welcome to my master list! below you will find a complied list of all of the stories i have wrote on tumbler. i hope you enjoy :)
all of these works contain smut. read with discretion.
miguel o’hara
never before
summary: you had a hot neighbor. you can’t be held responsible what came out of that.
warnings: oral (fem receving), protected sex, dirty talk
so dirty series
i ii iii
summary: you have conflicting feelings about miguel o’hara, your current fling and your dad’s best friend.
warnings: smut, angst, dbf!miguel, each part has their own warnings.
sebastian stan
it had been months
summary: it had been nine months since you and your first real long term boyfriend broke up. but as they say, time makes the heart grow fonder … and it also made the lust build up.
warnings: angst, smut, thigh riding, cheating, kind of a breeding kink at the end, unprotected sex
the night before
summary: you were invited to your ex’s wedding and despite all logical reasoning, you decided to go. now it’s the night before the wedding and you’re in the same night club with your ex. time to make some more mistakes.
warnings: angst, crying, cheating, oral (fem receiving), unprotected sex.
jj maybank
princess
summary: jj always found a way under your skin, you simply couldn’t stand him, but one night with the help of some substances, he found his way into your bed.
warnings: alcohol & marijuana use, driving under the influence, unprotected sex
tasm!peter parker
if you don’t like me, then i guess you’ll hate me
summary: your whole life people either liked you, loved you, or hated you. when you met peter parker and he was indifferent towards you, you didn’t know how to react, so you started a plan to get him to hate you.
warnings: alcohol, dirty talk, oral (male & fem receiving), unprotected sex
steve harrington
regret & the aftermath
summary: after a whirlwind of a relationship with steve, one night might be the end of it all.
warnings: under aged drinking, mentions of smut
moon knight
angels don’t cry
summary: you were his guardian angel. you would heal him every time, no matter how much it hurt.
warnings: description of injuries (very brief, nothing gory), angst, oral (fem receiving), unprotected sex
the batman!bruce wayne
the dead of night
summary: there was only one person who ever got to see the real you and even he only got to see you like that in the dead of night.
warnings: spoiler free! angst, mentions of alcohol, dirty talk, oral (fem receiving), unprotected sex
trust me
summary: you found yourself trusting bruce like you never had trusted someone before, he felt the same way.
warnings: spoiler free! fingering (fem receiving), unprotected sex (don’t do that), brief mentions of scars
austin butler
fight for you
summary: every time you smoked you called your ex. tonight might change things.
warnings: smoking weed, longing, fluff
feel free to request fics for any of the characters above or any that aren’t :)
the constant struggle of being unable to decide whether you want to read or write and ending up doing none of those things because by the time you’ve decided it’s 9pm and now it’s actually time to watch your show
bruce wayne doesn't know how to be exes. doesn't know how to act like an ex husband, doesn't know how to function without you either. its just been 6 months since your divorce. you both decided it was for the best, something about him focusing on crime rates in gotham rather than focusing on you, his wife.
and no, you didn't just sit back and take the neglect. god, no. you put the divorce papers on his desk, the noise of the folder hitting it echoing as a slap, and? well..he respected your decsion.
but he also missed you, terribly. missed that fire. and so after making up some pathetic excuse of coming over to your apartment to 'drop something you left', he was now on your bed, having you spread out on all fours so prettily, his cock teased your swollen bud from behind, leaving you whining.
bruce speaks first "missed you baby.. missed this pussy." he speaks in that gruff voice of his. the voice you've heard so many times before.
you roll your eyes, the very same fire he fell for in the first place, "prove it then."
and that was it. bruce pushes into your wetness, you groan at the stretch as he bottoms out with a groan. the delicious fullness of it all coaxed a moan out of you as the filthy sound of wet skin slapping echoed throughout the room. his head repeatedly hitting that sweet spot, feeling like ecstasy. you could feel the veins, feel every pulse, feel every little drop of pre cum that dripped from his sensitive tip. his arm comes up, wrapping around your waist as he pounds into you from behind, hands working their way up to your tits. "gonna marry you again" bruce grunts in your ear while fucking you into oblivion.
bruce wayne doesn't know how to be exes. how could he?
Summary: Sam Winchester doesn’t do quickies. But after spending far too much time with nothing more than a couple lingering touches—you’re getting a little frustrated. Too bad Dean can’t seem to take a hint.
CW: Barely any plot, quickies, unprotected PIV, hot library sex (mmm), reader is a little a lot frustrated, Dean’s a major cock block, getting caught (so, accidental voyeurism? I guess?), and no, they’re not into it… sorry!
WC: 4.6K
Based on this request!
Sam Winchester doesn’t do quickies.
It’s a fact that you’ve, rather unfortunately, become painfully aware of over the past year. One that can make you melt one moment, and lose your mind the next.
Because when it comes to you, Sam takes his time.
If he had it his way, every night spent with you would stretch long past midnight, bodies tangled beneath motel sheets while the rest of the world seems to fade into nothing. He’d kiss you so slow that your lungs would run out of air, and you’d have to drag it back in between gasps as he touches every inch of your skin with careful hands. There’s nothing rushed about the way Sam loves you, and nothing careless, either. He makes damn sure that you’re nothing less than spoiled, left boneless and worshipped against his chest, drifting in the hazy bliss of exhaustion as his heart thumps beneath your cheek.
