♡fav books - dowry of blood, song of achilles, madonna in a fur coat, misery, perks of being a wallflower, night circus, my year of rest and relaxation, the book thief
♡crushes: george harrison, kirk hammett, sam winchester
♡fav music artists/bands: deftones, metallica, type o negative, pantera, jeff buckley, the doors, the beatles, george harrison, green day, led zeppelin, nirvana, jimi hendrix, death, the smiths, sad lovers and giants, radiohead, alice in chains, children of bodom, cannibal corpse, opeth
P.S.- if I keep tagging you in these and you don’t want me to, please tell me! I’m sorry if I always tag you, these are just the moots that come to my mind first!
Summary: When cramps are really kicking your ass, and a hot bath with your sweet boyfriend isn’t doing the trick… he offers a far more fun solution. (Even if things get a little messy.)
CW: Period sex/blood kink (this is Sam, guys. Are we surprised?), soft dom!Sam, fingering, oral (f!rec), no piv, praise kink, hurt/comfort, Sam’s a nerd, a really sweet nerd, caring Sammy turned filthy Sammy (this is really explicit. I’m not sure if I should apologize for that or not…)
WC: 4.2k
Based on this request!
Steam curls lazily towards the ceiling, softening the edges of the small bathroom in a way that makes everything look a little fuzzy, like you’re floating through a dream. The water’s hot, almost too hot, but you don’t complain. Heat helps.
Or, heat is supposed to help. That’s how it works. And maybe, if you keep telling yourself it’s helping, it actually will.
You sink further into the tub, or, more accurately, further into Sam, your knees tucked up in a way that has them poking out from beneath the lavender-scented bubbles. You lean back into him, letting your head tilt to rest on his shoulder, your back pressed against the hard plains of his muscled chest, that still manage to be so soft.
He smells like your shampoo. It’s comforting, in a way. Distracting, too. Distracting enough that for one blissful second, you’re not lost in the dull, twisting ache low in your abdomen, that drums and pulses in slow waves. It feels like a gut punch—if a gut punch involved those metaphorical fingers curling around your uterus, and clenching it hard enough to burst.
The thought makes you grimace.
“…You okay?”
His soft voice cuts through the silence, warm, dripping with syrupy-thick concern, his chin tucked around your neck. Behind you, he shifts, careful to not let water slosh over the edge, trailing the palm that was stationed on your ribs across your body in a steady caress. One strong arm drapes around your middle, hesitant at first, like he’s trying to gauge where it hurts, or if his touch could make it worse.
It doesn’t. The pressure is nothing but welcome. You hum, a quiet sound, and he responds by rubbing slow, methodical circles over your abdomen.
“Could be better,” you say, letting out a sullen exhale that tells Sam everything he needs to know. His thumb presses into your side, right where the ache sits its deepest.
“Yeah,” he murmurs, voice low with sympathy. Sympathy that would usually make you scowl, or maybe even deck someone, but coming from him? It just feels sweet. “I know, baby.”
The pain seems to pause for a second with those soft, rhythmic motions; before rearing its ugly head right when you start to think you’ve caught a break. It’s small at first. Easy to ignore.
Then it deepens.
You’re pretty sure day two is designed to find out who the strongest links are, and kill off the rest. ‘Aunt Flo’ must’ve been a bitch. The pressure builds, coiling inwards, slow, almost like some kind of warning, before sharpening in a way that makes you hiss.
You try to shift, to breathe, Sam’s hand pausing on your abdomen. Pain radiates towards your back, settling at the tail of your spine, rippling in wince-inducing waves. You stretch one leg out, tucking the other further in, like your body can’t decide whether it needs space, or to be curled in so tight that it’s just about impossible for your lungs to contract.
Behind you, Sam sits frozen. Unsure. His palm is warm on your lower belly, his brows furrowed into a worried frown. He feels your muscles clench, then relax, then squeeze again in a way that he can almost feel, and suddenly, he’s massaging you all over again.
