Sam convincing ur family ur like a sister to him, just so he can sleep in the same bed to fuck you
Liar Liar .•*
🏷️: Sam Monroe x reader • dom!sam • sub!reader • lieing to Sam’s parents • secret sex • unprotected p in v sex • rough intimacy • thumb in mouth • pinning • over stimulation?? • naught sammy • not proof read yet srrry loves
📝: I love this ask!! thank you for the idea sweet!
💌: read more below ↓↓↓
SAM MONROE hand pins your hip to his mattress, stopping you from squirming under him. his hips snap back and forth, each moment driving his length in and out of your slick snatch. his thumb is hooked into the right side of your mouth, making your lips stretch under the pressure. he can’t risk you moaning out his name — can’t risk his stupid step father and crazy mom know he’s fucking you into his navy sheets.
only yesterday he was convincing his parents that your his girl friend, purely platonic. Sam’s parents where just happy he had made a half decent friend so they allowed you two to have a sleep over and better yet sleep in the same bed.
“want me to rub that clit?” he grunts. you nod your head, barely holding out a cry of pleasure. “words?” he huffs, trying to sound stern despite how my numbingly good you feel wrapped around his dick. “y-yes” you whine.
he unhooks his thumb from your mouth and runs it down your chest, stomach and finally to your swollen clit. he begins to rub the sensitive bud in quick circles. “you getting close?” he asks, pushing his cock to the hilt in you. “yes!” you beg softly. his free hand grabs your hip roughly as he pounds into you relentlessly until you moan his name.
“Sam! oh christ!” you cry out. with one more thrust he climaxes, shooting strings of hot cum into your throbbing puss. your hole weeps and sobs around his dick, dancing on the line between pleasure and overstimulation.
“Shit.” he collapses onto you, praying his parents couldn’t hear your needy moan.
Summary: You and Sam have never gotten along. You’re constantly at each other’s throats, making snarky comments, or glaring through rear view mirrors. So when the two of you hunt together, without Dean? The proximity is suffocating. Especially when you’re pent up after a hunt, and he’s the only one there to help.
CW: Enemies to ?? (lovers? fuck-buddies? you pick), lots of bickering, slightly mean dom!Sam, brat!reader, Sam just wants to break you, fingering, unprotected piv, orgasm denial, begging, overstim, light dacryphilia
WC: 7.6K
Based on this request!
To say the air between you was thick would be an understatement.
Inside the impala was quiet. Too quiet. It makes every sound all that much more wince-inducing. The engine purring beneath you as the wheels cut up the old country highway, rocks clinking off the bumper when the tires dip through concrete divots, the subtle humming of the heat flowing from vents that definitely need replacing. The road ahead’s only illuminated by blaring high beams, and the soft moonlight, dimmed by heavy fog. Endless rows of tall pine trees line the pavement on both sides, a constant reminder of just how impossibly long the night is going to be.
Sam’s driving, much to your dismay. Which means silence. Tense hands gripping the steering wheel like it owes him more than a couple bands. No fingertips tapping on the wheel along to some classic rock music, or cracking jokes between guitar riffs.
It’s times like this that you miss Dean. Really miss Dean.
Usually, when you work with the Winchesters, it means both Winchesters. It means kicking your feet up along the spacious bench in the backseat of Baby, a blanket sprawled over your legs, as Sam and Dean bicker up front. Means stopping at the occasional gas station, the older Winchester chucking you a bag of your favourite chips, even after muttering about how he wasn’t going to get you anything. Pushing your favourite albums into the cassette player, because you just have such great taste, he says.
Sam? Yeah. Sam’s never quite been so welcoming.
You can’t quite be sure why, not really. Because right from the moment you stepped foot into their motel room after a call from Bobby, when he told you he knew some boys who needed help—Sam had given you the cold shoulder.
It surprised you. Bobby had warned you about exactly this, but from Dean. Insisted that Sam was intimidating, sure, but a sweetheart.
So much for that. Because the only thing he’s done since the day you met him was scoff every time you tried to add to the conversation, or bristle if, God forbid, you so much as breathe a little too close.
It’s annoying. Very annoying.
Sure, maybe it doesn’t help that you picked up on his indifference right away, and decided that you wouldn’t just sit back and take it. But hey. He started it.
Though, unfortunately for you, Dean managed to bust his ankle on their last hunt. So when Ellen handed over a file at the roadhouse, some group of werewolves terrorizing Iowa, you only got the pleasure of joining one Winchester on the hunt, while Dean heals up on Bobby’s couch. Lucky you.
Sam was very instant that you immediately started your trek back to Bobby’s before the last silver bullet was even lodged in that final werewolves chest. Sure, maybe he’d had excuses—‘Bobby shouldn’t have to babysit’, or ‘we should skip town before the bodies get cold’. But you’re smart enough to know the real reason.
You both know just how hard it is to breathe when you’re close.
So now, you sit in the passenger’s seat of the Impala, legs crossed tight, one over the other. Adrenaline’s still pumping through your veins like a powerful drug, sweat still drying on your skin. Dean’s box of cassette tapes lies open on your lap as you shine a little flashlight over it, the one you keep in your pocket for nights just like these. You rummage through just about every mullet-rock hit in history; needing something, anything, just to break that God-awful silence.
Sam’s jaw tightens even further with an almost audible tick, his knuckles near white around the steering wheel. He spares a glance over at you: taking in the way your knee bounces in your seat, the tremor in your fingers shuffling through tapes, the way you worry your lip between your teeth, that familiar mixture of annoyance and irritation visible in his eyes. You almost comment on it. Almost. Say something snarky like ‘you’re not as subtle as you think you are’. Instead? You bite your tongue.
You can tell he’s trying to focus on the road ahead. He really is. His expression is still mostly cool, or maybe a shitty attempt at aloof, but it’s clear he’s struggling to put up with your presence. It’s scoff worthy, really. The way his eyes linger on your fingers like that shake pisses him off, or he doesn’t believe you deserve to touch anything remotely his.
Finally, he breaks the silence with a tense huff.
“What’re you looking for?”
You raise a brow at his tone, tilting your head towards him, his lips pursed into a tight line. The question itself? Innocent. It’s all in the way he says it. Sharp, gruff, like it was ripped from his chest. It would be comical if it wasn’t so… annoying. Your eyes practically roll themselves. Because of course, even after a hunt, the man is still going for the jugular with that bitter scoff.
“Something decent,” you shrug, trying to keep your own voice even. Uninterested. You don’t even spare him another glance, not when you know he’s grinding his teeth. “Metallica. Maybe some Skynyrd. Better than that Celine Dion crap.”
A dig? Maybe. You’ve seen the kind of music he listens to. And you can’t deny the way that low rumble of irritation he lets out isn’t incredibly satisfying. No matter how much it gets on your nerves, sometimes—only sometimes—you love how easy it is to push his buttons, to rile him up. Especially when it’s his childish scoff that started everything.
“Maybe I like Celine Dion,” he retorts, the words bitten out between clenched teeth. You swear if the man tensed his jaw any further, he’d chip a damn tooth.
He keeps his eyes on the road, practically refusing to look at you, as you pluck out a tape between two fingers, ‘Ride the Lightning’, before shoving it in the cassette player.
“Mhm. ‘Course you do,” you tease, not bothering to hide the amusement in your voice, just as the familiar strains of Metallica echo through the impala. Sam’s thumb presses into the steering wheel, just for one vexing second, a muscle in his forearm jumping (not that you’re looking, or anything), and you have to forcefully ignore the way your pulse skips. Christ.
He doesn’t say anything else. Something you both despise, and are immensely grateful for.
Spending the last couple days with him? Absolute torture.
Not even because of the bickering, or his constant questioning of your skill (though, that definitely irks the hell out of you), but also? The goddamn proximity.
For nearly a week, it’s been driving you up the wall. Sitting in the passenger seat while he drives. Researching lore across the library table. Bumping into him when you’re picking a lock, or feeling his breath on the back of your neck while you’re caught in a tight space. Sleeping less than five goddamn feet away from him, because of course, the motel you were staying in only had one room available. You’re just lucky it was a double.
So yeah. Maybe you’re going a little stir-crazy. You shift in your seat for what has to be the hundredth time since you climbed into the impala, drumming your fingertips on your denim covered thighs. Antsy doesn’t even begin to cover how you’re feeling, especially when your body won’t stop buzzing like you’re still mid-hunt. And that silence between you? Yeah. It certainly doesn’t help. Not even when there’s a guitar solo shredding through the speakers.
“…How far out are we?” you ask after a moment, cracking your knuckles, lips pursed in a tight line.
“Almost two hundred miles,” Sam mutters simply, eyes flicking to you for half a second. Just long enough to catch the way your fingers tap, the restless shift of your hips. He notices. He always does.
He clears his throat quick, adjusting his grip on the wheel. Grounding himself. Or, maybe just regaining circulation, ‘cause that fist he had curled around it looked damn-near painful.
“Should hit Bobby’s by midnight. Assuming you don’t ask for another piss break,” he rasps, voice still tight as ever, like he has the world’s longest stick up his ass. You scoff. “…And stop moving so much. You’re making me antsy.”
You almost let out a very overdramatic sound at that, but you manage to shove it down. Sam responds only by leaning forward, turning up the volume like Metallica will drown out everything else. And Christ, at this rate? You can only hope it does.
Sitting on the cool leather seat of the impala is already uncomfortable enough, especially when there’s someone who very clearly hates you is sitting a foot away, body heat radiating off of him like a furnace. Adding that to the tense proximity, your buzzing veins, and that remaining post-hunt energy that you can’t quite squash? You’re surprised you haven’t already lost your fuckin’ mind.
You need a comfortable bed. A drink (or five). Someone to show you a good goddamn time. Maybe all three.
You tap your foot on the floor mat once, twice, earning you another pissed off glance. The dam breaks.
“Can’t we just… I don’t know. Find a motel for the night?” you snap, cracking another knuckle, and you shift uncomfortably. “Or a dive. Something.”
The look he gives you then is far more scrutinizing than the previous, which is impressive, honestly, and you can’t decide if that just makes you bristle, or fuels your restlessness. His jaw clenches, again, just as he takes a breath like he just can’t believe how well you’re getting under his skin. Like in his mind, every little move you make is just designed to push his buttons.
“Bobby is expecting us. And so’s Dean,” he says gruffly, in that stupidly-deep voice that makes something in your chest tighten. Your hand instinctively moves to your face, pinching the bridge of your nose. He doesn’t even let you reply before he’s speaking again, raising two fingers on the wheel like he’s prematurely willing you to just shut up. “We’re not stopping.”
Great. Just great.
You can’t decide if you should groan or punch him at that, so you land on simply shooting daggers at him with your eyes: then sighing when he remains unaffected.
“It’s ten o’clock, Sam,” you deadpan, tilting your head towards him, and you have to try very hard not to focus on the way his adam’s apple bobs. You tell yourself it’s the proximity. Or, God, it’s just ‘cause you’re antsy. It has to be, because you hate him. Obviously.
“…One’s old, the others hurt. They’re probably asleep, or four beers deep.”
Sam grits his teeth hard enough to make his temples ache, but still, he doesn’t respond to you right away. Why? Because you’re right, and you both know it. Your argument is logical, and logical just makes him mad when it comes out of your smart mouth. That tension on his face makes the corner of your lips twitch.
“You’re impossible,” he retorts after a moment, clearly the most reasonable response he could muster—words laced with far more venom than necessary.
“Oh, I’m impossible?” you laugh, half caught in a scoff, and he finally turns his head towards you for a single moment, just to glare. His voice dips low, sharp as a knife’s edge.
“Yeah. You.”
Oh God.
He should not be allowed to look at you like that. Not now. Not when you’re already flushed and restless, with hips that can’t quite stop shifting, and a stomach that flips every time his voice comes out as a growl. Because Christ, this is Sam. The man who hates you. The man you hate. So why the hell does that look set your entire nervous system on fire?
