go of him to hold his face, like he’s something to be treasured. “I love you too, S—”

“—am, and I’m Dean,” his brother says, offering his hand for you to shake.

Your grip looks solid when you reach across the threshold of the Anderson house to take his hand in yours, as if you’re meeting him for the first time.

The whole thing feels like a nightmare.

It’s unnatural to watch your tight lipped smile and awkward shuffling while you stare blankly at Dean. You let go of his hand like he hasn’t pulled you off your couch and taught you how to dance in the middle of your living room. Like he hasn’t let you finish the rest of his food at rundown diners just because you ate yours too fast.

You turn to Sam next, and his stomach does a backflip.

Four years was a long time.

Sam knows he’s not the same person who left you on your front porch. He’d held you for longer than usual that day, and left you with a promise to visit that he hadn’t meant.

He doesn’t think you’re the same girl who was left there either. You look different. A little older, a little more mature.

(At eighteen, you would’ve given him a nasty look for that. “Older? You can’t say that to a girl, Sam.”

“I said you looked older, not old!” he would’ve defended frantically. “There’s a difference!”

“Why the hell would I want to be told I look older, you jerk!”)

And he loves you, but it’s true. You look older, but it means you look as lovely as ever. Grown into yourself and radiant in ways you hadn’t been at eighteen. You look like you’re glowing.

Your hair is also done in a way you never liked to do by yourself. He knows it for a fact, because you’d always complain to him over the phone about it, wondering how he was able to do it for you so nicely.

(He’d always said it was because he was patient and you were clearly not, but it was mostly because he’d practiced it on your old dolls a bunch of times before he’d asked to do it on you.)

Your hair now looks nicer than anything Sam could’ve done for you. He wonders if you did it yourself—if you had to learn because he wasn’t around anymore, and was never coming back.

Sam wants to tell you that he’s missed you, and that there hasn’t been a day he hasn’t thought of you.

He wonders what you would say. He wonders if you'd sound the same, and he’d be able to tell, ‘cause of how often he plays your old voicemails over when he misses you. He remembers just how you would sound when you were laughing and remembers precisely how much slower you would speak when you were upset.

You don’t extend your hand for him to shake, and Sam’s left to wonder if your hands would still feel the same in his.

And when he meets your eyes, he reads the hurt written all over your features. Hurt that he put there. Hurt that’s probably healed over in the last four years, leaving a nice long scar he’s sliced open again just now.

You nod at him. “It’s nice to meet you, Sam.”

He digs his fingers into his palms. “It’s nice to meet you too.”

notes: the party ended four years ago and she JUST GOT HERE!!!! LMAO ive been infected with the sam winchester virus but who can blame me look at his face

[chxrrywines]

₊˚⊹♡ assistance | sam winchester x reader

a/n - not for kinktober just a fic i wanted to get out!! i’m unsure whether i like the dialogue on this im sorry if it sucks i feel i can never write dirty talk right *sobs* but i really hope you enjoy!!! <3

cws - fem!reader, 2k, nsfw 18+, phone sex, mutual masturbation, kind of softdom!sam, long distance, fluff, comfort, kinda unedited

other fics can be found on my masterlist

˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗

It was later than he’d liked by the time he finally got back to the motel. With muscles that ached from the day’s strain, brain fogged from how tired he was, Sam honestly just wanted to call his girlfriend and talk to her until he fell asleep.

He’d meant to text her a couple of hours prior to let her know the hunt was dragging on longer than expected, but his phone had fucking died when he and Dean were two hours into their trek into the woods to find the pack of werewolves they were hunting, and he’d been pretty miserable ever since.

Dean had disappeared off to the nearest bar after dropping Sam off at their room so he thankfully had the place to himself to mope around as he plugged his phone into the charger and showered whilst he waited for it to get some power. The shitty water pressure and barely lukewarm water did nothing for his aching back, so he was even more agitated by the time he got himself settled onto the uncomfortable mattress twenty minutes later, hair wet and skin still damp beneath his clothes with his eagerness to call her.

As much as he hated being away from her for so long, and too often, it was the safest thing to do. Sam wouldn't be able to forgive himself if something happened to her because she was too close to his shit. He still had dreams about Jess, about how that was all his fault. He couldn’t let it happen again.

His phone hadn’t even reached twenty percent but he was impatient and shuffled over to the edge of the bed so the phone cord would reach and held the phone to his ear as he called her, propped himself up against the headboard.

The phone didn’t even ring twice before she answered.

“Sam?”

“Hey, baby.” The words came out in an exhale, most of the tension left him just at the sound of her voice, the ache seeping out of his bones like a relief. It was what kept him sane whenever he was away. Her picture in his wallet, her hair tie on his wrist, her voice in his ear.

“Hi, Sammy. Got worried when you didn’t call on time.”

He winced at the thought. She worried for him, of course she did. Sam understood how horrible it must have felt for her, knowing what he was going off to do. He could only imagine the dread that must’ve curled inside of her whenever he was late calling. Too many things had happened in the past, too many things could still go wrong.

“Sorry, my phone died when we were still out, didn’t get back until way later than I thought,” he groaned, sank down the headboard a little to stretch out on the bed. The agitation still hadn’t quite left him, the stiffness in his muscles prominent. He wanted nothing more than to curl up with her in his arms and he couldn’t have it. “Miss you, honey.”

He could hear the smile in her voice as she responded, “Missed you more. Wish you were here, it’s cold at night without you in bed too.”

He snorted a quiet laugh. “That’s why you miss me?”

“Mhm,” she giggled, though her voice turned a little coy as she murmured, “among other reasons.”

“Yeah?” An automatic smile was curling at his mouth.

Another little giggle through the receiver. He didn’t even need to see her to know that she had that little bashful smile on her face. He also knew exactly what was on her mind, it was on his too.

It wasn’t the first time they’d have done this. He was on the road so often that their sex life wasn’t as amazing as it could have been, and it wasn’t like he didn’t pleasure himself when he was away on hunts anyways.

There had been many many evenings he’d spent in the shower, hot water rolling down his back as he had one hand pressed to the tiled wall whilst the other pumped his cock until his cum was washed down the drain along with his shampoo bubbles. It wasn’t ideal — bottom lip tucked between his teeth to stifle the heaving breaths and quiet groans, trying to get off as fast as he could before the hot water could run out or Dean could get back to the room. It was even worse when it became a result of having her on the phone. There had been many occasions where her soft voice and giggles in his ear had been enough to get him hard, on nights when he was really missing her and it had just been too long since he’d kissed her.

It turned out she did the same as him. Though when Sam pictured it, it was a lot more graceful than his time in the shower. Laid out all pretty on their bed, legs spread, fingers wet with her own arousal as her head tipped back against the pillows. Sometimes if he got a little selfish he pictured her voice all whimpery saying his name as she came, but he couldn’t get lost in that daydream often, or he’d get hard over that, too.

“Miss you,” she breathed again, and the shift in her tone was palpable. “I… I tried touching myself earlier but I couldn’t cum without you on the phone.”

The groan that left him was automatic and his cock throbbed, hardening beneath the material of his boxers. The idea that she couldn’t even get off without his voice in her ear did wonders for him, it was a wonder his ego wasn’t too big already.

“You need my help, honey?” He crooned into the phone, settled into the tone of voice he knew she liked to hear, the voice he used more often than not when he was whispering in her ear, hips slotted between her thighs, rolling in a rhythm that left her whiney and panting.

Her soft little “mhm” was enough for him to move his other hand down and palm himself, hissing in a breath through his teeth.

“Go ahead and lay down for me, pretty girl. Wanna tell me what you’re wearing?”

There was the rustling of sheets over the phone before her voice spoke up again, “Just one of your shirts.”

Another groan. “You trying to kill me, baby?”

She giggled and his cock twitched beneath his palm. Jesus Christ he needed to get back to her, he needed her in person, to sate the need that wouldn’t be doused thoroughly enough over the phone.

“Go ahead and spread your legs for me, sweetheart,” he breathed, palming his cock again as he spoke, eyes squeezing shut as his head knocked back against the headboard. “Did you get yourself all worked up earlier, hm? Are you all soaked already?”

There was another hum, though he could hear the way her breathing had deepened, deep and heavy in his ear. He could picture the tickle of her breath on his face, the shape of her lips, the taste of her mouth after she’d just brushed her teeth. He needed her.

“Why don’t you start touching yourself for me?” He murmured, voice low with his arousal. Her resounding moan was enough for his cock to throb again and his hand finally dipped beneath his waistband, freeing himself with a quiet groan.

“Are you touching yourself too?” She whimpered, and it was a miracle he didn’t just cum there and then.

“Yeah,” his hand lifted and he tipped his head down to spit into his palm, groaning softly the next time he pumped his cock. “Yeah I am, dolly. Your pretty voice got me all worked up— fuck.” He breathed out the word between his teeth. He was already leaking pre-cum, thumbing over the head of his cock in a move that made him shudder, though it felt nice when she did it. Stroked his cock with her pretty hands, her pretty lips that wrapped around his head when she was on her knees for him, licking along the length of his dick in a way that always made him weak in the knees.

She moaned again and his hips jerked, rutting into his hand with a filthy groan. “How’re you feeling, honey?”

She whimpered, and Sam felt another dribble of pre-cum slide down the length of his cock. “Good— mm, good, j’st—” she took in a shaky breath, “feels better when it’s you, baby.”

“Oh yeah?” He grunted, pumping his cock just a little faster. “Why’s that, dolly?”