And God, you love him for it. Most of the time.
But the downside of dating Sam is that his life comes with a permanent, trauma-bonded punishment attached at the hip, who goes by the name of Dean Winchester.
You love Dean. You really, really do. He’s family, always has been, and always will be—that’s just a fact of life. But there’s moments, usually when you haven’t spent more than five uninterrupted minutes alone with your gorgeous boyfriend in over a week, that fantasizing about wringing out the older man’s neck like a dish towel becomes your go to form of stress relief.
The two of you need to run some errands? Dean has the impalas keys in his hand before either of you can speak.
Need to interview some witnesses for a case? Well, apparently, the only thing better than two fake FBI agents is three.
Want to stop at some cute diner you noticed for a bite to eat? Oh, you’ve just read Dean’s mind, because he’s been dreaming about pie since last week.
It’s endless, and it’s starting to become unbearable. Especially when you’ve spent the last two weeks with nothing more than a little heavy petting, and it’s starting to feel like some forced dry spell. By day fifteen, you’re pretty sure Dean’s doing it on purpose.
Maybe not meticulously, or even consciously, but either way, you’re going a little insane. For a man so sex-oriented, you’d think he’d be less oblivious about how much of a cock block he’s become; and there’s only so many interrupted moments and unwanted third-wheeling a woman can take before she starts making up conspiracy theories.
Like tonight, for example.
You and Sam had finally managed to peel away after dinner under the excuse of breaking into the local library past close, and digging through some lore archives for your case of the week. Your plan to jump your adorably clueless boyfriend, and climb him like a fucking tree, was in full swing.
And God, it almost worked. It should have worked. Dean had barely looked at you over his burger as he waved the two of you off, mumbling something about not wanting to join in on your little nerd club.
But, of course, fate had other plans. Because not ten minutes later, he’d had some stupid change of heart. And coupled with Sam’s inability to say no, your sweet little library date had turned into a three-person job.
So, you sit wedged beside Sam in an old rickety chair, pressed close enough to rest your shoulder against his, as Dean slouches across from you looking bored out of his skull. Honestly, you’re just grateful he’s finally stopped bragging about his alarm disarming abilities after the three of you busted in through the back door. The silence that’s settled in in the aftermath, though, only makes you twitchy.
Sam’s warm at your side, his thigh brushing against yours every time his leg bounces against the dusty floor. To his credit, he really is researching, which doesn’t surprise you one bit. There’s that familiar, deep furrow in his brow, accompanied by a look of intense focus lighting up his hazel eyes as he scans each page. You, on the other hand, haven’t flipped a single page of your copy of ‘Daemonologie’ in over twenty minutes.
Because Christ, it’s pretty damn hard to focus on mind numbing lore when Sam’s so close, and smells like fucking heaven.
It’s a little stupid, really, how a few dry weeks have managed to wound you up so tight, that you’re vibrating in your seat like a bitch in heat. But that revelation sure as hell doesn’t stop your foot from tapping restlessly against the floor, or do a damn thing about the way you’re practically salivating over the scent of Sam’s shampoo. But, hey, you’d thrown away subtle nearly ten minutes ago, the moment Sam’s beautifully long fingers started tracing the faded ink of some demonic sigil, and you had to resist every primal urge to lick the veins on his hand.
You’re about five seconds from drooling when you break the silence.
“Alright.” You slam your hands down on the table, spooking an unsuspecting Dean, who’d just laid his head down over his forearms—Sam’s head snapping towards you. “This is getting us nowhere.”
Dean groans his agreement, shoving away the book that he hadn’t touched since he’d sat down. “…Thank God. Y’know, I saw a dive a few blocks over. We should—”
“—There’s a microfilm reader in the back,” you interrupt smoothly. “We can flip through old newspapers, look for an actual, visible pattern.”
Dean’s mouth clicks shut at your words, and you swear you’ve never seen him look quite so betrayed. He blinks at you, before throwing his head back like he’d just been sentenced to life in prison.
Sam, on the other hand, folds his book closed with silent care, tilting his head towards you in silent question.
“Microfilm?” he echos, raising a brow, before offering a shrug. “I mean. Beats sifting through physicals, but…”
You shoot him a less than friendly look, one he must some-what understand (bless his soul), because his mouth snaps closed before he can finish his sentence.
“…Right,” he amends.
“Whatever, sweetheart,” Dean grumbles, already moving to stand. “Let’s all go stare at some ancient newspaper clippings ‘til our eyes start to bleed.”
And oh. Oh, absolutely not.
“Dean,” you say flatly, “you hate microfilm.”
He freezes halfway to standing, argument already on the tip of his tongue, but you’re faster.
“Last time, you almost smashed the damn thing before Sam took over.”
You stand quickly, too quickly, knee thumping against the table in your haste, your hand falling to plant firmly on Sam’s shoulder.
“You stay here, Dean. Keep watch, take a nap, or whatever the hell it is you’ve been doing for the past half an hour. We won’t be long.” You give Sam a soft squeeze. “Right, Sammy?”
Sam lifts his head to meet your gaze, staring at you with those big, earnest puppy eyes, wide and slightly confused. He looks unfairly pretty in this light, all messy hair, sleepy focus, pink lips slightly parted in silent question.