His eyes flick back to the road as quickly as he turned, and he swallows down that irritation, visibly, that muscle in his throat leaping again, which certainly doesn’t help your situation. His expression is still tight. Eyes narrowed. Neck shiny with drying sweat. His tongue darts out to wet his lips, a quick flash of pink, probably unintentional. So fast you could’ve missed it, but, um.
Yeah. You don’t.
Maybe you’re staring. Just a little. You tell yourself you’re just trying to mentally blow his head off or something, but c’mon now. The truth is only becoming more and more obvious (and overwhelming) with each subtle shift of your hips, every time you squeeze that pulse between your thighs. Sam, to his credit, doesn’t say anything: but he sure as hell notices that look. Those movements. You know he does, because his next breath comes more… shaky. Deeper than before. He continues avoiding your gaze like the plague, but now? The air in the impala feels impossibly heavier.
You half expect him to argue further. Maybe throw out another smart remark about getting back on schedule, or Dean needing him. Part of you almost hopes he will, just to listen to the way he snarls out the words with all that Sam-Winchester-bite. But all words seem to die in his throat the moment you shift again, your now-clammy hands sliding over your thighs like that’s supposed to be subtle.
He clears his throat.
“You can’t stop squirming for five damn minutes, can you?” he remarks, sudden, voice gruff. And oh, doesn’t he just shift in his own seat as he says it.
Interesting.
“And you can’t shut that big fuckin’ mouth,” you bark, that tenstion between the two of you pulled tight enough to snap, and Sam nearly chokes on air.
He doesn’t look at you. Can’t.
Because if he does, he might just say something stupid. Something like this is all your fault: which sounds like a twelve year old, and that won’t fix the way his pulse is hammering in his throat so fast you can almost see it.
His fingers flex against the leather of the steering wheel, knuckles going white, and you hate the way the veins in his hands make your mouth water. The music still pounds through the speakers, Metallica screaming about fire. But all either of you can hear is the way your hips shuffle against the seat as you try to force yourself comfortable, or that shaky cough that escapes his throat as he attempts to stifle every less than innocent thought swirling through his head. But God, you can see it. You’re both losing.
Badly.
Sam doesn’t even speak when his hand jerks on the wheel, right hand shifting the impala fast enough to make you surge forward a fraction. Tires hum against asphalt as he pulls onto the shoulder of the highway, slamming the car into park.
Oh.
“Hey,” you fume, brows pinching tight, your eyes flickering back to him, but still: he doesn’t look at you. Not yet. “What’re you—”
“Shut up,” Sam growls, but for once? It’s not sharp. It’s just low. Rough. That thrill it sends up your spine is completely involuntary.
He doesn’t even spare you a glance as he kills the engine, plunging the car into sudden silence, besides the ticking of cooling metal, and the distant hoot of an owl somewhere in those dark trees. The impala idles off, headlights cutting a narrow path into the night. Shadows pool around his face in a way that sends a shock through your system; sharp jaw, heavy brows pulled in concentration… or something else. Something deeper.
Finally, he turns his head. Slowly. Those eyes catch yours, hazel tint almost lost in just how dark his gaze holds. Like they’re just burning with something he’s been trying to shove down for damn days.
“Get in the back.”
It’s not a question. It’s a command.
For being a strong, independent hunter, it’s stupid how quickly those words kill any coherent thought you could’ve conjured up. Your brain stutters for a beat, a beat far too long for your liking, your thighs squeezing together subconsciously. And… yeah. He definitely saw that.
“…What?”
“You heard me,” he says, voice dropping even lower, quieter now, like he’s fighting himself with every word. His eyes never leave yours. But now, the fire in them isn’t anger. It’s hunger. “You’re not as subtle as you think you are.”
And fuck, if it doesn’t just look like part of him is already regretting this. And yet? He doesn’t take it back. It’s too late. That dam is cracking.
“I can’t even think when you’re sitting there. Moving like that. Like you’re tryin’ to drive me crazy.” His thumb flexes on the wheel again, just once, before he releases it entirely. “So pick a side. Either sit there and behave, or get in the back and let me take care of it.”
Just like that? Your brain short circuits entirely.
Now that he’s looking at you, really looking at you, you can take him in. That slight flush on his skin. Those dilated pupils. The way his tongue flicks out to wet his lips (so it wasn’t your imagination), or the way his gaze flicks to your mouth, before he has to force himself back to your eyes. Like looking anywhere else is physically painful.
You want to argue. To tell him he can’t order you around like he owns you. But… that tone. The way he’s looking at you. The fact that you’re wound so tight, you feel like one good vibration from the impalas purr could send you over the edge.
So yeah. Your self control? Worn thin. So thin, in fact, that your trembling hand is pulling open the door handle before either of you can get another word in.
The second your thighs hit the cool leather of the long bench in the back, that door clicking shut, Sam’s following.
He moves fast, long legs barely hitting the pavement below before his fingers curl around the door handle. Shadows cling to his broad form as he yanks open the other back door and slides in after you, shutting it with a firm thud that rocks the entire car, sealing both of you into darkness.
The air is suffocating now. Charged. The only light comes from a sliver of the moon breaking over tall pine trees, catching in his eyes as he faces you, his breathing just a touch too uneven. Still, he doesn’t move to touch you. Not yet. Not even when you push your legs up onto the seat, knees bent, your back pressed tight to the door behind you. Instead, he braces one back on the cool leather next to your shoulder, caging you in without quite crossing that invisible line. You’re half surprised he can fit with the way he’s knelt over.
“…You want me to take care of it? Make you feel better?” he taunts, lip curling up in a smirk that’s all too smug for your liking. “Shut you up?”
The glare you send his way does absolutely nothing to stifle that expression, and it’s just as infuriating as it is fucking hot. You almost feel like you can’t breathe. Not when he’s so close. Not when the small space makes him feel bigger somehow, and all the primal part of your brain wants is for him to absolutely ruin you. Fortunately, you still have some fight left. Enough to not answer him right away, until he continues. “Say it.”
Well, fuck.
“…Yes,” you huff, tone almost defiant, and all you earn in response is an eyebrow raise.
“Yes… what?”
“Sam. Fuck off,” you warn, reaching for him, like you’re going to grab his collar, and just shake some sense into him—but he bats your hand away. Bastard. You almost fucking whine. “…Goddammit. Just… touch me, Sam. Take—take care of me. I need it.”
And oh God, the second your voice drops into that raw, almost breathless whisper? Every last ounce of Sam’s control snaps.
He surges forward in one fluid motion, one hand slipping from the seat to cup your jaw, the other sliding back to tangle in your hair. His touch is firm and urgent, bordering on rough, the force of his mouth tilting your neck back until the crown of your head thumps against the window. His lips move quick, hot, demanding against yours, and fucking Christ, it’s electric.
The kiss isn’t gentle. Not at all. It’s all hunger and pent up tension finally breaking free after months of glares and snark and stolen glances in the rearview mirror. His tongue sweeps against yours in wet laps like he’s trying to swallow you whole, claim you, make you his. He breaks apart just long enough to drag air into his lungs, being sure to nip your lip on the pull back.
“That wasn’t so hard, was it?” he murmurs, voice absolutely wrecked, and you barely get to hum before he’s back on you.
Sam kisses like he argues. Intense, sharp, and pushy, like he just has to win. A deep groan rumbles in his chest as he leans into you harder, leather creaking beneath your shifted weight. You can feel it, that sound, right down to your goddamn bones, sending shockwaves of need so heavy that you have to wiggle your hips to sate some of that agonizing pressure between your thighs.
Of course, Sam sees it. Feels it, maybe, you can’t be sure. But either way, one big man paw slips away from your jaw just to press down on your hip, effectively pinning you to the seat below. Your little protesting whine only fuels him further, the deep laugh vibrating against your lips telling you everything you need to know.
His thumb presses into the curve of your body like he’s trying to leave a bruise, anchoring you against him as he rolls his hips forward, just once, giving you exactly what you’re silently begging for for a single heavenly second. That little bit of contact is fire. Quick, rough, and definitely deliberate. Your head falls back in a silent plea, and he breaks the kiss with a broken gasp, lips trailing hot and hungry down your throat.
And oh, is it ever good. His teeth scrape over sensitive skin, surely leaving a mark, before smoothing it over with a wet drag of that broad tongue. Your back bows, your body’s cry for more, but you’re stopped by a sharp bite.
…Right. If you weren’t fucking soaking already, it’s that comment that would make you drip. You laugh, choked, a little lost in a sound far too blissful for how little he’s given you. “Don’t be mean,” you complain, like it’s some stupid joke.
But then his grip on your hip tightens. His fingers in your hair fist, hard, a warning tug, just as he starts to suck just below your pulse point.
Oh.
Not a joke.
“Sam…” you whisper, cheeks burning now, but God, he only presses closer. So close that you can feel every hard plane of his body over yours, close enough to feel the way his muscles are pulled taut. He’s teasing you, you know he is, one hand drifting from your hip to your lower belly, fingers splaying over soft skin, pressing just hard enough to leave indents in your flesh.
You don’t know what you expected, but it certainly wasn’t this. Rough. caging you into the seat like he owns you. He’s supposed to be the sweet Winchester, the gentle one. But hey, those rules never quite applied to you, did they?
But it doesn’t quite make you want to submit. No, it makes you want to test.
Your hips buck against him then, just as he’s smushing messy kisses over your jaw, and the groan you receive in response tells you he’s feeling this just as much as you are.
His lips are damn near bruising. Sucking, biting, licking, grazing every sensitive part of your neck like he just knew they were there. Apparently, though, he’s running a damn strict program, because he does not let that little grind slide.
“You’ve got no damn patience, do you?” he provokes, teeth grazing your collarbone, and he finally pops the button of your jeans open with nimble fingers.
“I’m not particularly known for it, no,” you tease, but your smirk dies into parted lips when his thick fingers drag your zipper down, slow, like he’s relishing in that sound it makes in the quiet car. He lifts his head just to watch your face, and fuck, you know you must be a… sight.
Pupils blown, lips swollen from his harsh kisses, breath coming in short, desperate pulls. The moonlight shining on the sweat that’s certainly beading at your temples, burning flush creeping down your chest, disappearing beneath your shirt.
His hand slips inside your jeans, palm pressing flat against your fabric-covered mound first, warm like a brand. You can’t help it. You twitch, just once, and the sound that escapes with your sigh is almost a whimper.
“Shh…” he croons, fingers moving in a smooth circle just above where you really want him. And when your back bows, pressing into his touch? He stops. Completely. “Stay still.”
You blink once, twice, your brows pulling together in a pathetic attempt at a scowl. He only laughs.
“You move again, and I stop,” he adds, and you get that sudden urge to strangle him again—but you’re far too afraid that he’s telling the truth.
You force yourself still, his hand moving again, cupping the heat radiating from your core through soaked panties, letting out nothing but a breathless: “bossy.”
Sam lets out a low, dark chuckle at that, more of a vibration than a sound, and he dips his face low again. Not quite close enough to kiss, but close enough that every breath brushes your lips.
“Bossy?” he mocks, fingers finally sliding beneath the waistband of your panties, and holy fuck, you damn-near shudder. “You have no idea how bossy I can be.”
One long finger slips through your slick folds, slow and teasing, spreading that wetness, before applying a whisper of pressure over your clit for one blinding second. He watches your face like he’s cataloging every expression, every twitch, before adding another finger just to stare at the way your arousal coats the digits.
“You hate me, but I get you pretty fuckin’ wet, don’t I?” he teases, and you don’t even get through the first syllable of the string of insults your brain conjures up before he’s stuffing two fingers right to the hilt. No resistance, just a slick stretch, your head smacking against the window all over again.
“Oh, fuck,” you gasp, the heel of his palm teasing your clit, before he pulls back. Maddeningly slow, stretching you with deliberate control, all while staring at the way your cunt sucks in his fingers like you’re made for him. You know he’s doing it on purpose, those slow movements. All manufactured to rile you up. Make you push against him, so he can scold you.
And God, you hate that it’s working.