“Bigger hands,” she breathed. “longer fingers.”

Sam moaned, the idea of his fingers nestled deep in her wet heat enough for his cock to throb in his hand, and he knew he wouldn’t last long. But from the sounds of her pretty little whimpers, neither would she. “Can’t fill that pretty pussy up as nice as I can, hm?” He took in a shuddering breath. “Play with your clit for me, sweetheart.”

He could hear the moment she did, the sharp inhale, the whimpery moan, the rustling of the sheets as she, undoubtedly, spread her legs wider. “Oh god, Sammy—”

“Are you close, sweetheart?”

All he got in response was a high-pitched “uh-huh.”

“That’s it— shit, that’s it, baby,” he panted, pumping his cock faster, moaning softly as his head arched back. “Go on, dolly, make some pretty sounds for me as you cum, won’t you? M’gonna cum just thinking about you making such a mess of yourself, c’mon, baby—” he was practically begging between sharp breaths.

It only took a moment before he heard her sharp inhale and the whine that followed, and all it took was a few more quick ruts into his hand and the sounds of her before he groaned her name, toes curled and eyelids scrunched as he came. He could feel the evidence of his orgasm dribbling down his cock and his fingers as he shucked a few more times, hissing through his teeth as he finally stopped.

“Oh sweetheart,” he breathed, panting, not unlike her heavy breaths into the phone. “You sounded so fucking pretty, honey. That feel good for you?”

She took a shuddery breath and hummed again. “Yeah, thanks baby.”

Sam couldn’t help the breathy chuckle. “Don’t need to thank me,” he murmured. “M’always gonna take care of my girl, even if I’m not there. You made quite a mess of me, too.”

She breathed a laugh, and a moment passed of just their shared breathing as they both calmed down. Sam’s cock had softened completely against his abdomen, and he’d have to change his clothes and have another shower, but fuck was it worth it.

“I’ll be on my way back to you tomorrow,” he promised once his breathing had mostly evened out. “Should be with you before dinner, then you get me all to yourself.”

She yawned into the phone before mumbling, “Good, want you back to me as soon as possible.”

The sound of her so sleepy just left him so soft. “I promise I will be,” he breathed. “Why don’t you get some sleep, okay honey? I’ll call you in the morning when we’re on the road.”

“Okay,” her voice had completely softened, coated in a sickly-sweet fondness that left him putty in her hands. “I love you. Get back to me safe, okay?”

“I always do,” Sam smiled. “I love you too. Night, gorgeous.”

She yawned her own goodbye before the line went dead, and he let the phone drop back down onto the mattress with a heavy breath.

Just one more day, then he could have her in person, help her in all the ways he wanted to on the phone.

[doll2kiss]

Idk if your rqs are open rn BUTTTT since I'm not sure when will you make some more alpha! Sam and buni reader? Lwk thoughts on that is maybe some sub alpha Sam..?

⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀𝒶𝑙𝑝ℎ𝑎.ᐟ𝓈𝑎𝑚 ⠀ 𝐠𝐞𝐭ting 𝒑𝒖𝒏ished by 𝒷𝐮𝐧𝐧𝐲.ᐟ𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫⠀ ノ ⠀⠀ includes, ⠀⠀ fem!reader ... ⠀⠀ alpha boyffie!sam ...⠀⠀ suggestive content ...⠀⠀ overstimulation ...⠀⠀ sub!sam winchester ...⠀⠀ edging as a punishment.

ℰ𝐷𝐺𝐼𝑁𝐺 𝐀𝐋𝐏𝐇𝐀.ᐟ 𝐒𝐀𝐌 after he touched himself without you being there was absolutely one of his worst punishments.

he felt sorry.

he was truly ashamed of having to jerk off to the scent of your pillow instead of your wet pussy. he hated himself for even imagining the possibility of doing anything remotely erotic without you by his side.

your hand was gripping his dripping cock, pumping it gently but enough to make him a bundle of muffled moans. sam rarely let you take control; he knew every weak spot on your body, but it still didn't compare to the feeling of having you ordering him to be quiet, to not move so much—he was so lost in the pleasure that he didn't care about losing his role as the protective alpha boyfriend just to please you.

"is doing it on your own better than this? if only you could see yourself, this is the third time you've tried to come and you still can't do it right," you murmured under your breath, letting a string of saliva fall from your lips until it landed on the head of his cock. "what a pity, sammy."

horny, needy, achy. he keeps hiccuping trying to answer. " bunny—fuck, baby please. i've—oh f-fuck, m'gonna!"

"you've to earn it, after all you're an alpha.." you whispered near his ear, biting the lobe swiftly. "m'sure you can handle a bit of pain, don't you?"

you brought your mouth close to his glans, tracing its outline with the tip of your tongue—feeling the distinctive taste of his essence overflow to its base.

it was so sweet; whenever you let him fuck your mouth, you eagerly awaited his cum inside you just to have that slightly sweet and bitter taste on your taste buds.

"bunny, please—" sam babbles out, spit drooling down his chin as he looks down at you.

even so, you ignored him. instead, you removed your hand from his cock and replaced it with your mouth.

you took his entire length in one swift motion, feeling his balls slap against your chin. your mouth felt so hot around him that his cries became even more frequent.

sam whimpered constanly, throwing his head back; your name kept escaping his voice, uttered with a thread of desperation.

with a slight nod from your head, it was the perfect signal for him to grab your hair with his fists and release all his semen, making you choke as it dripped down your lips and stained the sheets. he didn't want you to let go of his cock; he wanted to fill you, he needed to keep feeling the warmth of your small mouth around him.

sam hated punishments like this, he hated them so much.

so when he saw you release his cock from your mouth and undress, still with traces of him on the side of your face, his mission became to fill you with his seed, no matter what.

[fatallyfixated]

Little Brother

Dean Winchester x Reader (gn reader, no use of y/n)

Word Count: 2.4k

Summary: Sam gets hit with a de-aging spell and you get to watch Dean truly take on the role of big brother again.

A/N: Inspired by this fanart by @beybuniki! Lowkey wanna write some more random Dean & de-aged Sam now bc the possibilities are endless...

The witch is cornered and she knows it. You finish fighting off her sister while Sam and Dean slowly close in on the older one. They took at least three people, and used some twisted witchy spell to make them age rapidly, die, and decay, to use their bones for their "work."

"The fresher, the better," they explained. That was enough for you and Dean to decide they couldn't be allowed to go on. Sam on the other hand, tried to reason with them, but as diplomatic as he is, it wasn't enough.

The younger one goes limp after you land a well placed kick to her head. You turn to see Dean aiming his gun at the other one, and Sam standing closer to her with his arms stretched out as she nervously kneads a hex bag in one hand.

"It doesn't have to be like this," Sam says calmly to the witch.

"Move, Sam." Dean's stubborn. His jaw is set. His hands are steady. He's clearly already made up his mind.

Sam ignores his brother as he keeps talking to the witch. "You care about her, right? Your sister."

The witch's gaze flickers to her sister, unconscious behind you. "I've always taken care of her…"

"So do the right thing," Sam urges. "This—" he motions around the room. "This isn't right and you know it… And there will always be people like us to stop it. You know that."

"You kiddin' me? You waitin' for her to just pinky promise they'll stop and be on their merry way?" Dean's voice is stern, never taking his eyes off of the witch.

"Dean, just—"

"No, Sam."

You see the witch's eyes dart to the three of you, to her sister, and it's clear she knows Dean won't concede. She's starting to panic.

Just then, you jump as you feel her sister's grip close around your leg. Dean's attention shifts to you. He shoots her, and he turns back to Sam as he sees movement in the corner of his eye. The witch reaches out to grab Sam, and squeezes the hex bag in her hand. There's a bright flash and she mutters something under her breath. The bag goes up in flames just before Dean fires off another shot and hits her square in the chest. He walks over and shoots her once more in the head just for good measure.

He clenches his jaw as he looks down at her. Despite the whispers, the rumors others may spread, he doesn't enjoy this part of the job. "I'm sorry, Sammy… This was only gonna end one—"

"Dean…" You cut him off and he turns to face you. You say nothing, not even looking at him. Your eyes are fixed on the small child sitting where Sam stood just moments before.

Dean's hands drop to his sides. "What the hell…"

* * *

Back at the bunker, you both stand in front of the couch where a five year old Sam sits looking up at you.

"What… uh… wh— were do we even start?" You say to Dean as you look at Sam. He looks even smaller, being swallowed by his earlier clothes.

"Well he can't stay like this."

"No shit, Dean."

He just shrugs.

Sam chuckles. "That was dumb."

Dean pushes his head back lightly. "Shut up."

"Don't tell him to shut up, he's like four!" you defend Sam.

"Probably like five or six actually," Dean corrects you. His eyes are noticeable softer than usual as he looks at his younger brother, once again truly his little brother.

You look at him and smile softly at the fact that he seemingly remembers so clearly what Sam looked like at each age. You look back at Sam and sigh. "Okay, well you've been through this before, right?" You ask Dean. "How'd you go back to… you?"

"The hex bag!" Sam says excitedly. It feels weird hearing those words come from such an innocent voice.

"The witch's hex bag. I just— I dunno, squeezed it and I was back. But the bitch from today burned it before I shot her."

"Okay, so… We research. Try to reverse engineer the spell," you say, knowing damn well it's much easier said than done.

"How are we gonna do that without him? He's the one with his nose in a book all the time."

You look down at little Sam. "You're not gonna be much help, are you?"

He looks up at you and shakes his head, smiling.