He glances at your hand on his shoulder briefly, then back to your face, like he’s trying to piece together why you’re suddenly so intent on getting him alone. Which, unfortunately, is a fair question. Not that you care.
“Uh,” he buffers quietly. “Yeah. ‘Course.”
Dean plops back down in his chair with an exaggerated sigh, kicking up both his feet. He doesn’t even pretend to read this time, just watches you with narrowed eyes full of suspicion, and, well. Maybe mild annoyance.
You spare him one last mostly well natured smile as Sam stands, but you don’t let him get another word in before you’re practically herding his brother across the library with far too much enthusiasm to be casual. The back room is quiet, dimly lit, and just far enough from the main library to fall out of earshot. Perfect. The door groans in protest as you pull it shut behind you, creaking loud enough to make you wince. And then you notice it.
No lock.
The realization gives you pause for exactly half a second before it’s buried beneath need so thick you have to swallow it down to keep it momentarily contained. Because honestly, now that you finally have Sam alone… a flimsy detail like that is nothing but an afterthought.
Sam, the sweetheart, who somehow still hasn’t managed to connect the dots, moves instinctively towards one of the desks in a few short strides. He leans over the tabletop, bangs falling lazily over his forehead, his hand moving for the knob.
“What are you doing?” you ask, unable to keep amusement from creeping into your tone. His finger hovers halfway over the microfilm reader’s power switch, eyes flicking from it to you. That big, Stanford brain of his trying so hard to decipher where he’s missed a cue.
“What?”
The question comes out a little croaked, and the puppy-eyed sincerity of it damn near brings you to your knees.
“Sam.” You take one slow step forward, tilting your head with an almost innocent smile. “I thought my eye-fucking was getting a little obvious.”
He freezes. Not dramatically, no, more like a slow, dawning realization washing over him like a wave. That sweet, dumb face of his finally cracks into something else, something warm. Something darker. The kind of look that makes your stomach flip, and heat coil low in your core.
His hand slides away from the switch in a slow, teasing drag, as he pushes himself back up to his full height, stalking towards you in a few measured steps. Shadows fall over his features, catching on the sharp angle of his jaw, the perfect slope of his nose—and that gorgeous dimple that’s just begun to show itself with the heated smirk that spreads across his lips.
“Oh?” he breathes, voice rougher now. “Really? Here?”
“Yeah,” you purr, and there’s nothing subtle about the way your gaze drops to his lips before flicking back up. “Here.”
You don’t let him think too hard about it before your fist is curling around his collar, and his lips are crashing against yours.
It’s not slow, or testing, or soft. No, it’s immediate hunger. It’s you pouring weeks of desperation and need into a single action, mouth devouring his with every ounce of frustration you’ve bottled up tight enough to burst. He exhales into it, a warm puff against your cheek, as those big hands that have been haunting your fantasies slide up to cradle your jaw with infinite levels of care. His fingers splay over your cheeks, thumbs brushing beneath your eyes as he tilts your face closer to his like he can’t get enough.
He pulls back just long enough to drag in a breath, the taste of him still heavy on your tongue.
“We’re in a library,” he reasons, your noses brushing, breaths mingling.
“We are.”
“Dean’s just outside.”
“He is.”
His mouth finds yours again, slower this time, and you can tell he wants to drag this out. Make it last. Take you apart so slow that you’ll be shaking in his grasp, and the only word left on your tongue is his name.
But right now? That… that just won’t do. You part again with a slick pop.
“…And you’re sure about this?” he asks, of course he does, and your heart squeezes tight in your chest.
You raise a brow, moving for another kiss, but he dodges you with a chuckle. You can’t help but glare.
“That’s not an answer, baby.”
“Been soakin’ wet since you bitched out that asshole cop earlier,” you tease, raising one palm to trace down his chest. “That an answer?”
He pauses for a moment, considering, then his expression breaks out into a sweet, cocky grin, and then he’s crushing his lips back on yours. He kisses you like he’s drowning and you’re the surface. Like he wants nothing more than to drink you down and swallow you whole. One arm loops around your waist, cradling you closer, spinning you until you’re caged between him and one of the cold, veneer-lined desks. His tongue slips between parted lips, exploring your mouth with a hunger that belies the tenderness of his touch.
“Up,” he murmurs between licks, tapping your hip with two calloused fingers, before hooking his hands under your thighs and lifting. You squeak, a sound that earns you the world’s most panty-dropping snicker, your ass hitting the desk with a thud. The heat of your core contrasted by the cool surface sends a new spark of want through your system, left sizzling beneath layers of pesky fabric.
Hot, feverish kisses pepper your throat not a moment later, as he splays his palms over your thighs, nudging them apart until they bracket his hips. Massive hands hold you in place, heavy and warm and so damn close to where you’re aching for him. A shiver rips through you like lightning as his lips trail up your neck, soft and wet against heated skin. He finds that sensitive spot, the one just below your ear, lingering on it with slow, open-mouthed kisses, nipping gently before soothing the sting with a lap of his tongue. Sparks climb up your spine like a kindling fire, a poorly-stifled moan whirling from your lips.
You’re already panting, heart slamming against your chest, your fingers sliding to tangle in his messy hair to keep him right where you want him. Your other hand drags swiftly down his front, pressing into the butter-soft expanse of his chest, finally palming at his belt with fingers that have already begun to tremble.