He starts to move, pumping those thick fingers so beautifully, your pussy fluttering to accommodate him. The sounds are obscene, wet, gushing, and you can tell he’s getting off on every one, licking his lips like he’s just dying to taste it. His thumb finds your clit as his fingers plunge deep, circling with sharp, relentless precision while his knuckles curl just right, the pads of his fingers brushing that spot that makes your vision go white.
Apparently, Sam Winchester knows what the hell he’s doing. Because even moving at a fucking snails pace (Jesus, you could just about punch him), he’s still making your eyes roll back. Curling those perfect fingers deep in your core, circling your clit with just enough pressure, stealing wet kisses across your neck every time a whimper slides through your lips.
It’s torturous, and he knows it. You want to move. To fuck yourself on his hand, so goddamn bad, but you’re smart enough to know how that will go. And oh, is he ever mean about it. Keeping up the slow pumps. Holding you there, but not further. Lips brushing yours, but not really kissing.
“…You want it faster? You wanna come, baby?” he coos, combined with a slow thrust, and holy-fucking-hell, your entire body damn near explodes. You’ve never nodded so fast in your life. “Then earn it. You’re gonna stay still, ‘n take what I give you. Got it?”
Your eyes pinch shut for one humiliating second, because you want absolutely nothing more than to push harder. To give him a piece of your mind. But that’s kinda hard when he’s fucking you dumb with those big hands that haunt your fantasies. “Mm… uh-huh. Fuck, yes.”
“Good,” he murmurs against your ear, and the way his voice breaks exposes how his control is slipping. “So goddamn good. Just for me.”
And just like that, finally, he starts to thrust those fingers faster. A real rhythm builds: deep thrusts paired with firm swirls over your sensitive bud, each motion just designed to take you apart. He watches in near silence besides those quick pants, puffing over your cheek, taking in every little sound you provide, relishing in the way your cunt sucks him in.
He curls his fingers perfectly, a warning, or maybe a promise, letting out one breathy groan as he leans down to bite over your pulse point. He keeps those digits stuffed deep inside, moving just his knuckles now, swirling circles right over that spongy spot and holy fuck you see stars—
“Oh, fuck,” you breathe, head tilting back again, hands trembling at your sides, because goddamn the pressure in your lower belly is building, and it’s building fast. “Sam, ‘m—oh, I’m gonna—”
“Not yet.”
His free hand clamps down on your hip, holding you still just as you try to buck up towards him, his fingers curling deep. His thumb presses hard in one sudden, firm circle that damn near pushes you over the edge, then… he stops.
Entirely.
“W-what?”
He pulls back just enough to watch your face, your breath caught, body trembling, and smirks. Dark. Dangerous.
You want to slap it right off his face.
“You come when I say,” he rasps, before starting again. Back to slow. Torturous. Long digits dragging through slick heat, teasing every sensitive inch, but avoiding those spots that make your vision go white. Deliberately. “Be good.”
“You’re… you’re mean,” you complain, tone bitter, but you break off into a whimper when he pinches your clit with a stupid little laugh. “F-fuck you, Winchester.”
“Mm.” Sam’s fingers still, again, buried to the last knuckle inside your sweet pussy, thumb just barely grazing your clit like it’s an afterthought. His lips ghost over yours, like he’s going to kiss you: but of course, he fucking doesn’t.
“Getting to that.”
Another slow drag. Out… then back in. Barely even thrusting now, just toying with your sopping cunt like it’s his to play with. But then he lifts his head. Eyes lock on yours, and there’s barely any hazel left at all.
“You want to come so bad?” he growls, jaw twitching when your walls pulse around him. “Beg for it.”
There’s a moment there where you genuinely don’t know if you’re going to try to kill him, or kiss him, but the moment his lips brush yours again, all your instincts scream at you to chase them. Like your body has become your own goddamn worst enemy. And just to make things worse? You can feel your vision starting to blur.
“Beg?” you repeat, like it’s just about the most insane thing you’ve ever heard. You’re about to laugh when he presses on your clit, giving you a look. One that says don’t test me.
So what do you do?
Fucking test him.
“Make me.”
Something in his eyes flickers. Dark. Hungry. Almost possessive. Not something you’ve ever seen from him, and damn if it isn’t just exhilarating. Like you’ve flipped a switch you didn’t even know was there. “Fine.”
He pulls back slowly, too slowly, just to pump back in with two rough thrusts that make your back arch off the seat. They curl deep and drag across that sweet spot like it’s some punishment, thumb slamming down on your clit at the same time, firm, no mercy now. He brings you right to the brink, of course he does, before pulling out his fingers completely with a slick pop.
The sound you let out is half a growl, half a whine, and it’s fucking loud. If your eyes weren’t glassy before, they sure as hell are now, your body just buzzing with frustration, with need. But then his free hand is on his belt, tugging it open, and your eyes blow wide.
Oh.
Okay, then.
His eyes never leave yours as he shoves his jeans and boxers down just enough, freeing himself, cock thick and heavy against his stomach.
Listen. You knew Sam was a big guy. You’re not blind. And yeah, you felt it when he ground his hips down against your thigh. But—what the fuck?
He strokes himself once, slow like he’s teasing himself, using your arousal to coat his length, and you’ve just got to stare. No one should be allowed to have a pretty cock, and yet? Here he is. You start to shimmy down your jeans until they’re slid onto the floor, all shame gone now, because holy hell. You’re only human. His thumb swipes over his thick, pink tip to glisten it with pre-come, and your breath hitches like you just can’t help it.
“Wanted to test me, baby?” he murmurs, barely even to you, like he’s already losing himself. “Gonna make sure you’re feelin’ me for fucking days.”
He grabs your hips again, hard, yanking you towards him with those massive (and very talented) hands until you’re mostly-reclined on the bench seat, head just barely propped up by the door. His fingers dig into your ass as one hand hooks behind your knee, lifting it high over his thigh, opening you up like it’s a goddamn command.
There’s no teasing now, no hesitation. He just parts your folds with that bulbous tip, then slides in one deep, relentless thrust that bottoms out in one smooth motion. His fat cock stretches you so perfectly around him as he groans low in his throat, that blinding combination of pleasure-pain exploding in your core. His forehead drops against your shoulder, bangs tickling your sensitive skin, just as your nails dig into the muscle of his back.
He waits, just for a beat, until your pussy stops fluttering around him like you just can’t take it, and he pulls back to lock eyes with you. Checking without words. And when all he sees is your completely lust-clouded expression? He grins. Actually grins, like he’s not stuffing you to the brim. Cocky asshole.
Then he pulls back. Just to snap in again. Harder.
You’re so tight around him. So hot. He grits his teeth as he sinks into your cunt, hitting impossibly deeper this time, hips rolling forward with that same relentless force. And when you whine, blissed out, stupidly high-pitched? Yeah. It just about undoes him.
Because God, he doesn’t hold back. He pulls almost all the way out, just that thick cock-head working you open, just to slam back in again with a groan that sounds like it was torn from his chest, a sharp ‘ah!’ ripped from your own. He pushes your shirt up over your breasts, exposing soft skin, staring down at you like he can’t get enough.
“You—” he chokes on the word between thrusts, pelvis slapping hard against your thighs, the car no doubt rocking beneath you. His hair falls over his forehead, messy and skewed, and you want nothing more than to tangle your fingers in it. “—Fucking knew what you were getting yourself into.”
And, well. To his credit? Yeah. You did. Doesn’t stop you from turning into a fucked-dumb puddle anyways, moans and mewls slipping from your lips with every brutal thrust. Those tears that didn’t spill earlier still don’t fall, but they pool in the corners of your vision like a damn threat. It’s like he’s consuming you whole, like you can’t tell where you end and he begins, and it’s fucking glorious.
“This is what you wanted, huh? Shifting—fuck—shifting around in your seat,” he grits, and fuck, his cock is just as mean as he is, slamming against your sweet spot with that delicious curve that damn-near has you drooling. “Shoulda’ bent you over the goddamn hood. Fucked you where anyone could see. You’d like that, yeah? Wouldn’t you? Bet you’d really beg for it.”
“S-Sam—ah,” you choke, nails digging into his flesh, barely able to form a coherent thought with just how quick he’s fucking you into the leather.
You can’t even try rolling your hips to meet his thrusts, because he’s moving so damn fast, not to mention the way he’s holding you down. Not even just with his hands, now, but his body, heavy and solid, pressing you into the seat with every harsh drag. All you can do is take it, everything he’ll give you. And oh boy, aren’t you just fucking greedy for it.
One of his hands slides up your body, threading right back into your hair, gripping tight. He tilts your head back with quiet force, exposing the curve of your throat, licking and sucking over marks that are already starting to purple.
“C’mon, baby… gonna give me what I want?” he murmurs, sharp, nipping your jaw, but you’re too far gone to even whimper.
His hips don’t stop, can’t stop, each thrust deeper than the last. Slamming into you so hard that you’re almost sure his tip has kissed your cervix more than once. Your arousal is coating your thighs, no doubt dripping into the seat (Dean might just kill you later), leaving a hot pool beneath you. The impala creaks, rocks, windows fogged to all hell now, leather moaning just like you do.
But when you simply cry out instead of answering him? Instead of obeying?
He slows. Just slightly.
Just enough so you really feel him. Every ridge. Every vein. Every thick inch sliding through your slick walls, maddeningly perfect, before picking it back up right at the edge of cruelty.
“Beg,” He snarls, louder this time, coupled by a pinch to your sensitive inner thigh that makes you gasp. “Or I’ll fuck you just like this, all night—and won’t let you come.”
It’s growled out like a threat and a promise wrapped in one, and apparently, your body doesn’t know the difference between being chased by a werewolf, and Sam threatening to ruin another orgasm; because holy hell, does your pulse ever pick up. You’re shaking. Your body rocks against the seat with every brutal thrust. Your vision is glassy, your throat growing tight.
So as humiliating as it is?
You give in.
“Sam, please.”
He stills completely for a single moment, buried deep, his pelvis pressed tight against your mound. Like he didn’t quite expect you to comply, but goddamn, does it ever destroy him.
A low, rough sound rumbles from his chest, not quite a groan, not far off from a growl. He pulls back slowly again, which only makes you even more frustrated, the heavy drag making your toes curl, before he slams right back to the hilt without warning, a broken cry tumbling from your throat.
“Please?” He mocks, voice dark, thick as honey but still so goddamn harsh. He does it again, one ruthless thrust after another, each one teetering you closer and closer to the edge of pure bliss. “That’s—fuck. That’s all I get? Please?”
His hand in your hair tightens, another warning tug that goes straight to your core.
“That’s not begging, sweetheart. That’s whining. You want me to make you come?” His breath ghosts over your lips, hot and perfect. “Say it like you mean it.”
You can’t even tell if you’re really damn mad at him or not, because all of your senses have been fucked into oblivion. All that remains is your body entirely pliant beneath his, pussy practically gushing around his cock with just how soaked you are.
The next moan that escapes your lips is broken. Why?
Because those glassy eyes? Yeah. Not just glassy anymore. You squeeze them shut, completely consumed by overwhelming pleasure, lust, frustration, white-hot need, so much that your body just doesn’t know what to do with it all.
So: you break.
“Sam please. Please, I need it,” you beg, finally, and your cheeks heat up because Jesus your voice sounds so goddamn wrecked. “I—fuck, need to come. Need it s’fucking bad, please please please—”
A tear falls before you can catch it. Just one, sliding down your temple as your pleads break off into a sob. And oh God, Sam lets out a broken sound of his own, something between a groan and your name—and he gives in, too.
His mouth crashes onto yours, swallowing down every whimper, every plea, just as he gives you fucking everything. No more teasing, no more restraint. His hand returns to your hip with deep, desperate, perfectly timed thrusts that drive you higher and higher with each stroke. His thumb returns to your clit, firm, urgent. But now? He’s not just pushing. He’s giving.
“That’s it,” he breathes against your lips. “Come f’me.”
It’s almost embarrassing how quickly your body gives in to the command.