You sigh."Well first of all, he can't just stay in these clothes, and we can't take him out like this so… Just— stay here, get started on the spell, and I'll see what I can find."

"Oh sure, go shopping while I do all the work."

"Dean…"

He raises his hands in defense. "Fine, fine… I'll call Rowena, see if she knows anything about this."

"Okay. Good." You turn and grab the keys, but pause briefly and turn back to the two of them. "You two gonna be alright here?"

"You kiddin' me? I took care of this kid when I was ten." He ruffles Sam's hair and puts a hand on his shoulder.

You hesitantly turn back and leave.

* * *

 Just over an hour later, you return with a few different outfits. You hope you'll be able to return Sam back to normal soon, but it's best to have options just in case. You also grab some food on your way. You drop the greasy bag on the table and start to call out.

"Hey, I'm ba—" You're cut off by the unmistakable sound of a very frustrated Dean.

"Sam, give it back!"

"No! You don't know what you're doing!" Sam's bright voice fills the halls of the bunker.

"Oh, and you do? You look like you could still be in diapers."

Sam laughs. "That'd suck for you."

You turn the corner to find them in the library, Dean sitting across from his little brother, arm stretched across the table, reaching for his laptop. Sam holds it against his chest, laughing at his brother's frustration.

"I don't know what's goin' on." Dean sits back and crosses his arms. "When I got hexed, I was still me. He's acting like a child."

"You're acting like a child," Sam retorts mockingly.

Dean holds out a hand towards him and looks at you. "See?"

You chuckle. "Different variation of the spell, I guess. And honestly? Not much has changed between you two."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

You shake your head. "Nothing." You turn to Sam and crouch down to his level. "Brought some clothes and some food. Go get changed and eat up."

Sam gets up and walks out, leaving Dean's laptop on the table before taking the clothes from your arms. He nearly trips over his own oversized pant legs on his way out.

"Damn kid," Dean mutters to himself.

* * *

The three of you eat, burgers and fries, of course, and milkshakes for everyone.

Sam takes an exaggerated bite and gets mustard on his cheeks. Without saying a word, Dean reaches over, grabs his napkin, and wipes his face. You smile softly, but keep your thoughts to yourself for now. Sam sets his burger down to take a sip of his shake, but seems to forget all about the food as soon as the sweet chocolate flavor hits his tongue. He starts guzzling it down as if it's gonna disappear if he doesn't drink it fast enough. Dean sees it and rolls his eyes before reaching over and taking it from his hands.

He takes the milkshake and puts it on the other side of the table. "Eat your food, then you can have at it. You're gonna give yourself a brain freeze."

"Hey!" Sam protests. "I am not, give it back!"

"Eat." Dean repeats sternly.

Sam whines your name and looks to you for help.

You look from Sam, to Dean, and back. "Oh, no." You shake your head. "That's all you, kid."

Sam grumbles but picks up his burger again and keeps eating. As soon as he's done, Dean slides the milkshake back to him as promised.

* * *

After eating, Sam goes to his room to watch tv, while you and Dean make your way to the 'Dean Cave'. He hangs up the phone and sighs as he drops down onto the couch. "Rowena said she's working on how to reverse the spell, but with the witch being dead and all, it could take a few days. Hasn't even been twenty-four hours and I feel like I'm goin' grey already. I don't know how the hell I did it back then."

You chuckle as you walk over to him. He looks up at you and places a hand on your hip as you stand between his legs, running a hand through his hair. "I know it's a pretty serious hex, but it's kinda… cute."

"Cute?"

You shrug. "Seeing you be a big brother. You're good with him."

"Yeah, well," Dean says softly. "Kinda had to be."

Your own expression softens as the words sink in. He's right. Some people are naturally good with kids. Some have to constantly work at it. But Dean was forced to be the best big brother possible, often having to go beyond what should be expected of any kid, and play both mother and father too. You'd hate to think how Sam would have turned out if Dean hadn't been the brother he was. The brother he still is.

You sit sideways across his lap, resting your head on his shoulder, and wrap an arm loosely around his neck. "You're a good brother," you say quietly. You're sure it's been years since Dean heard that, if he ever had, and he deserves to hear it.

"Ah," Dean shrugs. "He was never a bad kid."

You pick your head up. He isn't giving himself the credit he deserves and you won't let him get away with it, because he doesn't just deserve to hear how good he is with Sam, how important he was to him as a kid— he deserves to believe it too.

"Hey," you turn his jaw towards you. "Good or not, you were a kid too. It takes a lot to do what you did. I sure as hell couldn't do it."

"You kiddin' me? You deal with my stubborn ass every day, you'd be great with a kid…"

You raise your eyebrows. He hardly ever talks about hypotheticals like that, and that was one that you definitely weren't ready for. "Oh we are not touching that conversation with a ten foot pole."

He chuckles as he brings his lips to yours. "Agreed."

You hold his jaw as he kisses you, feeling the curve of his smile against your lips. You sit up a bit and one of his hands shift from your waist to your thigh. You let out a soft hum and feel his grip tighten just a bit.

"Gross! My little eyes don't need to see that!" Sam's voice cuts through the moment.

Dean groans as he lets his head fall back against the back of the couch. "Dammit, Sammy! What do you want?"

Sam shrugs. "I'm bored." He walks further into the room until he's right beside you and Dean. "I wanna watch a movie."

"I thought you were watching a movie."

"I wanna watch a movie with you," he says to the both of you as he sits on the couch beside Dean.

You slide off of Dean's lap and onto the empty spot on his other side. Dean rejects the idea immediately.

"Absolutely not. I'm not watchin' some lame… Paw Patrol… kiddy… crap."

You and Sam both look at Dean, mouths slightly agape. Paw Patrol…?

"What? I'm allowed to know things."

Neither of you move. Dean rolls his eyes.

"Whatever, point is, we're not—"

"Scooby-Doo!" Sam blurts out. "What about Scooby-Doo? Come on, Dean, you love those movies!"

You can practically see the internal battle going on in Dean's head. He doesn't want to give in, but he knows damn well Sam is right.

He huffs. "Fine. But I get to pick which one."

Sam gets up and grabs the remote, gives it to Dean, and the three of you settle in to watch Scooby-Doo and the Ghoul School. But after the day he's had, Sam passes out around three quarters of the way through the movie. He shifts closer to Dean in his sleep, resting his head on his shoulder and draping an arm over him. Dean moves without taking his eyes off the screen, like it's still second nature, and lifts his arm up and around Sam, allowing him to get more comfortable. You make a mental note to have more movie nights in the future, because even if it isn't quite like this, the three of you deserve more quiet moments in the midst of never-ending chaos.

* * *

A few more days pass with Sam being stuck as he is, but it isn't too much of an issue. Things in the bunker are the way they usually are, for the most part. It takes until now for you to realize just how much bickering Sam and Dean do on a regular basis, because the few times you walk in to find Dean arguing with his five year old brother, the only difference that truly stands out is the height difference. You step in once when Dean takes Sam's tooth brush and holds it in the air where he can't reach it.

"Come on, it's been decades since I've had the reach on him," is all he says to defend himself.

You give him a stern look and he concedes, but not without ruffling Sam's hair first before walking away.

When Rowena finally does come through with the reversal spell, Dean seems almost hesitant to get on with it. Messing with Sam is fun, sure, but seeing him like that also takes him back to when times were… simpler. Not easy, by any means, but they weren't constantly on the verge of the end of the world.

When Sam is back to normal, you catch Dean's eyes lingering on him every now and then. Just as the softest look starts to come over his face, Sam will catch him, and he'll turn elsewhere. Sam always seems confused by it, but whenever you catch it, you know exactly what's going through Dean's head. He's seeing the same thing he always sees when he looks at Sam, only now it's a bit more fresh in his mind. He sees his little brother.

Feel free to give me the most random, unhinged fic ideas in my asks, because I always have so much motivation to write but coming up with concepts is so hard right now...

[thesundontshineontheseeyebrows]

𓍯𓂃 you should see the things we do in my dreams || sam winchester x fem!reader 𓍯𓂃

➶ warnings: pining, forced proximity/one bed trope, sexsomnia, friends to ???, grinding, oral sex (f receiving), munch!sam, is this exhibitionism?

➶ summary: sam is harbouring a bit more than a major crush on you, and tonight you might just let him show you how important you really are to him.

➶ word count: how long is a piece of string? 5.1k words apparently...

quick note: inspired by one of my fav fics ever by @sorryitsmyfirstdayonearth (please go read it and their other work!!!) - genuinely think about it daily… (☞ ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)☞ read part two here (☞ ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)☞ read part three here

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Road tripping is simultaneously your favourite and least favourite thing to do with the Winchester brothers. 

When a hunt takes you far away from the bunker - where there’s nothing but forest after forest or field after field, town after town, and stateline after stateline - you feel most at home when you’re on the road in the four walls of that sleek and purring black metal machine that etches memories onto your body like you’re a vinyl record. Blaring rock ’n’ roll music (and the occasional pop tune, but Dean will deny it despite him tapping along on the steering wheel) down the highway, bickering on acceptable answers for a game of ‘I spy’, and a never-ending mixture of sweet and savoury treats keeps the three of you going for hours. Sometimes, you’d wish the hunt would never end. The sleeping arrangements, on the other hand, sometimes make you wish that God would come down and smite you himself.

If you’re lucky enough, the three of you secure two separate hotel rooms where everyone gets their own bed to sprawl out in. 