His lips disconnect with your neck with a sharp inhale as he straightens up, meeting your darkened gaze. You almost fucking whine at the loss.
“Woah, hey.” His large hand covers your wrist, not pushing you away—thank God—but turning it over gently in his grasp, thumb sliding to rest over your racing pulse point. Even that simple touch has you squirming. “Easy, baby. ‘M gonna take real good care of you first, yeah?”
It’s sweet. Really sweet.
In fact, it’s so sweet, that your pussy clenches around nothing, and that simply won’t cut it. The only thing it really does is make you want him even more. As in, like, as soon as fucking possible. You pinch your eyes shut, forehead thumping against his chest, before looking back up at him with the most pleading look you can muster.
“Sam. Sweetheart. We’ve got about fifteen minutes before Dean barges in here ‘cause he’s bored,” you argue, and the tight-lipped, almost shy look he gives you almost has you melting right there. “Just need you. Right now. Please.”
Sam swallows hard, pulse thumping so hard in his throat that you can practically see it. The man is quite literally vibrating with need, a shaky breath escaping him as his eyes drop from yours, traveling back to your kiss-bitten lips. If he was attempting to be nobly subtle, he unfortunately fails. Miserably.
“…I don’t wanna hurt you,” he lands on, and it’s so Sam that you have to fight the primal urge to shut him up with another kiss.
“You won’t.”
He opens his mouth again, probably to argue, or say something far too responsible for your liking, but instead, he loses. His mouth surges firmly back onto yours with such force that your head gets tilted back, and you let out your second embarrassing sound of the night, but he doesn’t seem to mind one bit. His tongue shoves right back through the seam of your lips, licking hot against yours with such fever that the situation in your jeans starts to become a little unbearable.
“Okay,” he concedes, mostly to himself, tugging his belt open in one sharp movement that probably shouldn’t make you nearly as stupid-horny as it does. You want to complain about not being able to do it yourself—but you forget every word of protest the second he tugs down his zipper, and your gaze lands on the throbbing bulge in his boxers.
Yup. You’re going to be wet for fucking weeks.
“C’mere,” he purrs, his big, grabby hands scooping around your thighs, dragging you to the edge of the desk until you have to white-knuckle his shoulders to stay upright. He chuckles, the sound vibrating straight through you, his nimble fingers popping the button of your jeans, helping you to shimmy them away. You wiggle and squirm until they fall somewhere beneath Sam’s feet, and he kicks them aside, taking a greedy handful of your now bare ass. “So fuckin’ pretty.”
He latches his lips back just below the curve of your jaw, licking and suckling at your skin as his fingers squeeze hot over your thigh. Your eyes flutter closed, consumed by the arousal flooding your senses, and finally, fucking finally, you feel two thick fingers pull your ruined panties to the side.
The fabric peels from your core, sticking to your drenched pussy as Sam’s fingers replace it swiftly, and oh, it’s electric. His breath comes faster than before, warm against your neck in punched-out puffs as your body reacts to him, arching into his touch. Two tough finger pads glide easily as he parts your folds, applying a ghost of pressure over your clit for one heavenly second before he’s circling your entrance. You’re dripping. Clenching around fucking nothing. And still—he’s teasing you slow with those unfairly hot dimples popping on his cheeks.
“Sam,” you scold, but God, it’s weak. Real fucking weak. And when one finger dips into your weeping cunt, you damn near cry. “Please, baby. C’mon...”
“Shhh…” he croons, sneaking a quick, mean kiss to the corner of your mouth. “Just makin’ sure you’re ready f’me.”
You don’t get to complain before he’s adding another digit, curling just right, dragging across that spongy, fluttery spot inside you that has your eyes rolling back, and has a broken gasp tearing from your lips. It’s like he intended to shut you up, and it absolutely worked.
“You weren’t kiddin’ about the cop thing, huh?” he teases, and you squeeze his fingers like some sort of warning. He full body shudders like you’ve just done it around his dick. “Soaking wet. Musta’ been a little uncomfortable, baby.”
“You have no idea.”
Your twitchy fingers snake right back between the two of you, this time dipping below his waistband. Your fist circles around his thick cock, and you relish in the very sexy groan he spills into your ear. He’s hard enough to hurt, leaking onto your palm, and he drags his fingers out of you just to help you free his throbbing dick in one quick movement. You can’t help but ogle as you pump him once, twice, nudging that fat cockhead between your folds, his thumb holding the soaked gusset of your panties to the side.
“Ready?” he asks, just one more time, those dark, blown pupils studying yours, glittering with arousal.
“Shut up n’ fuck me already.”
Whatever hesitation he was holding onto snaps like a rubber band pulled too tight. He kisses you hard, a rough collision of teeth and tongue. One hand braces on the edge of the desk while the other guides his dick through your dripping pussy, collecting the slick that’s practically caked to your core. When he finally presses forward, it’s slow. So damn slow.
So slow that you feel every bit of the delicious stretch, and his pulse pounds against you in more ways than one. Your back bows into the feeling as your chest presses against his, heat exploding through every nerve ending.