The first pulse hits, white-hot and fucking perfect, like nothing you’ve ever felt before. Like all that frustration, all that tension, all that adrenaline explodes at once through blinding shocks of pure ecstasy. Your cunt squeezes him tight, sopping-wet arousal no-doubt dripping onto the leather below. Your thighs shake, tears fall, sobs spilling into his mouth as wave after wave tears through you.
But for crying out fucking loud, Sam doesn’t stop. Can’t.
He barely even eases up, his own breathing ragged, like seeing you fall apart chips away at whatever bit of restraint he was holding onto (if any was left). “One more,” he whispers, voice barely even audible against your lips. “Gimme one more.”
“Oh, holy—mmph, I can’t—”
“You can,” he encourages, voice dipping low again. But instead of being bitter like before? It’s full of something almost sweet. Something like awe.
Your body is still recovering from the shockwaves of pure pleasure when he drives you right back there with that perfect cock and those talented fingers. More waves. Double the intensity. Every single nerve in your body is set alight, every sound slipping from your lips entirely incoherent.
“So—so pretty when you beg, baby. When you come,” he drawls, completely drunk on the feeling of your cunt pulsing around him.
Sam feels it, all of it. The way your pussy squeezes him like you’re trying to milk him dry, how you sob into his mouth between euphoric gasps, the way your thighs tremble so hard he has to hold them open just to keep fucking you through it.
“That’s a girl… fuck—!” he chokes, broken off in a sound that holy fuck you’ll never get out of your head, one that’ll be the centre of all your goddamn fantasies from here on out. It’s feral, almost animalistic, burying himself to the hilt just one more time before pulling out. Hot ropes of come paint your stomach, your thighs, his forehead dripping to your shoulder, riding out those aftershocks through sloppy kisses to your collarbone, his fingers digging into your flesh.
There’s a few long moments where neither of you move. Neither of you want to move. He’s still half-hard against your thigh, both of you breathing ragged like you just ran a goddamn marathon.
But then he pulls back. Slow, so slow, like he’s worried he’ll startle you. His hand slides from your hip up your side, slow but sure, leaving goosebumps in its wake, until he reaches your cheek. He brushes those tear tracks with a sweet tenderness that sends a whole new kind of shock through your system.
Because this is Sam. Sam isn’t supposed to be like this. He’s not supposed to be soft.
And yet, when he speaks again? You’re not sure you’ve ever felt more soothed.
“Hey,” he whispers, honey-sweet, still thick with lingering arousal. Not once, in all the time that you’ve known him, have you experienced the infamous Sam-Winchester-puppy-dog-eyes. But right then? Holy shit. Makes you understand everything you’ve been warned about.
He leans in close, nose brushing your cheek, and the way your eyes flutter closed is entirely involuntary. He peppers kisses everywhere he can reach. Your temples, your forehead, your nose, the corner of your mouth, until finally—your lips. But it’s not heated, or hungry like before. No, it’s fucking gentle.
Huh.
And when he pulls back to look at you again, there’s no ounce of that familiar irritation in his eyes. No anger, or doubt, or control. Just care.
“You okay? Not… too much? Not hurtin’?” he questions, thumbs pressing into your thighs, though it’s not possessive anymore. Almost like a massage, or a caress, an involuntary sigh escaping your lips as you nod. He hums. “Okay.”
You never would’ve expected so much goddamn reverence as he cleans you up slow. Dragging a clean cloth over your stomach, your thighs, your oversensitive skin. Whispering sweet praises when you wince, pressing soft kisses when you hiss. And when he’s done, he holds you close, breathing you in, dropping one last kiss to your neck, before:
“…I, uh. I think we should book a motel.”
AN: Hello! I feel like my posting schedule is all messed up, oops. I wanted to do one a week, but that doesn’t seem to be working…
I can’t decide if I like this or not, so I’m gonna leave that decision up to you guys, lol! Also also… another Metallica reference in the title. Can you guys guess what kind of music I like? (PS: No shade to Celine Dion. Sorry.)
sub Dean who experimented and went to bdsm clubs in his early 20s and was willing to try almost anything but nothing ever put him in the peaceful headspace he desperately needed so he always left unsatisfied. That is until Sam dommed him without even really intending to and before Dean knew it he was blissed out and gone
Summary: Sam is completely infatuated with you, so much so that he practically lays his heart at your feet. He is the most selfless, tender, and attentive lover you have ever had, but he also loves to taunt, tease, and demand, a side of him reserved solely for you, and you can't get enough of it.
OR:
Sam brings you to orgasm with your bullet vibrator whilst you cockwarm him. Plus some emotional revelations and some ever-so-appropriately-timed philosophical musings. In other words, you're just a couple of hot, horny nerds with a soul-bending emotional connection (emphasis on the horny).
Notes: This may eventually make an appearance in my longfic, History on Your Side, which I wrote this adjacent to, but I haven't got there yet, and I'm too impatient to keep this to myself. This can also be read as a one-shot. I hope you enjoy!
Sam’s eyes meet yours, the thin band of hazel ringing his pupils glazed with pleasure. The gold flecks in what was left of his irises appear to dance in the lamplight, swimming with desire as he reclines against the headboard, chest rising and falling in a hypnotic rhythm.
He looks dazed: his lips wet and parted, the sweat on his skin making him glow like a god. You’ve never seen him so...
So...?
He is blinding, angelic, gazing down at you with... what?—adoration?—awe? He’s the most beautiful person you’ve ever seen. How can he even exist? He is beyond comprehension.
Your heart beats a little harder in your throat and you swallow around the lump that has formed, the salty tang of Sam’s release still fresh on your tongue. What is he seeing as he takes in your state: naked and disheveled, what you have just done, what you are planning to do? You can’t be sure, but the way it makes you feel when he looks at you… The way he makes you feel. Him wanting you, desiring you, basking in the afterglow of your ministrations. You feel like the most powerful woman on the planet.
Chancing a smile, you shuffle your already-grazed knees in the blankets.
“I wanna be the best, and worst slut you’ve ever had,” you rasp without thinking, but stop yourself short before saying, I want to be your everything. It’s too much to ask—you know—but fuck, it doesn’t make it any less true.
You watch his eyes widen, then... soften slightly. He is all hard muscle and bone, but you know that beneath that rough exterior is a softer terrain he’s sheltered behind the barricades of his lifestyle for too long. Just like you have. He’d taught you that, no matter how unintended.
“Shit,” he says, his breath hitching. “You already are.”
You already are. It sounds like a confession to your unvoiced thoughts.
“And I,” he continues, leaning forward and cupping your cheek with his palm, “want to be the one to fulfil those desires.” His thumb brushes a gentle stroke against your jaw, making your hairs stand on end, electric. “Every depraved, little thought. Every dirty fantasy. Every desire you’ve been too afraid to ask for—including the ones you deem you don’t deserve.”
He isn’t just talking about sex anymore. This is.... personal. He knows. Somehow, he knows. He’s always known—the way you view yourself—how you’ve deemed yourself unworthy of love. Because... He feels that way too, you realize, your heart breaking a little. This man. This perfect, selfless man, has never deemed himself worthy of love. At least he hadn’t, until—
Sam’s hands find your waist, his calloused hunter's palms gliding over smooth skin, and he pulls you towards him, guiding you onto his lap. You let your knees fall on either side of his hips, his bare skin a warm, familiar comfort against yours.
“I,” Sam says, your face now level with his, “want to be the one who gives that to you, Y/N. It’s my greatest honor to serve you.”
“Serve me?” Your voice is but a whisper, but the question sits heavy on your tongue. It tastes foreign, but sweet, a flavor you’ve never encountered, but now that you have, you’ll never forget the aftertaste.
“Yes,” he says, matter-of-factly. “As your dom, it’s my duty to serve you.”
Duty. That word again. It's come up a lot in your conversations. What is it with this man and his superior sense of moral responsibility? For a seemingly non-religious man, he attaches a lot of reverence to it. For him, it is an imperative. He is attracted to it like flies to honey. He did study for law school, you reflect. Maybe he's read too much Kant?
He cups your cheek again, his gaze flicking between your eyes and lips. “Everything I do is to serve you, Y/N. Even when I’m commanding you, I do it to serve you. Thank you for trusting me to do that.”
A sense of revelation washes over you at his words. Although you’ve never doubted him, not even for a second, trusting someone to anticipate your needs—to know when and how far to push your boundaries, and when to pull back—is not something to be taken lightly. Now, you realize, that putting your trust in him should have been harder than it was.
But he makes it so easy; you’ve never once felt pressured, put on the spot, or coerced. As counterintuitive as it may sound, being his sub—being commanded by him, at his mercy, even being restrained at times—actually makes you feel more free. Liberated. It all suddenly makes so much sense, like a lens snapping into focus.
He looks you in the eye again, steady, analyzing, and you know that he is asking for permission. That look, coupled with the strained sensation against your thigh— You know that this conversation isn’t over, but yet...
You can feel him beneath you—again—hard and insistent. Undeniably desirous. You’ve never known such stamina.
You nod—yes—and that is all the confirmation he needs.
His lips meet yours in a heated kiss, his tongue shortly following, as if he’s savoring every note of your taste.
You shift your weight and your bodies move together as you rise to angle yourself against him.
You join together slowly, deliberately, the stretch of him a welcome pressure that makes you gasp into his mouth. You sink deeper, deeper, until you are held-fast against him. He fills you so completely, so perfectly, you can feel it in your soul. It is more than the physical—you’ve never felt so whole, so complete.
Sam smiles against your lips as he holds you there, unmoving, seemingly happy to just sit here inside you.
“You see?” he says. “We fit perfectly together, you and I.”
“You’re such a romantic,” you tease.
“Maybe. Maybe it’s just the effect you have on me.”
Playfully, you roll your eyes, start to say something, but are stopped short as Sam’s lips attach themselves to the base of your throat, causing you to let out an embarrassingly breathy moan.
“You were saying?” He chuckles, continuing to explore your neck with his lips and tongue.
“I..." you sigh. "I can’t remember.”
He chuckles again, smugly, then moves his lips to nibble at your earlobe. The way his body presses against yours angles his cock even tighter into your sweet-spot, and the desire below your belly cascades with liquid heat.
“Fuck,” he growls, low and deep, his breath hot against your ear. “I can feel you baby—what this is doing to you. You’re so fucking wet. So fucking responsive. Such a good girl for me.”
You don’t even bother to hold back your moans now, it is all too much—he knows exactly what to do, knows exactly what to say to get you going. Always has.
“Yes,” you mewl. “And it’s all for you, Sir. All for you...”
You begin to grind your hips, chasing that high only he can give you, but Sam clearly has other plans.
“Hey,” he whispers, placing his hands on your hips to still you. “Not yet. Slow down.”
As frustrating as it is, you comply. Sam has a way of testing your patience like no one else. It has always been worth it, though.
You watch as he extends his arm to the side, rummages around in your bedside dresser. Immediately, you know exactly what he has planned, and you throb around him at the thought.
His hand emerges grasping a small, silk, drawstring pouch, and you watch as he slides out your small-but-mighty bullet vibrator.
It may not look like much, but it is powerful, versatile and lends itself perfectly for situations like the one you currently find yourself in.
You’d told him about your toys—this one especially—seeing as it had kept you company most recently whilst he was away.
He sets the empty pouch back in your drawer.
“So this is what had you screaming my name down the phone?” he says, smirking.
You whole body flushes at the memory: Sam’s voice in your ear as you both got yourselves off; you at home, Sam in some dingy motel room when he’d managed to steal some time alone.
“It might be small,” you say, “but it’s very effective.”
“Hmm,” Sam says, considering. “I think it’s about time we get acquainted, then.”
You watch open-mouthed as Sam brings your vibe to his lips, letting the tip enter his mouth.
“Cold,” he says, then pushes it in further, coating the entirety of the metal with his saliva.
You continue to gape as he removes it, then after three testing clicks with his thumb, sets the vibe alive.
The sound of the buzz alone has you tingling, especially at the thought of Sam controlling it.
“May I?” he asks, holding the device between you, always asking for permission, always the gentleman, even as he plans to torment you.