On those other days where you’re not so lucky, though, the sight of only one set of keys dangling in Sam’s hand and his tight-mouthed look as he leaves the reception makes you and Dean both groan and roll your eyes.

In this event, the brothers would both insist that a lady “even one as rough as yourself” was never to take the floor and had to take one of the two beds, while they rock-paper-scissored each other on who took the couch (if that was even an option). Dean usually drew the short straw…

Although you appreciated the comfort and warmth of a bed regardless of the groaning noises the old mattresses would make under the tiniest amount of weight, or how musty and thin the bedspread was, the squabbling and sardonic chivalrousness of the brothers really started to grind your gears. After a couple months of this set-up, and a few sore backs later, your frustration peaked and you snapped at how ridiculous and stubborn they were being. 

Now, a single-motel-room-stay means you rotate between who you share one of the two beds with because you’re smaller than the two 6-foot giants to hunt with, and the easiest to sleep next to. Lucky you.

A road trip hunt with a Dean-bedshare means headphones or heavy sleeping pills are a must - that man snores like his life depends on it. Whilst you’ll never be cold in a bed with that human radiator, he does also love to starfish, which means space is a bit of luxury.  

Sam gets nervous when it’s his nights. 

He knows this sleeping arrangement is less than optimal for you, especially when you’re with Sam because he’s just so big, and you’re just putting up with it because you care about both of them, but that doesn’t mean he won’t make sure you’re as comfortable as you can possibly be.

When he knows it’s his rotation, Sam replicates the bed positioning in your room at the bunker by pushing the motel bed into the corner of the room furthest away from the door so that you can be against the wall, where you feel safest. A present (read: security blanket) from being a hunter for so many years. 

So after Baby pulls into this cross-country hunt’s motel carpark just before midnight, a late spring heat still simmering in the air, and Sam returns with only a single set of keys, he knows this week is going to be difficult - it’s his turn with you. 

Sam’s had a crush on you from the moment you fired a shotgun shell filled with salt past his head at a particularly nasty demon who had him in a chokehold one squeeze away from death. But he’s loved you since the night you cried into his shoulder after you’d lost an entire family to a Wendigo eight months ago. He’d rubbed your back in soothing circles to calm you down, burying his nose into your hair and whispering it’s okay repeatedly. He could never turn back from that night. 

The ceiling fan whirs quietly above, the wind current soft in the room. Sam is stripped down into a white singlet and black sleep shorts on the bed’s left side, the top sheet covering his legs as he lies with his back propped up by a pillow against the motel wall. The bedside table lamp to Sam’s left colours his body in a faint yellow and orange so that he can read while he waits for you.

He’s moved the bed already, now tucked under a large window where silvery clouds glow outside in the sky. 

He tries to act nonchalant when you open the bathroom door and step out into the shared room, a light baggy shirt sitting half-off your shoulder that finishes just above where your sleep shorts end. He tries not to gawk at your exposed thighs, hunching his shoulders and dipping his head down to stare at the book in his hands to distract himself. 

The bottom of the bed dips on its right side by the wall as you sit to watch the crappy soap opera on the TV. Sam slightly lowers his book to peek at you as you mindlessly plait your hair at the edge of the bed. He admires how soft you look. If he had the guts, he’d crawl behind you, kiss your shoulder, and do your hair himself. He’s watched you enough times to know how to do it, but most importantly, how you like it done.

Dean’s already called it a night. His snores not quite drowned out by the TV.

“Do you want me to keep the TV on?”, you call to Sam as you tie off your plait, still facing the TV. “Uh, no,” he replies softly, “not unless you need it to fall asleep?” “No, I’ll be okay.” You half turn your body to smile at him, before putting out your hand for Sam to pass you the remote. His heart stammers as you make eye contact. Sam’s noticed you only really have the TV on during the night when you’re sharing a bed with Dean. He’s not quite sure what that means, yet.

He rests his book on his lap to grab the remote and leans forward to hand it to you. He thinks about spreading his fingers across the remote so that your fingers graze his as you take it, but decides against this. The TV clicks off.

Sam watches as you climb up the bed and pulls the sheet back for you to hop under. Although you make him nervous, he wishes he could do this every night.

You settle in the bed - Sam bookmarking his current page and placing it on the bedside table before turning the lamp off. He shuffles down the bed and rolls onto his right shoulder so that he’s facing you at eye level. 

You both stare at each other, silently and serenely. Your face is laying against your pillow, the top of your right hand resting in your left palm just under your jaw. Moonlight caresses the right side of your body and Sam thinks you’re glowing; angelic. He worries you’ll hear his heart beat thundering in his chest if you listen into the mattress carefully enough. 

A couple inches separate your bodies - perhaps three-hands-wide. It’s an acceptable amount of space for two close friends, but that boundary could easily and quickly be crossed. A small shift forward by your hands, your legs, or your face is all it would take. 

A particularly loud snore leaves Dean’s chest, making both of you quietly giggle.

“God, he’s so loud”, Sam groans. “I know. I think he could take on a lawn mower with that snore”, you chuckle. “Maybe even a Boeing 747.” You snort at that. Sam’s heart leaps at making you laugh.

You both chat for a bit about the day, as well as life in general - a key element to your routine when sharing a bed with Sam. Every feature of your face is lit so sweetly. He can see how your nose scrunches and your eyelashes flutter when you passionately talk about something you like. Sam knows that when you fall asleep later, he’ll sneakily admire your face in its unguarded state, with the soft beautiful noises that fall from your lips when you’re deep in sleep. He thinks that might be his favourite view.

“Goodnight, Sammy.” You smile softly at him.

Sam returns your comment, his voice dropping to a whisper as he says your name.

You nestle in the bed to get yourself comfortable for sleep, before closing your eyes. A small sigh leaves your nose. 

Sam looks down at the blanketed curve of your waist. It moves gently with the rise and fall of your quiet breaths. You were so close to him that he could reach out and touch you if he wanted to. He really wanted to.

With his index finger, Sam traces the dips of your body along the mattress in the small space between you both. His eyes close briefly as he imagines how you’d feel against his fingertips. He does sort of know how it would feel, though - he’s grabbed your arm and your waist when you’ve slipped in front of him; he’s held your hand when he’s pulled you up onto a wall you’re too short to climb; and he’s felt you shoulder to shoulder and back to chest when hiding from some monster hunting you. Sam just wishes he could touch you in a way other than a friend does… Like a lover would…

His eyes drift open and they return to your face. When they reach your eyes, he realises you’re staring right back at him. He freezes. 

“Hi,” you whisper sweetly, shifting your head a little, “can’t sleep?”

Sam’s not sure how to react. He’s like a deer caught in the headlights. How long have you been awake? Did you notice him looking at you? Could you see that it was a look of more than a friend? Of someone who longed badly to reach out and touch you? 

He shakes his head timidly against his pillow at your question. Sam is suddenly aware of the heat from your body. He himself feels like a nuclear bomb about to self-destruct. “I think it’s the heat.”

You hum. “I’d offer to turn up the fan, but I think it only has one speed.”

There’s a beat of silence. “How about we take the sheet off, Sammy?” The way you say his name makes his stomach flip. He doesn’t have time to react as you sit up on your left arm and lean over him to rip the sheet off, your breasts pressing briefly across his chest. Sam’s nostrils flare and he takes a big swallow, his throat bobbing noticeably. He tries to stifle a groan and not think about it. 

When you lie back down, you’re closer to Sam than before. Maybe one-and-a-half-hands-wide separate you now. “That better?”, you ask. “Yeah,” he breathes. God, you’re so close to him. He can smell the faint remains of your perfume from the day. It sends a rush through his body and warms his chest. 

Sam notices your eyes glide over his face, stopping for a moment on his lips. A gentle smile appears on your face, then your eyes return to his. Sam feels his cheeks redden, his breathing quickening and lips parting. He can’t tell if he wants you to keep looking at him like that or if he wants to bury his face in the sheets. 

You shuffle a few centimetres closer, your lips also parting. Your eyes are locked with his. “Good.”You reach out and squeeze his left bicep. He tenses, waiting for your soft, warm hand to return to your side. But it doesn’t. It just sits there on his skin. His eyes snap down to look at your small hand on him. He takes a shallow, shaky breath and looks back at you. He swears he sees a glint in your eyes, something with a suffocating heat simmering behind it, that is asking him to touch you. He tries to pass it off as a trick of the moonlight, but then your hand starts to rub tenderly up and down his arm. You’ve never touched him like this before. It’s simultaneously calming yet maddening. It ignites the nerves under his skin with each slide. 

You both sit in silence for a minute. But Sam’s mind is racing. Is this really happening? He hears your breathing speed up. Do you actually want me the way I want you? Your hand pauses on his arm. Keep touching me. He sees you looking at your hand, beginning to move it back to your side. No. Don’t take your hand away, please.

Sam swallows again, thinks fuck it, and finally gets the courage to touch you. He tries to be slow and tender, but he moves too fast, grabbing your wrist hanging midair between your bodies. It makes you take a sharp inhale at the sudden contact.

He goes to speak, but words fail him. Jesus, fuck. He blinks a little stupidly, adjusting his grip to be softer, then slides his hand up your arm to your elbow. He briefly stops, inhales, then moves his hand to rest down on your waist. 

He’ll hit his head against a wall if he lets this moment pass. 

Sam’s hand falls on the band of your sleep shorts, a small section of your skin is exposed where your shirt has ridden up. He echoes your movements on his arm ever so slowly. You let out a small sigh. Or was it a little moan? His hand flexes. 