You’re panting by the time you take half of him, and when he’s fully seated, you have to suck saliva back in through your teeth before you drool dumbly. Sam’s thumb slides off from your panties, opting to splay his full hand along the expanse of your inner thigh, holding you as wide as you can go. The pressure in your belly coils so hot that for a moment, you wonder how the hell you’ve survived over two weeks without this.
A groan rips out of him, unfiltered and raw, and the second it hits your ears, it’s already vibrated through his chest and yours alike. Sam’s eyes slam shut for half a second like he’s just been electrocuted by the tight squeeze of your walls so perfectly around him. It’s beautiful, really, a sight that would have you dripping if you weren’t already. His jaw clenches hard, tendons standing out on his sweat-slick neck, fighting for control. His hips shift just slightly then, a gentle, testing rock that has fire licking up your spine.
“Fuck, yes,” you gasp, fingers curling around his strong forearm. And oh, that’s all he needed.
He pulls back gently, before snapping forward in a deep, enthusiastic roll. The desk creaks beneath you like it’s threatening to break, and suddenly, he’s not being so careful anymore.
You wiggle in his grasp, a plea for more, and he doesn’t spare a single moment. He scoops one leg up high over his waist, hips canting into you with a new kind of fever. The pace he sets is dizzying, desperate, damn-near sob worthy, his thick cock splitting you in half so fucking perfectly that stars explode behind your eyelids. Each thrust presses you harder into the desk, his breath huffing ragged against your neck. You reach for him instinctively, fingers splaying everywhere you can reach, taking greedy fistfuls of Sam.
“Y’take me so well,” he chokes, as he leans back to fuck you in powerful, measured strokes, driving you higher and higher with every slap of skin. His muscled abdomen clenches taut as arousal pulls at his belly, and you can feel the tension beneath your palm. “So—so fuckin’ good, just for me.”
White-hot pleasure crashes through you in waves with every ruthless pound. You barely have it in you to hold yourself upright, raising your hands so your fingers can dimple hard into the meat of Sam’s shoulder for even the slightest lick of leverage. Your cunt sucks him in like it was made to, the heavy upward curve of his cock brushing right fucking there, over and over and oh fuck, you can only hope the room is soundproof.
“S-Sam, don’ stop, p-please—”
Gasps and moans and pleas tear from deep in your chest, ecstasy bubbling through you so hot, that you have to bury your face in the crook of Sam’s neck before you wake up the entire city.
He hums into your hair, a smooth, comforting rumble, such a contrast to the way his cock bullies your sweet spot with every brutal thrust. Your lips find his throat, sucking sloppy kisses to his heated skin, but busying your mouth sure as hell doesn’t stop the string of cries from spilling into his ear.
“Oh, baby,” he coos, one arm slipping around your back to tangle in your hair, holding you tight to his chest. It leaves little space between you, if any at all—his hips snapping in quick, short thrusts that hit so deep that you swear you can taste it. “Feels so good, doesn’ it? So full? Tha’s what you needed, huh?”
“Mmm-hmm,” you manage, but it’s broken. So broken. It’s hard to remain coherent when you’re being fucked dumb, and Sam isn’t exactly leaving room for mercy. He squeezes his hand between you, thumb finding your clit with expert-level accuracy, and suddenly, you’re done.
You’re right there. Right fucking there. You tumble closer, closer, closer, until you’re teetering on the edge, dangling off, Sam’s perfect fingers and his perfect cock about to push you over, and—
“What the hell?!”
The sharp, deep voice of Dean-fucking-Winchester stops your orgasm cold like a silver blade slicing through flesh. Shock tears through you as you squeeze Sam tighter than a vice. His hips snap forward hard, way too fucking hard, his body enveloping yours as his palm slaps over your mouth to muffle your forced-out cry.
Sam’s torso practically crushes yours, sparing most of your dignity (thank God for those damn shoulders), your forehead thumping against his chest as his hand slips from your face. Your heart pounds like a snare drum against your ribcage, the strangest combination of sexual frustration and utter mortification washing through your veins.
“Get. Out,” Sam barks, quick, his strained voice sharp as he turns his head towards his brother. You’re suddenly incredibly thankful for your haste—because, hey, at least Sam’s jeans never made it below his waist—but yours sure as hell did, and your only cover is Sam’s body. You tilt your head just enough to peek through the sliver between Sam’s arm and his side, and oh. Oh God.
You’ve never seen Dean look like that before.
He’s white as a fucking sheet, and if you weren’t completely horrified, it would probably be hilarious. Standing in the doorway, he looks entirely scandalized, jaw hanging wide open, eyes threatening to pop right out of his skull, before he snaps out of it long enough to throw a hand over his eyes, turning his head away.
“Yeah, I—don’t you think I’d freakin’ love to?” he spits, shaking his head like he’s seconds away from losing his mind completely. “I mean, Jesus, what are you two, high schoolers? You’d think—”
“Dean,” you choke, and Sam flinches like he’d forgotten you were there entirely. Which, well, is unlikely, considering the fact that he’s still buried to the hilt inside of you.
“We’ve gotta go. Now. Apparently my, uh, alarm disarming skills are pretty rusty,” he stammers, the hand that isn’t covering his eyes reaching for the door. “Put your freakin’ pants on, and go. There’s goddamn cops outside.”
Well, shit.
If that isn’t just worst case scenario, you’re not entirely sure what is.