“Hey, shh…” he whispers, a gentle coo, peppering a kiss to your shoulder that’s so soft it just about makes you want to cry. “Do you want me to grab you some ibuprofen? Or… I can make you some tea.” Another kiss. Your throat tightens. “Made that ginger stuff last time. You said it wasn’t half bad.”
His question, while thoughtful, has the opposite effect than he intended, resulting in a frown pulling at your lips.
“No. I’m sick of tea. And pills. And heating pads, and chocolate, and everything else that’ll just disappoint me.” It comes out as a grumble, and you know you’re being a bit of a bitch. But you can’t help it. And Sam, the sweetheart, doesn’t hold it against you. He never does. “I just want you. Here.”
“Okay.” His mouth curves into a gentle smile despite himself, just as he shifts, placing a hot, hard kiss to the column of your throat. Then another. And another. “That’s okay, honey.”
Those kisses, while simply affectionate, manufactured to soothe, have your heart fluttering in your chest. One hand stays heavy on your stomach, fingertips pressing against aches, the other dispatching on its own mission. His palm trails down your side, across the dip of your hip, smoothing along your thigh. So soft, so gentle.
Everything feels slower beneath the water. Warmer. Your body is already so sensitive all over, so when his thumb swipes innocently in a sweet circle on the inside of your thigh, you have to bite back a whine.
But Sam hears it.
And oh, does he love it.
His eyes widen, not that you can see, but the picture of his face in the back of your mind is one of Sam-Winchester-curiosity, his careful exploration stopping as he studies you. That smart, law-boy brain of his working hard, gears turning, deciding just how much to push. How you’re feeling. What you’re feeling. Because if there’s one thing Sam will never do, it’s make your discomfort worse.
For a moment, you’re both quiet. Quiet enough that the only sound filling the room is the drip of the faucet you never quite turned all the way off. But when you shift, letting out a shaky sigh, he speaks, voice dropping an octave. “I could… take your mind off things. If you want.”
It takes you an embarrassingly long moment to realize what he’s hinting at, and when it clicks, your brain seems to short circuit.
Oh.
You can’t say you hate the idea. Not at all. In fact, if anything, your hormones fluctuating like some fucked-up seesaw only has you craving Sam like goddamn oxygen. And the way he’s been smoothing those greedy hands all over you in that stupidly comforting way for the last half an hour is certainly not helping your case.
But the blood…
“…What?” you whisper, voice coming out in a barely audible squeak.
“You’re hurting,” he says, simply, in that ‘duh’ tone of his that usually has you rolling your eyes. “And… I’ve done some research. Endorphins, oxytocin, dopamine… the best natural pain killers, baby. It can help blood flow, too. Lots of benefits.” He pitches the idea in that passionate way he explains his case studies, all smiles and a sweet, hushed tone. You feel a wave of warmth in your chest. “And, y’know. I just happen to know a really great way to get ‘em flowing…”
“You’ve done.. research? When, between Economics and Criminal Justice?”
“I have my priorities.”
His hand wanders, just a little lower, skimming along the sensitive expanse of your inner thigh, and the way you squirm is entirely involuntary. Still, it does nothing to melt that tense expression on your face (that, let’s be honest, hasn’t left since the moment you saw the first spot of red on your favourite panties), your next breath coming out shaky.
“Don’t you—I don’t know. Think that’s… gross?”
His fingers stop their path immediately, curling lightly against your soft flesh. It’s a gentle press, just enough to leave pretty dimples, and if it’s designed to distract you, it absolutely works. His hand is big, so damn big, the heel of his palm to the tips of his fingers covering most of your thigh. He huffs, which you’re sure is meant to sound scrutinizing, but the Sam equivalent is so stupidly soft that it just makes your chest hurt instead. He certainly doesn’t sound disgusted, but, almost… offended?
“Gross?” His voice comes out rough, incredulous. “Honey.” He scoffs, lips pressing hard against your shoulder, once, twice, before he trails up to press a kiss to your temple. Softer than the rest. “No. There’s not one thing about you that’s gross, ‘specially not this.”