Your legs move first, finding his knees to press yours against; followed by your hips, so close that he knows a roll of yours or his hips would cross that boundary of friendship forever; your chest, maybe a finger apart; and then your face.  

You tilt your head up slightly, your nose brushing his. Your lips are so close to his that your next breath out ghosts his mouth. He can smell your toothpaste, now. A growing heat blooms in his groin. 

That beat of silence returns, but this time it’s different. It’s heavier. Sam’s ears burn - a mixture of love, need, admiration, and hunger. Another beat passes. The low whirring of the ceiling fan blows the electric current running between both of you.

You lift your hand to cup the left side of Sam’s face. Your thumb strokes once against his jaw. His eyelids flutter. Sam’s fighting the urge so hard to not just grab your hair and smash your face into his. 

“I dream about you touching me, Sammy”. The words fall so effortlessly from your mouth Sam thinks he misheard you. Then you lean in.

A very quiet whimper escapes his throat as your lips carefully meet his. It’s warm, sweet, fearful, relieving. 

Fuck.

Sam can feel you humming faintly against his lips. Fuck fuck. 

Your fingers, stilled on his face, slide to the back of his head to bury themselves in his soft brown hair. At first, they curl gently, tenderly rubbing his head. Then you tug - not hard - just enough to bring him in deeper to the kiss, to tell him you want more. Sam’s eyes roll to the back of his head. 

“Sammy,” you breathe against his lips, eyes hooded. His hand on your waist is heavier. His touch turns to a grip. He can feel the goosebumps rising on your skin.

The gap between your bodies closes as you roll your hips into him, he groans into your mouth, his brow scrunching. Sam can’t ignore your breasts pressed against his chest, now. And you can’t ignore his thick and hard cock nudging your core. 

Both you and Sam have clearly forgotten about Dean in the next bed over, snoring lightly. Or maybe neither of you care. But who can blame you, you have more pressing matters at hand.

Your hand is still buried in Sam’s hair, tugging more frantically now. Sam’s right arm moves from underneath him to grab the side of your neck, pulling you in impossibly closer. He can feel your pulse thudding in his hand. It’s as quick as his deafening his ears. 

This is it, Sam thinks. Don’t fuck it up.  

Sam’s nerves dissipate for a second as he rolls on top of you. The kiss changes. The sweetness and uncertainty still lingers, but it’s shifting into something more messy, more sure, more desperate. His legs bracket yours; his left pressed firm between your thighs and his right on the outer side of your left. 

Your left hand replaces your right in his hair as you move it to Sam’s shoulder, clutching at his flexing muscles as Sam’s left hand starts kneading the flesh of your waist. His thumb is rubbing deeply into the side of your navel.

He doesn’t ever want to stop touching you.

Both of you are panting into each other’s mouths. Each kiss is searing, your teeth nipping his lips. Your bodies meet with every roll, stroking the fire blazing between you. When Sam delivers a particularly deep grind into your hips and core that makes you gasp, your back arches. He runs his tongue along your bottom lip in the next kiss.

Sam pulls back, just a little, his forehand dropping to yours. Your chests are both heaving. “You are so beautiful.”

It makes you roll your eyes, grinning, “Shut up and keep kissing me.” He smiles and leans back in. 

This is not the time to say “I love you.” He decides to show you, though, by doing the next closest thing to it.

He inhales. “Can I…can I keep going?”, he sheepishly asks against your lips, beginning to slide his left hand down to the side of your hip, pausing, then down to the top of your thigh that’s just covered by your shorts. Your panting fans his face.

“Please.” Your mouth moves down to his neck, biting and leaving hot open-mouthed kisses along his damp skin. “Take whatever you want from me.” His breath stutters, eyes darkening. There’s no uncertainty, now. It’s all primal. 

Sam grabs your jaw with his right hand, pulling you back up into a long, deep, and passionate kiss. Then his mouth begins to trail down your body. 

He feels feverish. You want him. You want him. 

The way you’re laying in front of him, eyes sparkling with dilated pupils, smiling at him like you love him. Could you love him? God, he doesn’t know what to think. Or how to. He just knows what he wants. 

“I want to make you feel good,” he groans your name into your clothed sternum. He hears your breath hitch, breasts rising to bump his face. Mental note: come back here afterwards. 

Sam moves to kneel between your legs and continues kissing down your torso, “I’ve thought about how you’d look under me”, he hums on your right rib set, both hands now positioned at the top of your thighbones gripping the flesh, “how soft you’d be ”, he lifts up a section of your shirt, making your breathing quick and shallow, “how you’d feel against me”, he bites and sucks at this newly exposed spot to the right of your navel, “how you’d sound if I got to touch you like this.” A low moan falls from your mouth, head lulling backwards into the pillow, hips rolling into his face. He huffs, smirking. 

Sam’s face pauses at your lower waist; his nose is sitting against your short’s waistband and his mouth ghosts the middle space below your hips. His jaw clenches, closing his eyes briefly as his breath stutters again. Two thin layers separate him from where he so desperately wants to be. Fuck, he’s wanted to do this to you - for you - for what seems like an eternity. He pushes his forehead down into you slightly to centre himself. Don’t cum yet don’t cum yet. 

You call his name at his lack of movement. It’s so needy. It makes him salivate. 

“Sorry, sweetheart,” he whispers. He’s never called you that. At least not while you’re awake. You don’t seem to tense or flinch, so he thinks it’s okay. He hopes he can call you it again tomorrow.

Sam’s hands slide back up along the outside of your thighs to your waistband, making you shiver. His fingertips rest on your waistband and he looks up at you, dark and hooded eyes boring into yours; he’s giving you one last chance to back out. You smile softly at him and lift your hips eagerly so that he can ease your shorts down.

He swallows, and gently guides your sleep shorts down your hips, then your thighs, your calves, and then your feet. 

Just one thin layer now. 

Sam can already see your arousal soaking through your underwear. Oh fuck. A wrecked groan rumbles in his chest, his hips rolling into the mattress. 

God, the sight of you. Maybe he should just bury his face in your pussy now, underwear still clinging to you, and make you cum like that. He doesn’t want to tease you like that tonight, though. Maybe next time.

His hands, planted on your thigh bones, grip the newfound flesh. You feel just as soft and warm as he had imagined. Goosebumps from your skin prickle under his palm and fingers. His cock twitches against his sleep shorts, and the restriction makes him muffle another groan. 

“Christ,” he purrs, kissing the top left corner of your underwear, “look how wet you are,” he moves to kiss the right side. 

You sigh breathlessly, reaching for Sam’s left hand to caress it, “It’s all for you, Sammy.” He hums in satisfaction at your words. 

Okay, okay, he thinks to himself. Focus, Sam. 

Both hands grab the elastic of your underwear to roll down your body. The scent of your arousal hits him almost instantly and he parts his mouth, panting. His nostrils flare - you smell so sweet. It’s enough to thicken the fire blazing inside him, especially his cock. Drool is pooling in his mouth. 

Sam can hear you above him, whining slightly at the air change near your core. Sounding just as desperate for this as he is. 

He moves both his right index and middle fingers along your mound, mesmerised at the way your body shudders and hips buck at his touch. He pauses just above your clit before shakily running his fingers through your folds, down to your opening. A sharp gasp falls from your mouth and your brows scrunch, back arching away from the mattress.

Fucking hell you feel like heaven itself. The heat and wetness from your folds makes Sam lose awareness of his surroundings for a second. All his senses are focused on you. He feels like he’s on fire; blood pulsing hotly through his veins, each breath rushing through his chest like a dry wind sparking embers.

He pulls his fingers away, eliciting an instinctive whimper from you, your hips lifting off the bed. Sam stares at his fingers, dumbstruck - he was glistening with your arousal in the moon light. He brings his fingers to his lips with a shaky exhale before putting them in his mouth. A low and broken moan escapes his chest as he sucks them, his tongue swirling his fingers, eyes fluttering shut like he was tasting and committing to memory something seraphic. It makes him want to cum right there. 

“I’m gonna make a mess,” Sam moans your name hoarsely, his voice laced with both awe and heated reverence. “You taste so fucking good.”

Your chest is rising and falling rapidly with each second that passes with Sam’s face sitting right by your heat. Your eyes are locked with his, pupils blown wide out. Your mouth is gaping in desperation. He feels feral. Hungry.

Sam guides your legs to sit over his shoulders. Both of you shuffle slightly to get comfortable - he wants you both to be here for a long time. 

His hands move to hold both your thighs so that they rest against his face. He drops his eyes from yours to stare at your core - arousal glistening across your folds and dripping down onto the mattress - and it stirs something possessive in him.

Sam lowers his head to your slit and breathes you in, nose brushing your slick warmth as he exhales a groan so low and guttural it rattles through your bones. 

He’s changed his mind. This was definitely his new favourite view. 

He starts slow, careful - Sam kisses the soft part of the inside of your left thigh, echoing on your right, before the tip of his tongue enters your sweet slit and slides down.

Dear God. The taste and scent of your core floods his mouth and nostrils. Your left hand flies from the side of you to cover your mouth, eyelids fluttering. You both whimper needily at the sensations; you into your hot palm and Sam into your heat.

But when he licks a long wet stripe from the bottom of your folds to your clit so slowly that your hips buck and a pornographic moan shatters from your lungs, Sammy can’t help himself.

You were just so responsive to him. 

He does it again. Slow, thick, dragging. His tongue flattens and moves down and up the length of your folds, collecting everything - spit, slick, and heat. He groans, deep and rough, as he buries his face further into you like he’s starving.