He finally stomps out of the room, muttering an irritated “seriously!” as he goes, and the second he does, a long puff of air floods from your lungs in a ragged sweep. Every cell in your body is practically vibrating for you just crawl in a hole, and never return—but there’s another part of you that’s just pissed. Because Christ, after waiting so fucking long, is a little bit of relief really that much to ask for?
You’re busy wallowing in your newfound despair, attempting to shuffle your ass backwards to get up, when two warm palms plant firmly on your cheeks, tilting your face up to look at his. Sam’s eyes are wide, undoubtedly panicked, brows pinched so hard that a sharp crease has formed between them.
“Fuck—‘m so sorry. Are you—you okay?” His thumbs swipe at the sweat beading at your temples, touch gentle now, fingers shaking where they cradle your face. “Did I hurt you?”
“What? I’m fine, Sam,” you grumble, but that sure as hell doesn’t ease the look of pure concern on his sweet face. Still, you push yourself back just a little more, and he takes the hint, pulling out so tenderly that you barely even hiss at the feeling. “…Physically, anyway.”
“You’re sure? I just, Jesus, just fuckin’ manhandled you, baby.”
Somehow, that makes you laugh despite everything. “Pass me my jeans,” you snicker, and he moves quickly, following your command without another word. His free hand fumbles with the zipper of his pants, and you hop off the table on wobbly legs.
But that fire in your core?
Apparently, a two-week dry spell turns you completely insatiable.
Sam stands again, passing you your now wrinkled jeans. But instead of taking them back right away, your hand lifts, curling around his collar again, pulling him close until only a lick of distance remains between your lips.
“We’re not done,” you whisper, and God, you watch his pupils swallow all colour in his eyes in real time.
“…Later?” he purrs.
“Later.”
AN: So, I’d actually planned to post something else, and then got distracted and wrote this in a couple of hours. My bad. Needed something fun 🤣
I’m going to take this opportunity to apologize for my very, very slow writing skills… there is so much going on in my life right now, it’s driving me crazy, and I can’t focus on my word porn as much as I’d love to. But hey, gimme a couple weeks, trust the process!
Please..I beg….make like the reader is riding Sam Winchester (he’s a sub) and when Sam like yk release inside the reader. They kept going…idk what else to say BUTTT I want.
this image has me ctfu lollll also this idea is perfect!!
riding sub!sam is probably a life changing experience. lets be honest, he’s such a good boy and he just lays there and takes it until you’re finished with him.
when you overstimulate him like this, he can’t even bring himself to get up and go anywhere!! he squeezes your hips, hands and nails digging into the soft skin of your ass as you roll your hips into his.
“y’gonna cum?” you ask, hands rubbing over his wrists as he holds onto you. sam nods eagerly, panting below you. his face is scrunched up, eyebrows furrowed with concentration as he feels his balls tighten, his orgasm filling up like a balloon inside his stomach. he moans softly, biting at his bottom lip as his tip kisses your cervix. he’s so deep, and it’s affecting him way more than it is you.
“n-need to cum, baby.” he trills, turning his head to the side and blinking up at you through hazy, clouded eyes. you giggle softly, reaching over and twisting one of his nipples between your fingers. he gasps and bucks up into you, whining and exhaling deeply. “cum for me then. fill me all the way up, sammy.”
who is he to refuse that? he rocks his hips up into you for a moment, his head tilting back against the pillows as he cums immediately. his orgasm crashes over him in waves. you continue rolling your hips as he finishes. much to his dismay, you don’t stop when he’s done.
“wh- what’re you doing?” he asks, voice becoming high pitched as you begin bouncing on his softening cock. your walls are squeezing onto him so tight he thinks his balls might explode. “fuck, stop it, stop,”
sam’s begging is music to your ears. there’s nothing you love more than hearing his teary little voice beneath you.
“stop? really? i haven’t even cum yet, sammy. you can’t expect me to stop.” you whine, your mischievous smile turning into a pout. you inhale sharply as he squeezes the fat of your waist. not a single moment do you take to slow down or pause your movements.
sam writhes beneath you, body twitching and toes curling from his over sensitive body. “oh my god,” he sobs, blinking away a tear. he’s rigid as a board, muscles tight in reflex. you can feel his cock chubbing up inside you, clearly ready for another orgasm.
your thoughts are proved true when his legs begin trembling under you. he sniffles and plants his feet on the bed, hip angled just right inside you. “gonna- gonna cum, sweetheart. m’gonna cum again, oh god.”
after a few more bounces on him, his whole body convulses as he cums inside you again. his arms hug at your waist instinctively, hips thrusting inside you as he shoots another load inside. you gasp at the suddenness of his movements, moaning softly from the feeling of his cock ramming into you, even if for just one moment.
“are you done for now?” you ask, brushing his hair out of his mouth. he nods with a trembling lip. “such a good boy, sam.” a puff of air is released through your nose. “took it like a champ.”
sam winchester x reader where he kisses the readers underwear bow while eating her out for the first time, also trying to understand what she likes and doesn’t like, hearing her whines and begs, and he comes in his pants untouched. i just know sam is the type of person to gain pleasure from his girl enjoying herself 😩 unwell from thinking about this
thanks babe <3
oh u are cooking
KISSES DOWN LOW
wordcount: 1511
summary: the first time Sam Winchester goes down on you– tiny bows and utter devotion to his girl.
warnings: sam winchester x fem!reader, established relationship, mild cursing, porn w little plot, smut (making out, grinding, fingering, oral/fem!receiving) !!!