“Are you sure? I mean, that sounds… it’s messy, Sam.” You tilt your head from where it’s fallen against his shoulder, and his expression is nothing short of sincere.
“I brought it up. I’m more than sure,” he says, just a touch cheeky, but you know it’s only to soothe your nerves. And, well. It works. “…‘M not gonna make you do anything you don’t want. But… I love you. I love makin’ you feel good. And if it’s going to help…” he trails off, shrugging, bubbles fizzing beneath his elbows. “…Tell me why I wouldn’t want to.”
You can’t quite argue with that.
Not that you’d really want to, anyway. Little pulses of arousal prickle in your lower belly, sparking like embers in a fire that’s just begun to burn. You bite your lip, the rational part of your brain rivaling the more primitive parts, but in the end: the latter wins.
“…Okay. Yeah.”
“Yeah?” he presses, a little surprised, but you don’t miss the hint of excitement there. Cute.
“Please.”
His hand shifts, far less innocent now, nudging your legs apart carefully, and you suck in a breath. “Just maybe not, y’know. Here.”
He stops, immediately, huffing a laugh against your neck, the sound low enough to have a shiver racing down your spine. He presses one last kiss to your shoulder, then pulls away, hands sliding across your body as he holds you in a sweet embrace.
“Okay,” he murmurs, breath hovering by your ear. “Bed. I’ll grab a towel.”
All that newfound confidence dissipates the second you watch Sam place that dark, navy blue towel over the covers, slow and careful, like he’s not just protecting the sheets, but setting a stage.
The movement pulls at his shoulders just right, every shift of those perfect muscles in his back catching in the dim light. He’s broad, beautiful, like he’s sculpted from the Gods in a way that’s downright unfair. You stare, of course you do—ogle, even—and the heat that pools low in your stomach dances right along with those insistent nerves, and that uncomfortable twisting feeling that won’t quite give you a rest.
By the time he’s finished smoothing the corners of that damned towel just right, your heart feels about ready to beat out of your chest. Your legs carry you to the bed without a lick of help from your brain, and when you finally sit, you almost feel… stiff. Not because of him. Never because of him. But because of, well. Everything else.
Still, you stay where you are. Reclined, waiting, and acutely aware of everything.
Like the way the sheets are cool under your back when you shift, lying reclined against the plush covers. Or the way the towel is softer beneath your hips, warmer where it brushes your bare skin. Your still-damp hair fans out across the pillow like a halo, ends tickling your shoulders, making every tiny movement send a spark down your spine. Your knees stay drawn in, thighs pressing together like that’ll do anything to quiet the pulse between them.
It doesn’t. Not when Sam turns, and looks at you like that.
He exhales, slow and measured, his gaze dragging over you in a quiet, almost languid way, like he’s savouring the view. There’s nothing rushed in it, and absolutely nothing careless. He takes his time, committing every detail to memory, filing back the way your fingers curl nervously into the blankets, the subtle tremble to your thighs.
His fingers flex at his sides like he’s fighting some internal battle to hold himself back, before he finally steps closer. The mattress dips beneath his weight as he leans in, the shift subtle, but enough to make your breath stutter.
Then his eyes find yours, and they soften.
Maybe not completely. The hunger is still there, unmistakable, burning just beneath the surface, but it slows. It turns careful in a way that makes your chest ache, and has your muscles releasing tension you weren’t even aware was present.
“Still okay?” he asks, quiet, hovering over you, his bangs tickling your forehead, and there’s something about the sound of his voice that has arousal twisting in your core like a cord about to snap. You swallow, nodding; more to keep yourself from letting out an embarrassingly blissful whine than anything. But oh, that’s not enough for him. He tuts at you, a slow exhale and ridiculous shake of his head, but his expression stays sweet enough to drown in.
“Words.”