Sam extends his tongue to lap at you, kitten licking and slurping at your slit, encouraging you to give him more of your slick wetness. Your body twitches at every roll of his tongue, every suck of his mouth. Sam’s eyes roll to the back of his head, his brows scrunching and curving in sheer desire, indulgence, and love.

He couldn’t see anything else outside of you. You were fisting the sheets, hips twisting and legs flexing.

“God, yes, Sammy, right there, right there, Sammy, fuck.” You cry quietly, grinding down against his face, “You’re so good, you’re doing so good, Sammy, don’t stop, please don’t stop…”

Sam ruts into the bed like an animal, fucking himself against the mattress. He can feel his rock hard cock pulsing and leaking with precum.

“Keep talking,”he begs weakly, voice muffled against your core, spit and arousal dripping down his chin, “Tell me…tell me how good it feels. I need to know I’m making you feel good, sweetheart, please.”

Fuck he hopes you’ll let him do this again. 

Sam’s tempo increases as his tongue begins circling your clit, lightly sucking it to draw you deeper into his mouth. His nose is pressed firmly into you - he wants to suffocate on you.

Loose curls fall onto Sam’s forehead, dampened by a mixture of his sweat and your sweet arousal coating his face as you grind into him and he buries himself in you. 

Neither of you can stop moaning.

His fingers are gripped hotly and tightly on the flesh of your soft thighs. He means to be gentle but he’s too desperate for you, and he knows there will be purple bruises there in the morning. He’ll kiss them tomorrow to say sorry if you let him.

Sam’s head moves with every roll and turn of your hips so that his mouth stays attached to your clit and folds. Listening to your breathing and feeling how your body moves, he’s learning that you really like when he licks the left side of your folds and rub his nose on your clit. Your mouth falls slack when he does that. 

He kisses sloppily and hungrily up and down your heat, wetness smeared across his face and nose. His tongue slips down to your entrance to work inside you. A sharp, high-pitched moan falls from your lips. If you sound like this when he’s eating you out, he can’t wait to hear you when you cum.

“Sammy, I’m-I’m gonna…“ you breathe out, too flushed from the building pleasure to finish your sentence. He feels your body tense and moans at your movements. You were going to fall apart in front of him. God, he was about to do it. He was about to make you cum. He shoves his face further into your heat. 

“Please, sweetheart,”he growls against you, vibrating through your wetness, “please cum for me.”

Your back arches off the bed, hands fisting Sam’s hair in pure ecstasy. “Sam…” you moan, uncontrollably, body shuddering. You take a loud inhale, mouth wide open and….

A hot wet flush spurts around Sam’s groin, jerking him awake. “Fuck!” He swears quietly to himself. His hips roll once, then still. He’s panting harshly as his eyes fly open. It’s pitch black. He can’t see anything. He pauses for a beat while his eyes adjust to the darkness. He can hear the ceiling fan still whirring above.

Did I just have a fucking wet dream? 

Yes. Yes he did.

Sam groans quietly to himself, scrunching his brow in embarrassment and disappointment in himself.

That was stupid, Sam, stupid, he bullies himself. 

Sam lifts himself onto his forearms, sweat dripping down his body onto the bed. When did I fall asleep? He turns his head to the left towards the window - to you - to see if you were awake, or even there. You are.

He can just see how your lips are parted slightly, nostrils moving lightly as you inhale and exhale soft breaths. You’re still asleep.

Jesus Christ.

The sheet is still covering both of you, but you’re curled towards him in a foetal position. Your right arm is outstretched, hand resting sweetly next to his pillow. It must have been quite close to his face…

Sam carefully slides his right leg out from under the covers and onto the floor first, then his other leg, as he gets out of the bed slowly so he doesn’t disturb you. God knows this would be the absolute worst time for you to wake up and see him like this. 

The moving air current from the fan hits him like a winter’s gale, making him shiver. 

He wobbles past Dean’s bed, who is deep in sleep and (of course) starfished across the mattress. Reaching for the bathroom door, Sam grabs the handle and turns it cautiously to open the door. He flails briefly for the bathroom light switch, finding it, then softly clicks the door shut behind him before turning it on.

Sam leans against the door, back pressed firm against the cold wooden frame and head repeatedly hitting it faintly. 

I am in so much trouble.

┆ ┆ ┆ ┆⋆┆ ┆ ┆ ┆⋆┆ ┆ ┆ ┆⋆┆ ┆ ┆ ┆⋆┆ ┆ ┆ ┆⋆┆ ┆ ┆ ┆

Oh my poor Sammy. Somebody give this man a cuddle. 

If y’all enjoy this, I have plans for a second part, but let me know your thoughts!!

And to the lovely anon in my inbox with the Sam request - if you're reading this, I SEE YOU!! I am writing your request as we speak 💚💚💚

[sorryitsmyfirstdayonearth]

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(Sam Winchester x female reader)

Summary There are only two beds, and Dean isn’t sharing, so you and Sam have to. Let’s hope you can be quiet. CWs There's only one bed. Sam being a gentleman and also a total horndog. Yes, he can be both, that's what's so great about him. Rated 18+. 2.2k words.

Sam Winchester masterlist ⏐ SPN masterlist

Just your luck that after what is the most tiring hunt you’ve been on in a hot minute, the motel you check into has only one room left, and it’s a twin.

Dean makes it clear from second one that he is not willing to share, and the way he stretches out on the bed he claims, plus your knowledge of how the older Winchester brother tends to flail around in his sleep, make you almost happy you get to share with Sam instead. Almost.

Because sharing with Sam is simultaneously the best and the worst thing that could happen to you. Best because you have had an incapacitating crush on him for a good long while now; worst because of exactly the same reason.

Sam grins sheepishly at you when you both stand at the foot of the narrow bed, while Dean is in the next one rubbing himself against his pillow like a cat. You grin back, raise your shoulders. You don’t think you’ll be getting a lot of sleep tonight.

All three of you get ready for bed, and while you’re brushing your teeth, standing in the doorway between bathroom and bedroom, you can’t help but look at Sam. He’s in sweats and a t-shirt, a V-neck that looks downright sinful on him, showing off his thick neck, the muscles in his arms, the dip between his collarbones that you want to press your tongue into, but then you haven’t seen Sam in any clothes that don’t make you swoon.

He’s fluffing up the pillows, that intense concentrated look on his face that he gets doing almost anything, and your heart hurts a little from beating so fast. Eventually you turn around, spit into the sink, wipe your hand over your mouth.

You know you’ll be lying awake for hours, if not the whole night, too terrified you’ll snore or mumble in your sleep, but more than that, you don’t want to sleep, since it would mean missing out on being so gloriously close to glorious Sam. You’ll sleep in the Impala tomorrow. It’ll hurt your neck but you’ve had it worse.

Then it’s time to get into bed. Sam lays on his back, hands crossed over his stomach as he clears his throat. He’s so damn broad-shouldered that he’s already taking up most of the bed, so you carefully lie next to him, one shoulder hanging off the side. It would be fine, but Sam notices immediately.

“I can sleep on the floor,” he suggests, not for the first time tonight. “It’s really no problem.” You shake your head, turn it towards him and he is so close, your upper arms brushing against each other.

“It’s fine, Sam, really,” you reply, but you see the worry in his face. Luckily Dean is there to distract both of you.

“Will you two just go to damn sleep?” he groans from the next bed over and you and Sam both press your lips together, hide your grins at his grumpiness.

Then suddenly Sam moves, rolls on his side. It gives you more room, but he also opted to roll towards you rather than turn his back to you, and when you look at him again, his head on the pillow, his eyes studying you carefully, all of him so there, it makes a whole host of crazed butterflies do the Macarena in your stomach. It makes heat shoot to your core where it sits, almost uncomfortably.

You sigh, and the sigh makes you realize that your breathing is all wonky, out of sync, and when you purposefully try to calm it, it makes it much worse.

“You okay?” Sam asks, frowning. You nod quickly and manage to get yourself under control. Don’t hyperventilate, you tell yourself, hyperventilating is not sexy.

You realize you’re fidgeting a little and then suddenly Sam’s arm is over you, just below your breasts. You swallow and your eyes shoot up to him.

“Are you cold?” he asks, voice low. No, you’re absolutely not. Still, Sam’s arm is already draped over you, it would be downright rude now to say you weren’t. You smile a little, nod.

“Thank you,” you whisper, and Sam smiles as well. And then, because what the hell, you scoot a little closer to him. You catch him take a sharp breath, but he doesn’t say anything. Instead, after a second, his arm wraps tighter around you, holding you there. You’re not sure what to do with your own arm so it’s sort of squished between you two, pressed against Sam’s stupidly shapely pecs.

So that’s how you lie there, suddenly looking deeply into Sam’s eyes. There’s a bright splash of hazel in them that you’ve never noticed before. You should probably say something, acknowledge how close you are to each other, make light of the situation but neither of you seems willing to break the moment.

It’s a few minutes until you feel your eyes falling shut, tiredness suddenly overtaking you. You think about fighting it for a moment, think about trying to stay awake but the warmth and closeness and exhaustion are all too strong, and before you know it, you’re out like a light.

You wake up hours later. It’s not full wakefulness, but it’s enough that you notice you’ve moved in the night. Your back is to Sam, but his arm is still hanging over you. You feel so cozy and warm that you snuggle backwards a little, press yourself against him.

You feel the hardness but can’t place it for a second, and then you do, and your eyes fly open and your lips part.