Your nod is urgent, but Sam’s actions are anything but as he brings it to rest lightly against your mouth. The sensation is strange, but not unpleasant, and it sends a tingling sensation right through your brain.
“Open,” he demands, and you comply, letting the vibe buzz against your tongue for a minute before he drags it down your chin and across your jaw, painting your combined saliva in a shiny, wet stripe across your flesh.
When it meets the side of your neck, you flinch, giggling. You’ve always been ticklish there. Sam knows that, and he only looks amused.
After that agony, he drags it over your collarbones, then over your chest, taking a moment to circle the tip around your already-erect nipples, making them pebble even further.
“That good?” he asks with a smile, no doubt in response to your increasing moans, and you nod, biting your bottom lip.
“Good,” he says, satisfied.
After another few moments, he slowly trails the vibe down your stomach, as if the tip were a knife skimming the surface of your skin, too light to scratch the surface. You are ready, itching with anticipation, desperate for the ache between your legs to be quelled, but before it reaches its destination, it veers of to the side, snaking its taunting vibrations along the insides of your thighs. Not where they're meant to be.
A groan of want erupts from your vocal cords, a pathetic, audible manifestation of all your sexual frustration and tension. It is torture, and just like Sam to add salt to the wound.
Your clit is throbbing, pulsing with need, and you can’t stop yourself from rocking into his pubic bone for a fragile semblance of relief.
At that—and in true Sam fashion—he pulls the vibe away completely, stealing a kiss before you can do so much as protest.
His free hand moves to tangle in the hair at the base of your skull and tugs with just enough force to let you know that he is in control. As if you didn't already know, as if you weren't already completely possessed by this man.
He’s throbbing now, too, you can feel it—aching inside you—yet his kiss is anything but urgent; it is controlled, completely deliberate, and utterly frustrating. You want to be devoured.
His tongue glides against yours at an agonizingly slow pace, and you have no choice but to let the feel and taste of him flood your senses, completely override your nervous system. He is soft, and sweet, and tender in all the right places, though sharp, hard, and demanding in equal measure, in a way that is so uniquely him, and the combination is intoxicating. Your own personal class A.
Is it possible to be addicted to a person? you wonder in earnest, because you're now certain that what you've been experiencing when you're away from him is nothing less than withdrawal symptoms.
When he finally pulls back, you are breathless, but his breath is steady. How does he do it? you wonder. Stay so calm? You suppose that is why he is such a good Dom for you: he is the gravity keeping you in orbit in an otherwise chaotic universe. The steadying force, keeping you from spinning out of control. Without him you’d either combust, or float around aimlessly like you had done for the past several years.
When you are least expecting it, Sam finally acquiesces, resting the shiny surface shyly against your swollen clit—so shyly that you are still forced to chase—and it drives you fucking crazy. You know how much satisfaction he derives from making you so uptight and needy, and the sound that leaves your body at that moment is bound to have pleased him with now desperate you sound.
Shifting your hips, you press up into him, wedging the vibe snugly between your bodies, and this time, he lets you. The rumble is ecstatic, and you gasp as the sensations take over, dissolving every rational thought inside your skull.
It doesn’t take long. After all that apprehension, you are a loaded gun; quite literally cocked and ready to blow.
Closing your eyes, you tilt your head back, and in pure ecstasy, release another high-pitched squeal of pleasure.
Sam laughs at that—actually laughs—and then it's his lips on your throat again, his voice in your ear.
"That's it, moan for me, baby. Ah—fuck—you're so tight, so close already, I can feel it. Come around my cock, princess. Yeah, that's it. My beautiful, beautiful girl..."
His words. His voice. His lips. His tongue on your neck. His cock inside you... It's all so... perfect. He's perfect. So—
You start to tremble uncontrollably, so overcome by all these emotions it would feel demeaning to name, and then it hits you, all at once, like a freight-train derailing, again, and again ...
“Fuck!” you scream, as your climax seizes you, grasping you by the throat and throttling you blue. And as quick as the first one leaves, another simmers in it's wake, surging towards you like a lightning bolt—sharp, intense, and impossible to escape.
As the high of the second also fades out, your head is left hazy with endorphins and you are sweating buckets despite the goosebumps that have also risen on your skin.
In addition to your dizzy satisfaction, you also feel clammy and sticky, your skin sticking to Sam's with the liquid heat of your combined bodies. It's undeniably gross, but Sam doesn't mind in the slightest. In fact, he can't seem to get enough.
"Sam—" you cry, trying but failing to bat him away as he returns the vibe to your clit, assaulting your bud with a force that makes you hiss through clenched teeth. "S-sensitive!"
"I know, baby," he says, and he does know, but he's also using his dom voice, and that can only mean one thing.
"C'mon, baby," he says, as you continue to squirm and squeal against him. "Please, let me give you another. You've got more in you, I know it."
"But Sam I—I can't—" you whine.
"Yes you can," he says adamantly. "You can, and you fucking will."
At that, you have no choice but to give in, clawing your nails into Sam's shoulders hard enough to mark as he turns the vibrations up to the max and tears well in your eyes and dribble down your cheeks.
You're so sensitive from your first two orgasms that the stimulation is almost painful, but you're also so enthralled by him that any pain you feel is secondary to the overwhelming pleasure you feel being at his command.
You could always safeword if you wanted, you both know you could, that's why he feels so comfortable in pushing you, and you in letting him. You do in fact have a choice; you always have with Sam. There's always a way out if you wanted; a way to escape this vulnerability, this powerlessness. But, despite yourself—despite everything—you don't.
Instead, you resume your chase, rocking your hips frantically into his to meet his demand, pushing yourself to the edge of overstimulation and then over, finally manifesting in a pleasure that is threefold and leaves you reeling in catharsis. In control. In power.
"That's it, baby," Sam growls, almost aggressive now in his devotion as you buck against the vibe, practically wailing his name as hot tears zizzle down your cheeks and evaporate against your skin.
"That's it. My good fucking girl. My perfect little slut. Fuck—you're so hot—screaming like that. Fuck—you're gonna make me come. Please," he groans. Pleads. Begs. His restraint finally fraying. It's always so satisfying to watch it break.
"Please make me come. Princess deserves it. Princess deserves all my cum."
And you're not a religious person by any means, but dear god, this... This feels like worship. Like reverence.
And sure as hell, it is enough to do it, and he is right. Again.
Is he always fucking right?
The tangled knot inside you frays, and then finally breaks, and you can't contain yourself any longer.
Whiteness spreads behind your eyes and your body trembles with an intense, visceral relief that leaves you unable to do anything but cling onto the only man that has ever made you feel weightless. Who knows you better than anyone should have the right to. Who always makes you feel powerful, even in vulnerability.
Gauging your reactions, Sam clings back, cradling you to his chest and rutting his hips upwards as you both come together in a writhing ball of orgasmic bliss.
A few, sweat-soaked minutes later, collapsed and tangled together in euphoria, Sam concedes with a grin, “Very effective, indeed.”
After biting the bullet i just need to ask for more sam🙇♀️🙇♀️ im in love with the way u wrote it.
Preferably with dom sam and afab reader. If u write stuff like it maybe some high confessions to esch other that turn into smut. The thought of sam doing everything to pleasure her outside of sex but him being quite greedy while doing it makes me go crazy so if it could be something like this, i would actually marry u in an instant😭
I never requested anything like this so i hope this is okey!! If u have some questions please please text me about it🙇♀️ i hope u have a lovely day whenever u may see this and thank u for your writing.
hello my love, ask and you shall receive ᯓᡣ𐭩
smoke sessions // dom!sam
sam (sdv) x afab!reader
wc: 7832
mdni -> unprotected sex, overstimulation, referenced past trauma/ab*sive relationships, teasing, oral (f receiving), drug use (marijuana)
*** it wasn’t until your story was over that you realized how much you had smoked, way more than you had told yourself you would, everything moving just a little bit slower.
he had already rolled another, kept his eyes locked on you as he grabbed two small bottles of wine out of your fridge, scratching the roots of your hair for a split second on his way back to his too-close position on your worn out couch.
your drowsy eyes lingering too long on him, heartbeat in your throat as you caught his, staring back at you with those stupid eyes and that stupid face and you couldn’t figure out why it was suddenly so hot in the room and why your hands were kind of clammy and-
oh. oh.
fuck.
“so,” he finally blinked, snapping the rubber band on his wrist.
“so,” you giggled, unable to help the sheer amount of nervousness running through you, like a teenager in…
…love…? ***
ᥫ᭡。
★🎸🎧⋆｡ °⋆
“good GOD sam what the FUCK?!” you yelled at him, half to tears as you held your purple sword between the two of you.
eyes puffy and red, voice cracking as your fragile hands struggled with the weight of crashing adrenaline.
“two thing- three things,” he sighed, kicking his shoes off and lining them up by the door.
“one, since when have you had this fucking beast,” he laughed, taking your sword from your hands and placing it back by your door.
“two, you gave me a key to your house, dumbass,” you looked at his keys, still in the door. classic. no wonder he just now came around.
“three, since when do you not answer your phone?”.
ah. that thing.
“actually, one more thing, why the hell are you crying?”
damn it.
“sam i-”.
“also, when was the last time you ate? or showered or-”
“sam i kno-”.
“you scared me half to death you kn-”.
“SAMSON,”.
you had never once raised your voice at him, or anyone in the valley for that matter. you scared yourself, covering your face as soon as you said it.
looking at each other like a deer in the headlights, frozen in time.
“i’m sorry i-” you started the clock again, gravity no longer struggling against the weight of the silence your cabin held.
“no no im sorry i shouldn’t have i-” he sighed, turning around and walking out your front door.
fuck. fuck fuck fuck. why do i fucking ruin everything every goddamn ti-
three knocks on your door, not even fully closed, stopping your tears from falling again.
“hi, can i come in?” he poked his head around the opening, shit eating grin plastered on his face.
all you could do was laugh, the first time you had laughed in a while. in a long fucking time.
you waved him in, body already heavy enough on its own, begging to be held in the corner of your couch, not even bothering to make the trek to your bedroom most nights.
“can we start with one question at a time?” he practically pleaded, the softest you had heard his voice in months.
a silent nod, not even bothering to sit up all the way.
you didn’t want to answer anything, you didn’t want to talk at all.
“where have you been?” you could feel the pain in his voice, nearly snapping like a string pulled too tight, strummed one too many times.
“aw not even gonna ask me about my sword? lame,” you huffed, hoping you would be able to avoid the inevitable just a little bit longer.
“okay fine, since when have you had that fucking beast?”
a small tug on your lips, knowing he would eventually always come around and cave in.
you found the strength to sit up, knowing his favorite stories were yours from the mines. his eyes would always glimmer, the most animated faces that could bring a laugh out of anyone, even George.
“wait- before you start, you down?” he held up his fake headphone case, and you knew exactly what he had brought.
“sam you are god in the flesh yes please,”.
he raised an eyebrow at you, a small laugh under his breath as he unzipped the case that you knew would bring an ounce of relief, one that wouldn’t leave you begging for mercy and ginger ale as you opened your eyes.
was it the best idea? probably not. your self-inflected cage near impossible to hold on to, each drag another lock undone.
your mouth moved faster than your brain, begging soul and childish heart trying to take their chance at escape.
to be heard, by more than tile in your shower, by more than your chickens who obviously didn’t know what you were ever saying. by the seeds you planted, the rocks you broke open. by someone.
i can keep it together. yeah, a couple drags won’t hurt. just enough to stop crying for a bit. that’s the last thing he needs to see.
“here,” he handed you the perfectly wrapped blunt, sealed with a swipe of his tongue and calloused fingertips.
his hands a little shaky, silver rings along his fingers worn from prolonged wear, same tarnished look as the bracelets you’d never once seen him take off.