Sam and you had been dating for a while now, a couple weeks maybe. It was amazing, you couldn’t possibly have asked for a better boyfriend. Sam is sweet, attentive, smart… Everything you could want in a man and more– you’re lucky, really.
It’s fairly ‘new’ so it hadn’t gotten much farther than making out and maybe some hand stuff whenever Dean left y’all alone in whatever shitty room you’re sharing for the week.
Tonight was no different. Dean had disappeared about two hours ago with some excuse about ‘following a lead’ despite very clearly heading to the bar. The cowboy movie the eldest brother had rented was still playing on the TV– mostly background noise given both of y’all are busy in your respective reading. Sam is sitting beside you on the bed, long legs spread awkwardly in the too-small mattress to hold up his laptop. You’re sitting crossed legged on the mattress, an old lore book on your lap which’s letters started blurring together about an hour ago. Your eyes skim over the same paragraph for what feels like the hundredth time before drifting sideways instead, landing on your boyfriend’s profile illuminated by the glow of his laptop– his brows are pinched together in concentration, one hand absently rubbing at his jaw while the other taps against the keyboard. His hair is messy from constantly running his fingers through it which Dean would definitely tease him for if he were here, making some comment about ‘needing a trim’ or something like that.
Cute. Annoyingly cute for a man his size.
Almost like he can feel you staring, Sam glances over, lips twitching instinctively upon catching you looking, his dimples showing. “What?” He asks, clearly amused.
“Nothing” You huff softly, it was half-defensive and half-fond at his boyish grin.
A quiet chuckle leaves him, warm and genuine as he closes his laptop– almost like he was waiting for an excuse to finally get a break from endless research. “You haven’t flipped a page n’an hour” He points out.
“That I haven’t” You hum in response, closing your book and setting it down somewhere on the bed. “Became too much ‘bout twenty minutes ago” You burrow your face into his chest, easing into the familiar comfort of his warmth.
Sam doesn’t tease you– he could– instead, he wraps his arms around you, pulling you closer while pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “Deserve a break then” His voice rumbles softly beneath your cheek, chest warm against yours. For a moment, neither of you move.
The movie keeps playing quietly in the background– muffled gunshots, old country music… But it all fades underneath the slow drag of Sam’s fingers up and down your back– comfortable, intimate. You tilt your head just enough to look up at him, chin resting against his chest. “You saying I worked hard?”
Sam huffs out a quiet laugh, dimples deepening. “Mhm– very demanding job, staring at the same page for an hour”
“Oh, shut up”
Your hand pushes halfheartedly at his face, but he catches it easily, large fingers wrapping around your wrist just to keep you close. The smile on his face softens, puppy eyes fixed on you. Not enough to make you uncomfortable– never that– but enough that warmth starts creeping into your cheeks under the weight of his attention, a nervous smile on your face. “What?” You murmur quietly.
“C’mere” The words are barely out before he’s leaning down to kiss you. Slow at first– lazy, warm, familiar– the kind of kiss that feels like being wrapped up in a blanket after a long day.
Somewhere along the moment, Sam’s hands gently coax you onto your back. His broad chest is now hovering over you, shoulders tense from holding his bodyweight up. One hand carefully slides under (his) your shirt, slowly easing it over your body without even breaking away from the kiss. He’s moving out of instinct now– fully focused on you and your body. His mouth trails from yours down to your neck, kissing his way down the sensitive skin while his thumb gently brushes your ribs. You’re completely lost in the feeling of him, solid and warm, his lips working that sensitive spot below your jaw that always makes you melt for him– legs opening to accommodate him between them and hands going around to clasp at his shoulders.
Your gaze is half lidded, lips parted in soft breaths while watching your boyfriend slowly kiss down your torso. Once Sam reaches your navel, he pauses– looking up at you with wide, pleading eyes– quietly asking for permission. “Mhm” You nod softly, fingers threading through his hair to brush it away from his face.
Sam doesn’t need anymore encouragement, quickly turning his attention back to the skin below him. He’s face to face with your clothed core, all his focus onto the lacy fabric. God. He hadn’t noticed the tiny bow on the front– how hadn’t he noticed that? A low, choked groan escapes him, eyes fluttering shut before reverently kissing it. His thumbs hook on the elastic, pulling it off your body– his mouth follows the movement, soft little pecks all over your legs before turning his attention back up to your core. You’re too distracted to spot how he pockets the underwear– not that you would’ve minded.
“God” He groans under his breath. It’s the first time he’s seen your pussy this close. He’s seen literal angels before– he’d still choose this as the most beautiful sight in the world– you. Spread out beneath him, glistening with need. “So pretty” He adds quietly, finally meaning down to lick a slow stripe up your folds.
“Shit, Sam–” You moan, thighs trying to clap around his head but your boyfriend’s hands are fast to hold them down, leaving you open for him.