Sam’s hard. Sam’s hard and he’s pressing against the small of your back. Your breathing comes fast and shallow at the thought of it. Without really meaning to you press your ass back a little. You just want to feel, you tell yourself. Feel what Sam feels like. And yes, it’s unmistakable and the arousal blooming in you is so immediate that it makes you dizzy. You press back again, gently, and suddenly Sam’s arm around you tightens.

Oh shit, you think.

That was some pretty creepy stuff you were doing just now, and you can’t even pretend you did it in your sleep because your eyes are wide open, and even in the dark of the room, Sam must be able to see that. But then you hear his deep voice, so close to your ear that it makes you shudder.

“Don’t stop,” he says quietly and you nearly lose your mind. You swallow, and then you do it again. Sam’s arm tenses again and his breathing stutters for a second. This can’t be happening. Could you be so lucky?

You press back again, roll your hips a little, and Sam’s hand shoots to your waist. He grips you hard and then he’s pushing back, and a small gasp leaves you when you feel his outline. Of course Sam Winchester has a perfect, big dick. Because all the other stuff about him isn’t already good enough.

Sam starts slowly rutting against you and your eyelids flutter, because low little grunts leave him, sounds that you’re pretty sure should be illegal. He keeps grinding against you, and then suddenly his lips are touching the shell of your ear.

“Let me touch you,” he whispers. Your eyes shoot over to where Dean is lying, but he seems to be out for the count. You nod, and then in a rush of confidence, turn your head. You can’t quite see Sam, but he presses his face to the side of yours, his lips run over your cheekbone.

“Touch me, Sam,” you whisper, and his hand wanders from your waist over your stomach to between your legs. His hand is big and perfect and he starts drawing little circles on you. The thin barrier of your pajama is a godsend, because you don’t know if you could take Sam touching you directly right there without combusting or screaming.

His middle and index finger find the spot that makes you flinch and he focuses on that part. Your eyes fall shut and a tiny whimper leaves you. As if encouraged, Sam uses the position of his arm to pull you back against him again while continuing to rub you. Your arm lands on top of his, because you need something to hold on to or you’ll float away.

He keeps going, and he’s so damn good at it that it makes your head spin. Your eyebrows draw together and you feel your body starting to tense.

“Sam—I’m gonna—” you half moan, half whisper and his mouth is near your ear again.

“Think you can be quiet?” he asks, the edge of a grin in his voice and you press your lips together, nod.

You’re coming a second later, pressing your thighs together, nails digging into Sam’s skin, because the tension needs to go somewhere. Your legs pull up and for a few moments, you are so swept up in pleasure that you think you’re losing your mind.

As your body relaxes, your brain and muscles feel calm and relaxed, a goofy smile spreading on your lips. Sam must see it, because he presses his lips and nose against your cheek.

“I want to scream,” you whisper, eyes still closed, and Sam gives a low chuckle.

“Better don’t,” he says and in response, you grind back against him. Sam doesn’t need more encouragement than that. He leans back a little, so that he can look down at where your bodies are meeting, so that he can watch while you rub your ass against him.

Your orgasm, this entire situation, has made you bold, and you sling your arm behind you. Your hand lands on Sam’s hip, and you move it down, run it over the fabric of his sweats. Your fingers trace the outline of Sam’s cock and you hear a heavy breath leave him.

“Fuck, you’re gonna drive me crazy,” Sam whispers, his voice slightly cracking. You squeeze him once before you start running your hand up and down his length, again and again. Sam’s hand is still on your hip and balls into a fist with how hard he’s trying not to make any noise. Feeling encouraged by his reaction, you move your hand up and slip it into his sweats, wrap your hand around his cock. Oh, he’s perfect. Of course he is. Sam actually trembles a little when you touch him.

“God, you feel so fucking good,” he mumbles, voice low and raw and he presses his hand over yours where you’re holding him, squeezing through the fabric.

You keep rubbing him, stroking him, until his deep breaths come quicker. You can feel his cock twitch in your hand, and Sam’s groan is low and barely controlled and it makes you feel like you could come all over again just from hearing it. You rub him through his release, feel the wet patch from his come where he releases himself into his sweatpants. Slowly, you pull your hand back.

In the next second, Sam slings his arm around you again and pulls you close. His hand goes over your chest like a seatbelt and he cups your face, presses his nose behind your ear so you can hear his heavy breathing.

“Holy shit,” he mumbles, and you grin. After a second of recovering his breathing, Sam’s head moves, and he catches the corner of your mouth with his lips. It’s delicious, but not enough.

You struggle to move in his tight grip, but when he understands what you’re doing he lets you turn around, only to wrap you up just as tightly right after. Your faces are so close, just across from each other on the pillows and you just look into each other’s eyes for a moment.

Then you grab Sam’s big, beautiful face and kiss him. He pulls you impossibly closer and returns the kiss.

You both flinch when the loudest, most nasal snore comes from Dean’s bed. You need to press your faces against each other to stop yourselves from bursting into laughter. Sam’s hand lands on the back of your head and he pulls you against his chest, and you grin into it like a damn idiot.

When you finally come up for air, he’s smiling at you, brilliant and open in the low light of the room. His face turns serious after a second, but you shake your head.

“I know you want to analyze the shit out of what just happened,” you whisper, and Sam can’t help but smirk at how well you know him. “But let’s save it for tomorrow, okay?” He nods, stares at your face, and it makes you want to kiss him again, so you do. He cups your face, runs his fingers into your hair, then a small groan leaves him when you push your tongue against his lips.

“Fuck, you’re gonna make me hard again,” he mumbles and you nip at his lip.

“Oh no,” you whisper, voice heavy with pretend regret. Sam grins, wraps you up and you snuggle against him, your head under his chin, face against his neck where you can smell him, touch your nose against him.

“Good night, Sam,” you mutter, because within seconds you’re halfway to falling asleep again.

“Good night,” Sam says, and you can feel the vibration of it run through you. Sleep overtakes you as Sam gently rubs your back, all the while there’s a smile on your face and your heart is as big as the moon.

[moviecritc]

girlfriend!kirara hoshi is the most beautiful woman you've ever seen, and you make sure that she knows it ꒰ ୭ ˚. ᵎᵎ you're whipped!

cw: fluff and smut, worshipping, words of affirmation, oral (kirara receiving), butchfemme vibes, art by whoareyoupisi

You love taking her shopping, sitting in the tiny chair of the dressing room while she tries on ten different tops and she always asks you for your opinion for each of the pieces. 

“What do you think, baby?” she asks as you look up at her with a simple light pink top on. “I’m not sure about the color…”

You take a good look at her, always making sure that you give her the best true opinions because you know how much your girlfriend likes to look pretty, even if you think she’s pretty every time. 

“Mm, maybe something darker with those pants. Didn’t you pick up another pink top?” you say, pointing out at the baggier top that went perfectly with the tight shorts she has on right now. 

“Ah, yes!” she squeaks, quickly taking off the top and discarding it to try on what you suggested. “It’s perfect, babe, what do you think?”

She twirls as she giggles and you nod, not being able to hide your smirk or the heat of your cheeks. Every time Kirara does something, even the tiniest things, it has a reaction on you.

“I love it,” you breathe out, not taking your eyes off her. “You look gorgeous in it, my love.”

Kirara clicks her tongue, her face getting red instantly and shoving your shoulder without any force. “You’re just saying that!”

“Mmm, I’m saying it ‘cause it’s true.” You get up, leaving her purse in the ground to hug her waist easily, kissing the visible part of her collarbone. “I have the prettiest girlfriend ever, just look at her.”

You squeeze her sides, making her giggle and squirm because you know it’s tickling her. She turns her head to take your lips in a quick kiss, cupping your cheek with one of her perfectly manicured hands (one of her nails has your initial). 

“C’mon, I wanna see all those dresses you pick up on you,” you tell her, caressing her hips before going back to your seat.

Oh and when she does her make up. She insists on sitting on your lap while she gets ready, then she twists and does your own make up. 

“You’re so talented with this,” you whisper, eyes tracing her face with nothing but adoration. “You make yourself more stunning every single time.”

Kirara pauses, her brush hovering near her cheek as she looks at your reflection. “You’re distracting me on purpose.”

She bites her lip to hide the smiles and continues applying soft pink blush in her cheeks. 

“I’m not! I could watch you do this for hours.” Your hands come up slowly to her waist, careful to not startle her. “So, so gorgeous,” you whisper close to her ear.

She lets out a shy little laugh and leans in to peck your lips quickly. “Stop saying all that cute stuff while I’m trying to focus!”

“I’m sorry, I can’t help it!” You hold your hands up in surrender and lean over a little. “C’mon, which eyeshadow are you using today.”

“Purple,” she answers, opening her palette. “And blue shimmer too.”

“Oh, I love that. Gonna look shiny as fuck.”

When she finishes her makeup, she giggles and turns the brush toward you. “Okay, your turn now. Sit still, pretty girl.”

You smile as she starts working on your face, her touch so gentle and focused. She’s dabbing eyeshadow on your lids with so much care, tongue poking out a little in concentration. You can’t resist reaching up to tuck her hair behind her ear.

“You have no idea how beautiful you look right now,” you tell her, eyes half-closed. 

Kirara’s cheeks go even redder as she works, trying to hide behind the makeup palette for a second. “You’re gonna make me mess up if you keep complimenting me like that.”

You laugh softly, pulling her closer for a moment. “Then mess up. I don’t care.”