“Yes, Sam. More than okay,” you breathe, and that’s the A-plus answer. One of his hands comes to rest over your knee, large and warm and oh so grounding. His thumb moves absentmindedly at first, soothing little circles over the swell of your thigh. Slowly, so damn slowly, it becomes more deliberate, dipping into the crease between your legs, fingertips brushing your inner thighs. Each pass is lighter than the last, like he’s coaxing you to melt, rather than just pulling them apart.
“Just relax…” he croons, his voice low, threaded with something so sweet, so him, that it just about hurts.
He bends over you then, careful of his weight, his body enveloping you completely, but without crowding. His lips press to your forehead first, gentle and lingering. Then to your temple. Your cheek. The tip of your nose.
And when he finally reaches your lips, it isn’t rushed. It’s slow. Almost restrained at first, just the faintest brush, before deepening in a way that feels inevitable.
His lips slot against yours like they were made to, his free hand coming up to cup your jaw, long fingers spanning over the expanse of your cheek. Sam’s kisses never feel confined to his lips, when he kisses: you feel it everywhere. That massive hand tilting your head back to give him more access, his nose smushing against your cheek when he presses you into the pillows, his bare chest brushing against yours as his lips move with a slow kind of fever. His hot tongue swipes at the seam of your lips, asking permission, and when you open up for him, he groans like it’s tearing him apart.
When your legs fall open, it’s of their own accord, your body melting into the kiss entirely, and it’s about the most ‘yes please’ response Sam could’ve asked for. His hand slips, dipping from your thighs to the pretty jut of your hip, shifting to your belly to take a needy handful of the softness there. He lets out a panty dropping hum of approval against your lips, sucking spit back through his teeth. “That’s it, beautiful. Openin’ up for me,” he murmurs, dropping an open-mouthed kiss to your neck, hot and wet with just a touch of perfect suction.
He pulls away only enough to blow a cool puff of air over that shiny little circle his lips left behind, making your body give a happy jolt, a gasp tumbling from your lips at the prickling sensation. He snickers at your shiver, the bastard, but then his fingers are wandering again. Lower this time.
The first brush over the swell of your mound is featherlight, testing, but you’re so sensitive, that it already feels like you’re seconds away from falling apart (pathetic? Maybe. Not that he minds). His thumb brushes your clit, the softest of circles, and you’re pretty sure every coherent thought you’ve ever had falls straight out of your head. You must look a little stupid, going slack jawed, eyes glazed over, brows pulled in silent pleasure, but he doesn’t tease. Those thick fingers glide through your folds, spreading you open with his middle and index digits, his eyes trained on your cunt like it’s the prettiest view he’s ever seen.
You’re wet. Real fucking wet. A string of slick connects your pussy to his fingers as he pulls away just to shuffle himself back, and… oh. That pale, milky red hue clings to his fingers, glistening in the low light, your face growing hot in an instant. It’s just as mortifying as it is, put lightly, completely fucking erotic. Your expression twists into that of an embarrassed frown, just as Sam exhales roughly. But his expression… yeah. Not repulsed. Not even close.
His jaw seems to tighten at the sight of that pink-streaked slick on his fingers, and you swear his pupils only dilate even further. His thumb finds your clit again, thick ripples of pleasure sparking from your core, rubbing precise and firm as his gaze finds yours. And when he sees that less than amused expression, you swear he bites back a grin.
“It’s natural, baby.” His voice comes out butter-smooth, dripping with lust, damn near sultry.
“It’s blood.”
Sam simply mm-hmm’s at that, unphased, free hand moving to splay over your thigh, nudging your legs further apart. Spreading you open for him, wide open, just as he goes right back to practically eye-fucking your dripping cunt. His fingers slide back through your folds, gathering more slick, spreading it slow and filthy. Coating you in your own wetness like he just needs to feel how soaked you really are. “Just makes you even more wet for me. So needy.”