“you got a light?” you asked, looking around to see if you had one lying around, too lazy to make a designated home for most of the things inside your near empty cabin.
in a single flick of his thumb, the lighter you gifted him on a whim ignited in his hand. wrapped in a watercolor mix of blues and greens, the same colors as his eyes.
he never put two and two together, but when Pam had stopped by the only liquor store between the valley and the desert, of course you joined her.
met at the counter with a few snacks you hoped would keep you awake in the mines, as well as some drinks for after, the colors flashed in the corner of your eye, placing it in front of the weathered cashier before she could tell you your total.
you couldn’t figure out why you bought it so quickly until you saw him next, mouth running dry at the thought. you hadn’t done that for sebastian, or abigail, for anyone, and you weren’t nearly as close to him as you were to his best friends. well, at the time.
before the concert happened, the four of you were nearly inseparable. rushing to get your farm work done by the early afternoon, enough time to yourself before you would all settle in sebastian’s room, nearly yelling at each other over a never ending game at his table.
that’s when things flipped upside down, sideways, and every which way other than level, fight or flight activated since. a mix of both, really, settling on a third option of avoidance and breakdown, burying yourself in the hole you didn’t realize you were almost out of.
a hastily written letter in your mailbox, stating you had to be at the bus stop by 4, no later, plans for the day flipped upside down.
you hadn’t been to a concert in forever, and for their band? you wouldn’t miss that for the world.
it didn’t help that there was something different about him when he was on stage, a sultry kind of confidence that made your heart beat funny and your stomach flip.
comfortable, like he really did belong on a stage, born for it. eyes glued to yours for a little too long, verses ending in near whines, others in heart wrenching screams, the truest form of him you had ever seen.
that stupid smirk on his face as he did it, really selling the show. he was made for it, it came naturally. you weren’t sure how the other girls at the show weren’t fawning over him, hoping to grab his attention and sneak backstage.
when he pulled his eyes off you to focus on his bright red guitar, energy radiating off of him as if he couldn’t stay still for a second longer, even if he tried, you were startled back to the present.
a slight weight on your chest when the air finally came back to your lungs, as if you had been holding it that whole time.
a tingling under your skin, fingertips buzzing with god knows what, surely just the reverberation from the speakers, right?
too lost in the show to remember you were in a crowd, just about everyone to your back. guard down, brain fuzzy.
disappointed that their set ended so soon, or it at least felt like it did, the three of them walking behind the curtain and out of your sight.
then he tapped your shoulder before you could even turn around, the one who pushed you to the valley in the first place.
the final straw, leaving with your phone and your wallet, and anything of importance inside a single duffle bag, you took the key from the letter you finally unsealed at your desk.
you wished you had opened it so much sooner, to visit him in his fragile state, hell to see him for the first time in over a decade. but he still managed to mail you that letter, somehow figuring out the correct address.
you didn’t open the letter until you felt like it, forgetting it in your desk drawer as it was the only place you could keep anything mostly private.
a locked journal, grandpa’s letter, and a mess of papers and sticky notes, poor attempts at keeping your work in some kind of order, too many projects and a skeleton crew. all about profit, don’t give a single shit about us, figures.
one fight too many, the lowest blows he had ever thrown your way. you would have sworn you killed a man with the way he spoke down to you, all because he found out your new supervisor was a younger man.
it didn’t matter that you explained he didn’t even live in Zuzu, had a beautiful family, and had only spoken to you via email, you were ruining everything.
you were the problem, the worst disease the universe had ever known, an ungrateful liar who was lucky to have him.
you mirrored your mother too much, or maybe your father, a disappointment at best, too broken and scarred to be loved by anything at all. let alone sincerely.
you were too difficult, too much. emotional, crazy, worthless. and you were lucky to have him, after all he swore up and down that he was the only one who would ever put up with you.
the words you could eat, swallow them down, throw them up behind closed doors. they would spill out mixed with bile and tears, the bathroom fan and shower running to hide enough of the noise.
a never ending cycle, to sit down, shut up, and learn your place. to do as you were told, to look the way you were told, to be what you were told. but when his palm swiped clear across your face, you couldn’t stomach it.
you were just so easy to mold into whatever he pleased, never given the chance to grow a spine, just a bundle of nerves and blood on the floor.
living in greyscale, you weren’t even sure if you were alive. and you weren’t exactly sure if you wanted to be.
so when a year of color, vibrant and warm, shut down at the turn of your head, so did you.
you had nearly forgotten entirely, building yourself up, to some degree at least. able to walk, to get out of bed every day, to do things you never thought possible. a fairytale, in a way.
“long time no see, huh?” his eyes were the same swirling mess you remembered, each word pulling out another vertebrae of your makeshift spine you built without direction.
linked in all the wrong places, nerves all jumbled up. and it hurt like a goddamn bitch to have them pulled out so rough, shattering in his grasp.
“didn’t think you could leave forever, could you? blocking all my numbers only got you so far. see you’ve turned into quite the whore haven’t you? did i teach you nothing?”
circling, spinning, dizzy, fainting, everything in between and nothing at all. you didn’t know where you were, devoid of color and vision blurred no matter how fucking hard you tried.
lungs empty, collapsing as he clawed his way through your chest to break you down again.
you couldn’t remember how, or when you got back to the valley, all you could do was mimic other forms, using the chatter of the people who accepted you as one of them, poorly shoving yourself into a unrecognizable form scarred to the brink of death.
you had lied to sam over and over and over, saying you had come down with something, you had a lot of stuff to catch up on, any half-assed excuse you could to hide your truest form away.
to slip back into all your bad habits, only taking enough time to do the bare necessities for the farm and the animals, not bothering with much else.
too much happening to begin to comprehend, endless pit of dread on top of so many feelings that left you confused and scared in a good way, sam’s unwavering stare on that stage replaying over and over, so many conflicting wires that your system crashed and all the circuits burned out.
blocking every number until your ears nearly bled, over and over and over, unknown numbers driving you insane.
paranoid that he would find you, that a piece of him had followed you, it was just too fucking much.
you didn’t even know how long it had really been, a week, a month?
you didn’t feel human anymore, you hadn’t since that earth shattering ending.
but there it was, color, in the form of flame illuminating the eyes that matched the vessel in his hand, waiting for you to lean in and pull the smoke in.
frozen, blunt between your shaking fingers, your ears stopped their ringing.
“are you-” he tilted his head to the side, eyebrows slightly pulled together as he watched your face with so much intent.
blinking hard, remembering that he couldn’t read your mind, that you were probably freaking him out for no good reason, you nodded your head and brought the kindest of offerings to your lips.
“you’re a shit liar, i hope you know that,” he almost laughed, that stupid fucking smile on his face as he watched yours, and you swore you burned alive on the spot.
hyper focused, holding that damned lighter to the end, watching as you pulled the smoke in, filling your lungs you didn’t think you had anymore.
trying your best to remember to take it slow, handing it off to him after your first long inhale, the sweetest hint of vanilla at the end.
he remembered?
it was the same taste as it was that first time you hung out for real, out by the quarry for no good reason. just talking, so much talking, hands in pockets and steps slow, following nothing at all, just the urge to keep silence at bay a little bit longer.
that evening a core memory, all happy afterwards. the first time you weren’t carrying around the weight of disaster on your shoulders, on your chest.
“alright, nowwwww,” he said through some heavy breathing, smoke held for a little too long.
“okay, okay fine,”.
you tried your best to make the tale exciting, about the serpents you fought and how you found that first prismatic shard.
that there was some sort of magic in the desert, a hint left on the cave walls to make an offering to whoever was out there, the best sword you had ever laid eyes on.
was the purple a little obnoxious? sure, but it was also a reminder of your strength, at least enough to find one of the rarest minerals out there, something you were able to do on your own.
it wasn’t until your story was over that you realized how much you had smoked, way more than you had told yourself you would, everything moving just a little bit slower.
he had already rolled another, kept his eyes locked on you as he grabbed two small bottles of wine out of your fridge, scratching the roots of your hair for a split second on his way back to his too-close position on your worn out couch.
your drowsy eyes lingering too long on him, heartbeat in your throat as you caught his, staring back at you with those stupid eyes and that stupid face and you couldn’t figure out why it was suddenly so hot in the room and why your hands were kind of clammy and-
oh. oh.
fuck.
“so,” he finally blinked, snapping the rubber band on his wrist.
“so,” you giggled, unable to help the sheer amount of nervousness running through you, like a teenager in…
…love…?
“listen, i’m sorry i scared you, i really didn’t mean to, i just got worried, y’know?” he shrugged, clouded in what seemed like…embarrassment?
“it’s okay, i should have told you, i-”
“did i do something wrong? if i said something you should’ve just slapped me or something y-”
“no, no no, it wasn’t anything you did, i promise,” you grabbed his hand, like it was an instinct or something, trying your best to make it clear to him that it really wasn’t his fault at all.
it made your stomach flutter, brain stop working for a second. you dropped it after a second too long, clearing your throat after.
“what’s going on, then? i can’t just sit here and know somethings wrong and not at least try and do something, i just-”
“okay, okay, but you keep this between us okay?” your eyes pleaded, begging him to keep that part of you away from everyone, everything.
what am i doing?
“yes ma’am,” he nodded, nothing but seriousness in his voice, adjusting towards you to express his full attention, something he could rarely do.
unable to meet his eyes, you worked up the nerve, or whatever it was holding you back, to yank on the string holding your pride together. you placed it in his hand, unraveled, bloodied, gone for good.
it wasn’t linear, a jumbled mess of words spilling out faster than you could catch them. every syllable foreign to you, telling some sort of story that didn’t seem to have much plot, back and forth between before and after, you weren’t even sure.
you were so fucking scared, never telling a soul about the years you spent in your own little hell, never even bothering to ask for help.
so small, so frail, spilling out all the nastiest parts of your memory, your being, onto your living room floor. a mess you weren’t sure how to clean up, stains permanent in the hardwood.
but through it all you were so busy thinking about the nerves that wracked through you, suffocated by his fixated stare, holding that stupid string to your pride so delicately in his hand, just in case you wanted it back.
you knew you couldn’t have it back, too deformed in your gutted state, embarrassed and ashamed of who you claimed to be, fraudulent identity and all.
but it wasn’t the way your vocal cords spit the leftover bits of your soul out, it was realizing how close he was, and how the way he was looking at you made you feel hot.
how grabbing his hand for a moment in time made you feel awkward, catching you off guard.
the overwhelming heat of it all, face scalding, stammering your words into makeshift sentences, if you could even call them that.
“you’ve been here this whole time, alone, and petrified? you know i would’ve come stay with you, or help on the farm or something,” he spoke soft and stern, a bubbly sort of mix that made you hiccup. “he lives in Zuzu? what part?”
his eyes squinted a little, knuckles white in angered fists, unnoticed before. how long have they been like that?
“south side, right off the main highway. kinda by the..”
right by the skatepark.
“skatepark”.
you nodded silently, connecting the fact that they probably know each other.
“i’ll take care of it. don’t worry,”. he handed you a gentle smile, a cover up for his tensed jaw and hard blinks. “and i’ll get’cha a new phone, number, all that good stuff, m’kay,”.
he’s just…being really nice?
you tried your best to ignore that same feeling bubbling in your chest, the butterflies, the tingling in your fingers, the nerves.
“you don’t have to, it’s okay i really sh-”
“hush. let me take care of you,”.
seven words that melted into you on contact, seeping into your bloodstream like chaos.
he…wants to take care…of me?
“sam i-”
“ah ah ah- shush, missy,”. he inched a little closer, pointing a playful finger in your face, just to tap it on the tip of your nose.
he’s…fuck what the hell is going on with me?
“i want to take care of you, i’d walk to the ends of the damn earth if it meant you didn’t go MIA again,”.
where is this coming from? am i hearing things?
“you’ve carried all…this…your whole life. let me help, ‘kay?”
how do i set it down? how do i let you take this knowing how hard it is to bear?
why do you care so much?
don’t you have your own things to worry about? what about vincent? your dad? yourself?
for me? i haven’t done anything in return, i just, what is going ON.
“i care because-”
oh my god did i say that out loud ?
“yes, you did, can you listen to me for a minute, angel?”
angel? who- i- wait a minute.
“hey, look at me,” he grabbed your hand, mirroring your grasp from earlier, except his was steady and strong, no sign of letting go.