But nothing compares to when you have her sprawled on your bed, naked and needy, her cock leaking against her stomach. You’ve been making out for some time on the couch, dryhumping each other like stupid teenagers and now that you have her in bed, you’re drooling at the sight of her. Beautiful firm tits with perky nipples and her pretty cock that’s pulsing with excitement.

You crawl between her spread legs slowly, eyes locked on hers the whole time. Kirara’s already breathing fast, cheeks flushed deep pink, her hands gripping the sheets.

“God, you’re so fucking pretty like this,” you whisper, voice low and full of awe as you run your hands up her soft thighs. “You have no idea how obsessed I am with every inch of you.”

She whimpers, hips twitching up a little. “Please…”

You lean down and press a wet kiss right below her belly button. “Shh, I’ve got you, my love. You’re doing so good already.” You wrap your fingers around her gently, giving one slow stroke as you watch her instant reaction. “So sensitive too… I love how you throb in my hand.”

Kirara lets out a high, whiny sound, head falling back against the pillow. “Ah! Baby, please, I need—I can’t—”

You smile against her skin and finally take her into your mouth, sucking softly on the head first. She gasps loudly, one hand flying to your hair as her thighs tremble around you.

“Mmm, that’s it,” you hum around her, pulling off just enough to speak. “Let me hear you, pretty.” You take her deeper, tongue swirling as you bob your head, one hand stroking what you can’t fit while the other gently plays with her balls.

She’s a complete mess already, babbling between broken moans. “F-fuck, you’re so good, feels too good ahh, I love you, I love your mouth.”

You pull off with a wet pop and kiss along her shaft, looking up at her with adoring eyes. “You’re doing amazing, Kirara. I could stay here for hours just worshipping you.”

You dive back down, sucking harder this time, hollowing your cheeks as you take her as deep as you can. Kirara’s whines turn louder, her hips bucking weakly as she babbles your name over and over, tears of pleasure gathering in her eyes, completely lost in the praise and the feeling of your warm mouth.

You keep going, humming happily around her, determined to make her feel like the most loved and desired girl in the world.

[iamkeruhh]

showering with bf dean

headcannons ٠࣪⭑ non-explicit, Dean Winchester x reader (f), Dean in love, major fluff, Ig I’m just pumping out hcs today

٠࣪⭑ Dean would wash your hair while murmuring about all the unnecessary girly products you use, yet his heartbeat would stutter in his chest at the smell, because it reminds him of you, and he’d smile while watching you melt under his hands that are threaded in your hair.

٠࣪⭑ he would act all cocky, constantly cracking suggestive jokes and looks, until your soapy hands glide all over him, massaging the knots in his neck and getting all the dirt and grime from the hunt off his skin— yeah he’s a goner. The man melts like butter in a hot pan.

٠࣪⭑ dramatic soft shower kisses are mandatory, whether it’s you stealing a kiss from him while his eyes are closed or he pulls you in while “innocently” washing your body. Neither of you caring about the suds dripping into your eyes.

٠࣪⭑ a long domestic hug under the spray after you’re all clean, just his big arms wrapped around you, engulfed in the shower steam and weak water pressure, warm bare bodies pressed together just right that it feels like you’re one. He’d press an absentminded kiss to your wet hair and sigh as he let the post-hunt exhaustion comfortably fall over him.

٠࣪⭑ he’d get out and towel himself off first just so he can wrap you up in a fresh towel, with such concentration it’s almost comical, right when you get out so you’re not too cold.

٠࣪⭑ Dean would also totally help brush and blow dry your hair— and for my fellow curly girls, he’d put in all your products (he’s practically a pro after watching you do it so many times), running his hands through your hair so reverently, scrunching with his big hands, and he’d even diffuse it for you because he knows you can’t fall asleep with wet hair, and that you’re tired after the hunt (so is he but he doesn’t care)

[doveypearls]

DOCTOR, DOCTOR! // dr. samira mohan

summary: samira didn't know that her marriage was news. word count: 1.1k tags: gn!reader (referred to as "spouse"); reader and samira are married; fluff and silly stuff only. a/n: minor translation note bcus i used a pet name in tamil! chellam [செல்லம்] = darling/honey. this one's short 'n sweet for my fav hot doctor <3

As per usual, it wouldn’t be a day at the Pitt if there wasn’t a constant, unwavering stream of patients and booked beds in the emergency room. There has already been a death today, and the time is barely past eight in the morning. Samira is still dealing with the lingering pain of a headache — no doubt induced by the fact of missing her morning coffee cup in favor of treating an epileptic patient — when a voice chirps beside her. 

“I didn’t know you were married!” It’s Javadi, of course, with her half-zipped purple hoodie and a blinding grin.

Samira glances up whilst typing, trying to finish up her charts before she lags behind. The day is still early and there seems to be a brief lull in activity, so it’s not too much of a hassle — yet. The midday rush can topple that in a second.

Samira gives Victoria a noncommittal shrug, a delicate crescent of a smile rising to her mouth. “I don’t exactly hide it.”

“But you also never told anyone!” Victoria guffaws, her voice comically rising in pitch.

Dana strolls by at that very moment, a clipboard on her hip. “Told anyone what?”

Victoria swivels around to face the nosy charge nurse, grinning like a conniving child. 

“Dr. Mohan is married. Did you know that?”

Dana hums, brows lifting in subdued curiosity. She leans over Samira’s shoulder. “Huh. No ring, huh? What’s up with that? Can’t stand the guy or somethin’?”

Samira huffs out a laugh, submitting her charts and crossing her arms. “I love my spouse very much, thank you. We just didn’t do rings. I’m afraid of losing it on the job.” The doctor narrows her eyes in amusement, glancing back at Victoria. “What gave me away, anyway?”

Victoria seems to remember herself, shyly fiddling with one of the strings on her hoodie. She talks fast, over-explaining as she tends to do when her nerves kick in. 

“Oh! Well, they were just admitted and I saw the same last name on the board so I was gonna ask you about it but you were busy with another patient and I didn’t want to keep them waiting so I treated them—”

Samira doesn’t let her finish. The moment she realizes you’re somewhere in the emergency room, she brushes past Victoria, searching the ER until her eyes finally land on you: comfortably propped up in a bed, scrolling through your phone. There’s an ice pack around your noticeably swollen ankle; your socks and shoes are neatly tucked beside the bed next to your bag.

Samira’s questions come all at once, startling you enough that you nearly drop your phone on your stomach. 

“What happened? Are you okay? Why didn’t you call me?”

You blink twice, setting your phone in your lap. “Good to see you, too,” you reply, nearly laughing at the sight of her distress. Her concern is far greater than it needs to be. “I came to bring your lunch. You forgot it. Again. It’s in my bag.” 

Samira huffs, crossing her arms and approaching your bedside with a stern expression. “I don’t care about my lunch. I do care to know what you’re doing at my hospital.”

You actually do laugh this time. “I’m at your hospital because I tripped on the way out of the apartment. I just wanted to make sure I didn’t break anything. Figured I’d get it checked out since I was making the stop, anyway. And I know you don’t check your phone during work, so don’t even start.” With a head tilt, you put on your most sorrowful expression. “Why? Aren’t you happy to see me?”

Samira pouts, trying to glare at you, but it’s weak. Your wife sits at the edge of the bed, putting her hand over yours.

“Not under these conditions, no. I never want to see you in here, chellam.”

“Ouch,” you frown, feigning hurt. “I’m already in pain. No need to make it worse.”

Samira manages a small smile, finally easing up to kiss your forehead.

“Dramatic. Did they already give you an X-ray?” 

You shake your head, turning your hand over to intertwine your fingers with hers. “Not yet. Dr. Javadi said she’s putting in the order now.” 

Your wife purses her lips, the vaguest hint of annoyance overcoming her at the memory of her brief talk with Victoria. She delayed putting in the order to ask about Samira’s marriage? She left you in pain for some gossip? The thought will only vex her the longer she thinks about it.

“Good. We’ll get you out as soon as we can,” she sighs. “Be warned: it’s gonna get crazy in here soon. There’s no telling how long it’ll take.”

“Sounds perfect,” you muse, gazing at her fondly. “I finally get to watch you work.”

Samira’s cheeks burn when your free hand reaches over to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. She’s already a little frazzled from running around the emergency room; your touch makes her whole body shiver. 

You notice and chuckle, leaning in to brush your lips against hers. Samira tries to pull away, a bashful smile hidden as she turns her head. 

“I’m working,” she reminds you, sounding adorably whiny.

“It’s a kiss. You act like I’m trying to pin you down in public,” you mutter, guiding her chin until she’s looking you in the eyes again. You close the distance, and this time, she doesn’t stray from the path. Samira kisses you, slow enough to give the illusion that she has all the time in the world.

But you know she’s busy and frustratingly hardworking, so you’re the one to break apart this time. You lightly pinch her cheek — she always gives you the sweetest smile when you do so — and you set her free.

“Don’t forget your lunch again or I might actually die on the stupid stairs next time,” you playfully warn her.

Samira groans, rolling her eyes as she reaches down to retrieve the Tupperware container from your bag on the floor. 

“Don’t even start. I’m already going to feel guilty later when I have the time to process this little visit of yours.”

“Don’t you start. I’m just kidding,” you frown, taking her hand and kissing the knuckles. “It’s all my fault for being such a good partner that didn’t want their wife to starve.”

Your wife rolls her eyes and regretfully leaves you with a short “goodbye” and a look of longing.

When Samira is far enough away, Victoria finds her again, beaming like she won the lottery. “You guys are so cute.”

Samira has to agree.

fancy some more?

> YES. > NO.