You don’t get to think, let alone respond, before he dips lower and slides one thick finger inside, stretching you out just right, the heel of his palm pressing against your clit when he reaches the last knuckle. Your lashes flutter, eyes fighting to not roll straight back into your head as fire sparks and pulls at your core. “You think I give a damn about a little mess?” he pulls back, letting out a huff, just to thrust right back home with a second long digit to stuff you full. “Y’don’t gotta be nervous, honey. ‘M just gonna take good care of you, yeah? Make you feel alll better...”
You let out a whine at that, one that comes entirely involuntarily, slipping through parted lips. And oh, Sam loves it so much—he makes it his personal mission to hear a thousand more. Your legs fall further apart, knees thumping against the soft towel below, his tongue darting out to lick his lips like the sight of you spread before him has his mouth watering. His fingers pump in slow, rhythmic thrusts that squelch in the quiet room, just as he drags himself back just enough to lower himself between your parted thighs like he’s been waiting to do so all damn day.
His mouth drops to your ribs first, lips tickling just beneath your breasts, before drifting lower, lower, lower, until he’s smudging a sloppy-wet kiss below your navel. He groans, his breath hot and ragged against your belly, butterflies twisting deep in your core. “Fuck… look at you,” he rasps, smushing his lips against the inside of your thighs, sucking sweet red splotches, his shoulders spreading you impossibly wider.
Those perfect, leather tough fingertips drag over that spot deep inside your pussy that makes your vision go white, your back bowing with a euphoric: “oh God, Sam!”
Your own fingers thread through his hair, silky and still a tad damp, and there’s a part of your brain that screams at you to just pull him back up to your lips before he can reach his destination: but it’s damn near impossible to care about taboo when his tongue swipes its first long, deep lick from his fingers to your clit.
It’s so good. Too good. Your hips jerk, chasing the feeling and shying away and oh God another pass comes, timed with a curl of his fingers that almost makes you sob. His free hand pins your hips down hard, keeping you from squirming away, and you’re sure that if he had it in him to come up for air: he’d probably be scolding you again.
Luckily for you, though, he’s addicted the second he gets that first taste.
A low, appreciative noise rumbles from his chest as he laps at you, his tongue broad and hot and filthy, laving over your folds in wet circles that have you rattling out choked moans and pleas. His fingers pump steadily inside you, matching the flow of his mouth with Stanford-levels of accuracy, until your thighs tremble around his head and his name spills from your lips in a broken gasp.
The cramps that twisted and pulled at your core like they were trying to tear you apart? Forgotten. It’s hard to focus on pain when Sam dives right into your cunt like he’s starving, making wet, lewd slurping sounds that have your cheeks heating up and your stomach flipping. His fingers stuff you full, pausing their thrusts just to zero in on that spot—wrist rolling in circles as he presses again and again right fucking there.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck, Sam, Sammy—ah, don’t stop,” you curse, and you don’t think once about pushing him away anymore. Instead? You only pull him closer. Your fist curls in his hair as you sling one leg over his shoulder, soft skin meeting the broad, hard muscle of his back.
He grunts approvingly in response, the vibration shooting through you like an electrical current, and you swear he almost sounds drunk. Like that tangy, coppery-taste he sucks from your core is the finest wine he’s ever gotten his greedy hands on. His tongue laps at you feverishly, swirling around your puffy clit, before sealing around it with those swollen lips like he’s trying to drink you down.
He doesn’t stop. Can’t. Not when his chin drips a shimmery red, not when your thighs squeeze by his ears, not when your voice breaks on his name. The rich combination of blood and slick slides down your thighs, soaking the towel beneath, staining the fabric with evidence of your need.
He smushes his face against you, so damn close that his nose scrunches against your mound, his lips suckling hard against your sensitive bundle, like even a lick of space is far too much. Inevitably, he has to part for a breath—but Sam doesn’t waste a single one.
“Wanna fuck y’like this, baby,” he babbles, curling his fingers, peppering an almost urgent kiss to your pussy between words. “Fuckin’ slippery wet. So good for me.” Kiss. “You’d let me?” Kiss. “Let me fuck you so good? Take all that pain away?” Kiss kiss.