“listen, i didn’t want to ruin anything, but i-”
oh my god i’m fucking-
“sam i think im in love with you,”.
shit.
out of breath, startled, frozen in fear at your lack of restraint, lack of control. first you hand him your pride, and then admit what you’d been pushing down this whole time?
so desperate to be heard, and he had open ears the whole time.
you didn’t want to be a burden, the one who only always brought the mood down, the one everyone felt like they needed to worry about. choosing to push it down, push it away, so that they didn’t.
but you’d been pushing this down too, nervous system sounding the alarms when feelings that even resembled something romantic began to surface, real or not.
you denied every comment from abigail, seb, alex, even vincent, thinking they were just trying to set you up because you guys got along.
really well.
and hung out all the time.
but this, you at your lowest, pride removed, walls crumbled, truest form you could show, mixed with a mouth that ran a little bit faster than your brain did, overflowing before you even knew what you were saying.
your hand still in his, breath held as you waited for one of two life altering answers. to keep him by you, or for things to be uncomfortable from this moment forward.
what the fuck was i thinking? what if he doesn’t feel the same? oh god what about penny- god am i a fucking moron?
“oh thank fucking god,” he sighed, yanking you from your awkward distance from him to his lap, the tightest hug ever known, his face buried in the crook of your neck.
in something near fantasy, the gravity stopped again, but this time to watch as its work finally paid off, no longer playing tug of war with your souls to make one of you confess.
wrapping your fingers in his hair at the base of his head, praying that nothing would tear him away even if the entire valley was on fire.
“i don’t think you know how long i’ve been waiting to hear you say that,” his breath tickled the exposed skin of your neck, pulling nothing but a few small giggles out of your chest.
“mmm since you were eye-fucking me at the show?” you don’t know where this buzzing confidence came from, another sentence too fast for your rationale to halt.
“well yes, but, more like right after that night at the quarry,”.
“that was like, almost a year ago!” you pulled back to get a look at his face, hoping it would be a blushing mess, that you would get to see that beaming smile you loved so dearly.
your drawback reluctantly pulling him away from your skin, his face was cocky.
“i know,” he said it so, certain, like you just told him the sky was blue. “i knew you’d be mine. didn’t have to rush a thing,”.
“oh? and how’d you know that?” you tilted your head a little to the side, eyebrow raised, acting like you didn’t feel the same, that you do remember that night like it was yesterday.
“oh please,” he rolled his eyes, drama queen, “you think i couldn’t tell?”
“oh what ever,” you scoffed, unaware that you were really doing anything to make it obvious, hell it wasn’t even obvious to you.
“you’re cute,” he kissed the tip of your nose, pulling you back in as if he was afraid to lose you, arms wrapped so tight that it felt like he was putting you back together.
“shush,” you mumbled into his ear, breath hot on his neck, swearing you felt him shiver at the feeling.
“mmm, nah, don’t think so,” you felt him pinch at your sides a little, making you squirm around in his lap a little too much, your giggles filling his heart to the brim, spilling over and filling his lungs with such warmth he didn’t know how to contain it.
but he knew what he was doing, knowing you were ticklish at the sides, holding back a faint groan at the innocence of your actions, the mild amount of friction making his stoned brain all fuzzy.
first, you said those words he had been dying to hear, second, here you were in his lap, giggling into his ear and hips flush with his.
he couldn’t stop it, the tent in his pants obvious in a matter of seconds.
and of course you couldn’t hold back the slight gasp as you felt it press against you, the smallest little moan as you settled into it.
the two of you sat in silence for a moment, waiting for the other to say something, to do something.
making up his mind, his hands gripped your hips hard, moving your achy little cunt against his length.
a hum reverberated in your chest, settling into the slow ruts, his hands guiding the way.
“feel good, princess?” his voice an octave lower, settling perfectly down in your core.
“mhmm,” you tried to go a little faster, a little harder, something. “wan’ more,”.
“yeah? use your words baby,”. his grip in full control, holding back your attempt to satiate the need that seemingly came out of nowhere.
you couldn’t even remember the last time you had been touched by someone else, just the occasional work of your fingers as your mind wandered, letting it take you wherever it wanted.
being high, being nervous made it feel all the more overwhelming, body encased in his scent and subtly dominate disposition.
“wan’ more of you, please,”.
he let your hips roll harder, longer, just a few times before he held you still again, frustrated whimper spilling from your lips.
“sammyyy, quit bein’ mean,”. his grip too firm, too steady, nothing but a devilish giggle in his throat.
“you sure you wanna do this, sweetheart?”
you could tell his restraint was slipping, needing those words of approval from you before he made you his, before he gave into his greedy nature and take what was his all along.
“yes, please sammy, wanna feel ya,”.
you didn’t recognize yourself, begging with such pity that his eyes grew tenfold, tummy pulling tight at the complete control you handed him so easily.
one swift move, pushing himself off the couch while wrapping your legs around him, your giggles bouncing around in his skull at a million miles an hour.
he moved with such haste, desperate to hear you, to feel you, to see you fall apart under him, to claim you for good.
he laid you down on your bed, gently resting your frame against the plush mattress. the only light in the room was your bedside lamp and the moonlight seeping through your windows, the two of you the only bodies left on earth.
“promise you’ll be good f’me?” he purred in your ear, fingertips dancing on your thighs.
“mhm, i will,”. nodding with frustration, willing to do just about anything to satiate the fire already consuming your walls, twitching around nothing at all.
your beady eyes so innocently begging, completely unaware of the man you were bringing out of him, something downright feral.
“good girl,” he swiped his tongue across his top teeth, sharpened canines shimmering under the dim lights.
the phrase stirred something up inside you, eyes wide and pleading, body his.
crawling on top of you, he pulled you up the mattress, looking down at the exposed skin of your tummy, the sudden tightness of your shirt barely hiding a thing.
his hand brushing up against your clothed clit, just enough pressure to make the frustration slither down to the tips of your toes.
“sammyyy,” you whined with a puppy dog stare, bottom lip jutted to really sell it to him.
“yes?” that stupid smirk on his face, every move calculated as if he’d rehearsed it a hundred times over.
“please touch me,”. you couldn’t sound any more desperate, almost pathetic, just the way he wanted you.
“i am touching you, my love,”.
his purrs were criminal, so thick that it saturated your bloodstream, your brain forced into slow motion.
“asshole,” you whimpered, trying to grab his wrist and move him where you wanted, too desperate to play the teasing game.
“excuse me?” he shook his wrist free, grabbing the sides of your face and forcing you to look into the blown out pupils of his, so sickeningly exciting. “that’s not how we get what we want now, is it?”
“i know you want it too,” you kept whining, eyes glossy in need, pushing your thighs together in hopes it would do something.
“be careful what you wish for, darling,”. the laugh he barely let out was almost sinister, he knew how badly you wanted it, and how he was going to abuse that.
he sat up straight, yanking your shorts and underwear off in one swift motion, pushing one of your thighs open with his knee that was once at your side.
your top teeth bruising your bottom lip, holding back a giggle that was mixed with every emotion you could think of, all of it bubbling in your chest.
the middle finger of his right hand swiping up your slit as he came back down, greedy lips wanting yours again.
your body melting into his touch, gentle traces driving you fucking. insane.
“more-” you tried to beg through his feverish kisses, barely giving you enough room to breathe. so in unison, in tune, made for each other.
as he swallowed up your words, you felt his long finger dip inside you, just past your begging hole that was so desperate to be filled.
your whimpers settling on his tongue, sweet enough to give him a sugar rush, to make him crave so much more, you were driving him insane.
the amount of nights he had fucked his fist to the idea of you, to the sight of you in that too-short skirt you wore at the festival of the moonlight jellies, ocean breeze exposing just a little too much, completely unknowing.
the way the dress you adorned on spirits eve pushed your tits up, nearly spilling out as he jumpscared you in the depths of the maze.
the shirts you wore at game nights, perfume clouding his every move as it radiated off of your pulse points. a little too low cut, a little too big, on full display to him as you leaned over the table.
the blush on your face when you gifted him every single time, teeth tugging at your bottom lip as you looked up at him for approval.
and the swimsuit you wore at the beach, sitting next to him as he watched vincent play in the water, instantly throbbing as he watched you oblige to his little brothers wishes for you to come play with him.
the urge to make you a mother right then and there, watching your top hold on for dear life as you lifted vincent out of the water and throwing him back in, your ass on full display as your back was turned to him.
you drove him fucking crazy. every time you got a little to close to alex, hell even seb, something hot boiled under his flesh, jealousy.
you were his, whether you knew that or not. he wouldn’t have it any other way.
and here you were under him, tight walls wrapped around his finger, begging him for more more more.
a dream, no less, you were finally where he wanted you this whole time, since the first time he laid eyes on you.
“still wan’ more?” he whispered in your ear, peppering kisses on the side of your neck as he began to pump in and out of you, sigh of relief spilling from your parted lips.
you nodded, eyes closed, soaking in everything you could.
you felt his teeth sink into the spots he so gently kissed, sucking bruises dark enough to last for days in spots impossible to cover, down until he was halted by the collar of your shirt.
a frustrated whimper from your lungs as he pulled his finger out of you, tearing your shirt off in a blur, goosebump ridden skin on full display.
every inch of you exposed to him in the dim lighting, ethereal.
“good god you are beautiful,” breathtaking, his words nearly a whisper, trailing kisses down your torso.
hooded eyes looked up at you as he dressed every inch of you in admiration, practically praising the ground you walked on.
he would give you the world if you asked, hell the whole universe and everything beyond it.
at this moment in time, all he wanted to do was fuck you senseless, to make you finish on him again and again and again even after you swore it was too much.
a babbling mess, shaking, marked up, his.
as his kisses lead to the bottom of your stomach, flush with your hips, the silver dog-tag chain he promised to never take off grazed against your heat, the metal ice cold.
he looked up at you with hunger, a man starved for days waiting for the chance to satiate his thirst. a single nod, teeth tugging on your kiss-bitten bottom lip.
and god did he give you more, drinking you up before you could take back your approval, heaven sent.
his tongue writing i love you’s and i want you’s all over, teasing your greedy hole that was desperately waiting to be filled with him.
he was messy, your slick all over him, forgetting to breathe. his fingers dug into the plush of your thighs, fingers nearly turning white at the pressure.
he let you trap him, encase him in your grasp, gasps that held moans hostage the strength he needed to forget every human need, the only thing on his mind was to please.
your fingers tangled up in his hair, pushing his head into you as if he could get any closer.
as his tongue lapped at your swollen cunt, his nose pressed against your clit, pulling that ache in your core a little closer, the knot a little tighter.
he could tell by the growing arch in your back, the pressure in which your thighs encased him, the heightened pace of your whimpers.
he wouldn’t stop even if the whole world relied on it, you were so close at just the work of his tongue, the mild vibrations from his moans, the sting of his fingers losing feeling on your thighs.
“b-baby- pl-please don’t s-stop,”. your words choppy and mere stutters, cut off by the swirl his tongue made around your swollen clit, just to find its way back to your sopping hole.
he listened, that was his plan, he wasn’t going to stop. not until your body remembered every inch of him, knew it belonged to him.
another string on his guitar pulled a little too tight, you came, and came hard.
fighting against the grip he had on you, tugging on the thick blonde strands wrapped around your fingers, trying your best to grind against his face, but he listened, not. stopping.
incoherent words mixed in with your breathless moans and high pitched whimpers, rutting his own hips against your mattress as he drank up every drop you had to offer him, the sweetest thing he’d ever tasted.
he slowly pulled away as your legs began to calm, a moment of peace as you caught your breath for a short second.
“s’fuckin good,” hunger only fueled by the meal you had offered him, he needed more of you, and he needed it now.
he pulled his shirt over his head, throwing it on the floor before taking his place on top of you again, missing his lips on yours.
the light glimmered on him, toned and strong, adorned with piercings you had no idea he had.
dermals placed carefully on his hips, metal bars through his nipples, you were drooling.
his mouth on yours, sharing the taste of you as he groped every inch of you he could.
swallowing up your moans, you needed him and you needed him now.
reaching down, you unbuckled his belt, jeans right after.
his queue to strip, to expose himself as much as you, eyes stuck to you as he adjusted to yank his jeans down in unison with his boxers.
his dick slapped against him, your eyes widening as a sliver of fear shook your heart, knowing it would be a stretch.
as expected, a piercing adorned his dripping tip, all red and swollen and begging.