“Mmph… y-yeah,” you croak, thighs shaking so hard, you wonder if he’s already fucked you dumb.
“Yeah? Yeah what?” he urges.
“Want—wan’ you to fuck me, Sammy, just like this. Please.”
He doesn’t answer at first, but he sure as hell groans, muffled, guttural, kitten licking your clit, tonguing at your folds to keep you spread open the way he wants you. One hand is still bruising on your hip, the other hooking talented fingers so perfectly against your sweet spot. His breath punches out in rough grunts, eyes closed like he’s savouring your taste.
“I will,” he promises, sealing it with a broad lick that steals your breath. “Maybe not tonight, baby, but I will.”
His jaw flexes as he swallows around your clit, and you know it must be aching. You’re close, so fucking close, and he knows it: doubling down on his efforts like he wasn’t already one good vibration away from making you pass out into a messy puddle of ecstasy.
“C’mon. Come f’me. Forget all ‘bout the pain, sweet girl.”
He finds that abused bud again. Sucks. Hums a moan like he’s seconds away from falling apart, just enough to make you jolt.
It doesn’t take much more than that.
Your climax washes over you, crashing down in wave after wave of pure, overwhelming pleasure. You writhe, sob, squirms pinned by his big hand still splayed over your hip, every word you try to speak dissolved into a slurred moan. Sam rides it out with you, fingers buried to the last knuckle, tongue swirling tight, until your body sags against the sheets, boneless and spent.
His fingers slip free after a moment, but apparently, Sam hasn’t quite gotten his fill. Because the second he does, he’s dragging his tongue right back through your oversensitive cunt, dipping into your weeping hole to really get a proper taste, right from the source.
You whine, stumbling out a ‘too much’, and it’s only then that he draws back. Slow, languid, licking his lips clean with a satisfied hum.
And oh. Oh God.
His chin, his fingers, God, even sliding down his neck—it’s all slick. Dripping. Stained a glistening reddish-pink, that seriously shouldn’t make you stupid levels of horny, and yet, somehow? It really fucking does.
“S-Sammy, you look… oh, fuck.”
He grins, shamelessly, looking a little more than proud, as he follows your eyes to his fingers, coated in red, shimmering as he raises them to his mouth. Without hesitation, his tongue swipes once, slowly, over his stained fingers, humming at the coppery-sweet flavour with a pleased hum.
Well, fuck.
You’re barely able to swallow back your moan when he leans in, boxing you against the pillows, hands skimming over your still-trembling thighs (and… yeah. He definitely left fingerprints).
“You taste real good, y’know,” he soothes, breath ghosting over yours. You can almost smell the metallic tang in his breath. “And… it looks like you’re feelin’ better, yeah?” he shifts, hands following a path across your body. So damn gentle, a featherlight touch. And when you nod, he smiles. “Good.”
You can’t even pretend to be surprised when he starts lowering himself right back down between your thighs.
“Though… one trial’s never actually enough. Right, honey?”
AN: So, I asked for fluffy requests, because I thought maybe I wouldn’t end up writing way too much… just for me to start writing way too much. So, hopefully, I’ll finish that soon! I’d just started this one a while ago, and finally got around to finishing it.
Side note, sorry for not posting for almost a month. Life is kicking my ass… but! Hopefully I’ll finish up some more drafts.
Also! I figured out how to do the gradient thing, and will be overusing it now 😆
heyyyy!!! I’ve been really into your fanfics recently and guess what… I was literally watching the World Cup with my fam but I was actually on my phone reading your fanfics the whole time LOL 🌎🤭🤭 ur the real winner 🖤🖤😜😜
Omg, hello!!
This made me giggle and kick my feet like a little schoolgirl, thank you, you little sweetheart 🥰🥰
I know absolutely nothing about soccer (football? Please don’t smite me), but will gladly take that win 🤭🏆