“sammy please,” you whimpered as he rubbed his thumb over his leaking head, eyes hooded and breath heavy.
“please what, baby?” he hummed, lining himself up to your throbbing cunt, tracing his head up and down your slit, so slow you thought your heart might collapse.
“just fuck me already,” you barked, patience run thin and you swore you would die right then and there if he didn’t fuck you stupid.
thrill and fear mixed in your throat, slack-jawed as he began to dip inside, the sting of the stretch making your body run hot, whimpers of pain as you adjusted to his sheer size.
“you can take it, baby, can’t you?”
he mustered up every ounce of strength he had to sound collected, even though the grip of your walls was breaking him apart.
so warm, so wet, so much better than he could have ever dreamt.
“ ‘s a lot,” unsure of even yourself, could you really take it?
one hand of his leaving his fingerprints on your bones, the other grabbed the sides of your face, forcing your glossed over eyes to face his, to listen.
“isn’t this what you begged for, dirty girl?” the cockiest look on his face, forcing you to look at him as he inched his way inside, swallowing him up so perfectly, fingers pressing your teeth against the insides of your cheeks.
your face ran hot, embarrassed at your sudden defeat, your cunt obviously wanting more.
more, more, more.
“use your words, bunny, c’mon,” he pressed his forehead against yours, teeth sharp as they barely held back a cruel laugh that was simmering all the way down to his cock.
“mhm, y-yes,” you were able to mumble out of your lips that were smushed together, a slight nod against his too-tight grip.
“are you going to be good?”
without a second to respond, a single buck of his hips as he bruised the sweetest bit of your cervix. you swore he was in your throat, so incredibly full.
head falling back into the rustled up blankets, one of your legs swung over his broad shoulder, going deeper.
the moans he rattled out of you were beyond unholy, something you didn’t even think you were capable of.
your gummy walls sucked him off so well, molded to the shape of him upon entry.
your body didn’t feel real. each thrust of need, desperation, a year's worth of pent up feelings spilling out at the expense of your sopping wet pussy.
“s’ fuckin tight my god,”. his tone was downright feral, teeth pinned together as strands of his hair fell onto his forehead.
he looked so strong, teaching your cells that you belonged to him now.
“don’t get all- f-fucking hell, shy on me, c-c’mon,”. barely able to process his words, so lost in the high of his cock pounding into you over, and over, and over again, like his damn life depended on it.
his hand around your throat, fingers closing off the rush of blood to your fuzzy little brain, snapped out of your fucked-out daze.
“you’re f-f-fucking mine, y-you understand?” the colorful mix of his eyes overtaken by the dark, void of all color as he fell pussy-drunk.
“do you understand?” his grip got tighter, your eyes rolling back into your skull, the only thing you could focus on was the violent approach of your next climax.
somehow you forced a meek nod, his grip relaxing enough for the blood to come back through, creaming his length without any warning.
“s-s- oh my- f-fucking hell- ah!”
incoherent at best, babbles and whimpers as your legs shook, overstimulation hitting you like a train.
“there you go, suckin’ me off s’good, such a good girl,”. he didn’t falter once, pace steady and ruthless, leaving you drooling and cock-drunk.
he titled his head to the ceiling, chest heaving and heart racing, mad at himself for not doing this earlier, but so, so fucking starstruck that he actually got to be inside you.
you felt him twitch inside you, how his grip tightened on you, you knew he was close despite your drunken state.
he wanted to fill you up so badly, but he would be fucking damned if he let you off with only two orgasms, he wanted to fuck you downright dumb.
“got another f’me? i ain’t done with you baby,”.
“ ‘s too much- s-sammy t-too m-much,” you felt the prick of tears at the corners of your eyes, fingertips buzzing as they dug into your bedding.
he didn’t care. too focused on the way your tits bounced with each bone-breaking thrust, the sounds you made for him so easily, the way you let him use you.
“i’m not done with you,” his voice more of a growl, fitting for the sharp ends of his canines and primal nature, walls fluttering around him as if they were begging for punishment.
pulling your other leg up, a squeal as he somehow hit a whole new world inside of you, stars and colored specks blinding you.
knees by your temples, the back of your thighs burning as you were folded in two.
“ha- c’see myself inside ya- f-fuck,”.
all 9 and a half inches of him swallowed up inside, bottom of your tummy bulging with each slam of his hips on your ass.
sobbing on his cock, wasted on the lewd squelching of your syrup guiding him in and out, in and out, over and over again.
his hand somehow managed to press on the bulge he created, your tears streaming down into your hair, drooling babbles as your body short circuited, synapses unable to grasp the sheer stimulus of it all.
“gonna fill ya up, s-stuff ya full ‘f me,”. the twitching impossible to ignore, the weight of him stuffing you to the brim, met with your fluttering hole.
pace beginning to falter, the final push needed for you to spill all over him again, body lost in another world as you rode out your third high.
guttural moans filled the air of your room, hot white ribbons coated your battered walls. stuffing you full, writing every word he wished he would have said sooner deep inside.
every i love you, i miss you, you’re all i’ve ever wanted, i wrote this song for you, please don’t go, all of it.
with the spasms of his hips calmed, he let your legs down gently, one at a time.
color flooding back to his eyes, that soft smile taking over once again.
his gentle hand wiped away the tear-stains on your face, brushing away the fly-aways of your tousled hair from your sweat-pricked skin.
still deep inside, still hard, barely heard whimpers as he moved around, he didn’t want a drop to spill out of you.
“you’re an angel,” he hummed, pressing a few gentle kisses to your forehead, last one planted to the tip of your nose.
all you could do was giggle, brain so mushy that you didn’t even bother to deny his sweetness. his adoration.
“let’s get’cha cleaned up, yeah? you did so good for me,”. a few more gentle kisses scattered along your face, satisfied hum at your sugar-coated giggles, the smile uncontrolled on your lips.
a hiss through his teeth as he slid out of you, a wince of your own at the sudden emptiness, almost feeling wrong.
he wrapped both arms around you, locking your legs around his torso, lifting you in one swift movement. too fucked-out to even question how he could lift you nearly deadweight, snuggling your face in the crook of his neck the moment you were upright.
letting him carry you to the bathroom, he flipped the light switch on and set you down gently on the toilet as he fell to his knees to turn the faucet for your bathtub.
petting your leg as he waited for the water to warm, closing the drain when it was just the way he wanted it.
“be right back, m’kay?” he kissed the crown of your head, leaving you all alone for the first time in hours.
head in your hands, elbows pressed into your aching thighs, trying to process what just happened.
from a void of breakdown and destruction, to falling apart at the seams willingly, to sobbing on sam’s cock, all too much for your heart to process, for your mind to wrap around.
“hi pretty,” his hums gentle, crouching down to feed you some water, baby sips.
“hi,” you felt all shy, his presence all-consuming, giggling near uncontrollably.
you felt yourself coming down from your high, both highs, drowsy and spacey, but comfortable.
“so…” he drug out, flush across the bridge of his nose.
“so?” you mocked playfully, running your fingers through his hair.
“first….i think you’d look real pretty with a lil’ collar…” he trailed, almost embarrassed. “nothin crazy…just our little secret y’know?”
the idea had crossed your mind before, but this time it made your swollen pussy twitch despite its battered state.
his.
“second….i love you. i always have,”.
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hello! sorry this took a while, i hope it's what you were looking for!
i have a few other requests that are in the works, those will be coming soon.
i would also love to build off of this... longfic maybe???
thanks for stopping by! i love you all! mwuah!!
currently waiting for my ring @whoreforsam
. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁˖⁺‧₊˚♡˚₊‧
⭑.ᐟ lmk if you would like to be tagged in future works!
(A/N: this is just my opinion and evaluation of their character and sex scenes in the show. please let me know what you think!)
Warnings: SMUT (duh), bdsm, dom/sub, filth lol
Dean Winchester
* MOST SUBBY SUBMISSIVE BRAT WHO EVER LIVED!!!
* He’s also a fan of just normal sex with no type of power play/equal power play. But still. Sub. Dean.
* Such a motherfucking tease it’s not even funny why the heck-
* Straight up gets a boner when you scold him for being so horny.
* Yeah literally so thirsty 25/8 it’s sad.
* You’ll be on ur computer and he’ll start whispering dirty things into your ear.
* He wants to be ruined by you, tied up, choked, spanked. Buuut he is a brat and a bit of a pillow prince. 👑
* You’re dominating him but HE IS IN CONTROL. Dean tells you what to do and he gets it. He’s only obedient if you are.
* “Choke me harder. Faster, bitch. Do I look like glass? Break me.”
* Honestly, being tied up and at your mercy is one of the sexiest things he could possibly think of.
* MARK THAT BITCH. There’s nothing more that would make Dean feel superior to everyone than having your love bites all over his body. Maybe just above his shirt collar so everyone can see. It tells them that he belongs to someone and he finds it super fucking sexy.
* Boasts about his sex life to literally everyone and their mother and honestly its creepy.
* Goes on about how he gets away with being bratty but then u double cross him by forcing him to wear a vibrator while on a case…shit.
* SEXY RULES ENTHUSIAST!!!!
* Give him a bunch of rules to obey in your daily life and if he breaks one, punish him.
* An massive fetish for boobs and god damn does he love a motorboat.
* I think he’d really enjoy you in high heels and looking like a badass.
* And it’s not just in the bedroom he loves your dominance, Dean soooooo has a thing for you bossing him around whilst on a case or literally anywhere.
* Honestly after sex, even though Dean is the one getting used lmao, he always cleans you up nice. He wouldn’t do it for just any girl though. So you’re definitely special.
* Dean is soooo misunderstood by a lot of girls. Yeah he’s in it for the good sex but really just wants someone to take care of him. To be in charge and to protect him for a change.
* In conclusion Dean Winchester horny baby.
Sam Winchester
* Sam is mostly Vanilla, but if it had to be one, I’d say he’s more on the dominant side.
* He enjoys both slow, sweet sex and rough as fuck sex. Though he prefers rough. If you’re okay with it though.
* PASSIONATE AS HECK.
* He’ll choke you and pin you down, all because you asked. But Sam will be so careful with you, always asking if you’re alright.
* Very scared that he might hurt you while being dominant.
* This man likes to BITE. Yes, bite. So be prepared to have to cover up a looooot of hickeys.
* He uses his mouth. Both ways. He’ll not only go down on you like a good boy but he’ll also whisper the dirtiest things in your ear when he’s really in the mood.
* “Fuck, just like that, baby. I want my cock inside you right now. You would want that, huh?”
* Super romantic type so he’d set up candles and flower petals and all of that cheesy stuff to please you and make the experience as pleasant as possible, especially if it’s your first time.
* Sam likes to edge you for hours; your pleasure is his pleasure and edging is just amazing and your moans would be music to his ears, and enough to make him come untouched.
* He wants to make you feel so safe and loved during sex, so he loves the fact that he’s so tall and muscular so it’s almost like he’s protecting you.
* Definitely prefers missionary/being on top of you but wouldn’t object to other positions you wanted to try.
* Will let you dominate him because he thinks it’s cute. How you’re this tiny girl in comparison to him and you telling him what to do just makes him fall in love with you even more.
* If you try and come onto him during a case though, he’ll make sure to tell you off. Angry sex is the result.
* Overall Sam is the cutest bean but also the roughest man ever. He’s just so passionate and loving I need a Sam in my life.
(A/N: Thank you all for reading 🥹 this was my first post so I hope you like it 😊)
im so fuckin cooked chat this fic i literally. im ending the night with 2.9k words written TOTAL TODAY. LITERALLY IN 10 HOURS OR LESS. what the fuck has possessed me and WHY IS IT FOR THIS??????????