He starts slow, long stripes of his tongue over you weeping slit– testing, assessing. Like everything else, Sam takes eating you out with attention to every detail, testing and pushing to see what things made you moan louder for him. Each sound, each sharp breath makes his hips subconsciously press down into the mattress– not out of greed– but purely out of overstimulation. The feeling of your legs wrapping around him, your taste on his tongue, everything is too much for Sam. God you were perfect.
“Need you, Sam– please” You protest in a needy moan, hips bucking up to meet his mouth in a desperate attempt to bring him even closer.
“What’dyou need, honey?” Sam asks, warm breath fanning over your core as he pulls back just enough to look up at your face. He’s wrecked– his pupils are blown, his hair’s a mess, there’s a patch of wetness surrounding his mouth.
You’re too far gone (and embarrassed) to voice exactly what you want, instead leading his hand to your entrance. The focused frown on your boyfriend’s face eases at the feeling of your hand on his, quickly understanding and taking over– one of his long fingers slowly pushing in. You have to hold back a literal sob– the stretch of your walls around him being overwhelming in all the best ways. He starts slow. Deep, careful curls of his finger before easing another one in.
It doesn’t take long for you to start moaning for him again, your hips pushing down to meet each thrust like you can’t bear the thought of being empty. Sam’s tongue starts lapping at your clit, lips wrapping around it with maddening pressure. Each suck of his mouth is accompanied by him humping the bed– shameless groans and moans escaping him and vibrating against you. “M’gonna–” You try to warn him, but Sam simply hums against you. Apparently already knowing your body better than you. He simply doubles down his efforts, each curl of his fingers pressing deeper inside you while he keeps making out with your clit. If you knew any better, you’d say he’s enjoying it just as much (or more) than you are– but you’re too busy coming undone to notice it.
Sam works you through it, drawing it out as much as possible. Slowly thrusting his fingers in and out while peppering soft kisses to your thighs. He waits until your breathing evens out before slowly pulling his digits out of your pussy, sitting back on his heels to taste them– eyes closing in bliss with a shameless groan.
“Sam–” You protest in embarrassment– though your attention is pulled elsewhere when you notice the damp patch on the front of his jeans. “You didn’t” Your voice is etched with awed disbelief, a whole new wave of arousal flooding down to your core.
Your boyfriend shrugs like it’s the most natural thing in the world, finally pulling his fingers away from his mouth before leaning down to kiss you. It’s dizzying– you can still taste yourself on his tongue, mixed with something uniquely Sam that always manages to make you melt. “Couldn’t help myself” He murmurs against your mouth, pressing one last, fleeting kiss to your lips.
Author’s Note: This is part 4 to Wicked Game. I went to the candy store and you best believe I didn't buy no damn raisins. Not proofread.
They were all real. Every single thing Sam had dreamt of had actually happened. He had spent years pushing down his most ardent desire; questioning how good a friend he could possibly be if his mind kept constantly wandering places it shouldn’t, and as soon as he lost his soul, he betrayed himself, his convictions, your friendship, and worst of all, you.
The room suddenly felt stuffy, his heart and mind were racing, making him feel dizzy. He sat back down on the bed; his elbows found support on his knees as his hands clung to his head trying to calm the rushing thoughts. You had been acting so perfectly normal. How was that possible? Maybe you liked him better with no soul. If he had no soul, he probably wasn’t his broken, tainted self. Maybe it hadn’t meant anything to you other than a good time he had definitely been the one to offer. Or worse; maybe you regretted it.
Sam risked another look at the objects in his hands. You didn’t even know he had taken those pictures, or your underwear. He wondered what else he had done that he didn’t yet know about; what kind of monster he was when his conscience wasn’t there to stop him from just taking what he wanted. Surely, he wouldn’t have forced you; you would have killed him and so would Dean. Besides, you seemed to be enjoying yourself in the dream’s he’d had. You had clung to him, whimpered his name, asked him not to stop. God, just the memory of how soft and warm your skin felt was enough for him to lose himself in a spiral of despair. It was entirely too much; the mix of guilt, shame and persistent need. He didn’t know what to do, how to deal with what he now knew, and he wanted more than anything to know the full extent of what he had done.
There had to be more, something he didn’t know yet, so he searched his mind and the memories he now had access to, trying to find anything else. He did what he shouldn’t have; he tried to remember. Sam leaned back against the headboard and closed his eyes, allowing his mind to roam the memory of you freely for the first time. Slowly, the gaps started being filled, and new moments revealed themselves. The first thing he remembered was you, bent over a table, showing him and Dean something, and how the thoughts he had repressed for years suddenly rose in his mind. Dean scolded him, told him not to go there, but when he saw the way you looked at him fresh off the shower, a hunger took over him, and he knew he had to have you. He navigated through the tortuous recollection of teasing you for weeks, revelling in how flustered he made you, until that night when he first tried to kiss you. You had told him no; told him to go find someone else.
The next scene was familiar. It was the memory from when you had gotten hurt on a hunt and he patched up your leg. Sam noticed how nervous you were, how you tried to avoid his touch, until you finally realized you had no choice but to let him help you. You were vulnerable, and instead of taking care of you, helping you feel safe, he took the opportunity to tease you, to see how far you’d let him go. He remembered whispering in your ear; pouring the shower gel over your chest, and despite the guilt and disgust he felt at himself, he couldn’t help the way his body reacted. A groan escaped him, and he could feel tears build up behind his eyelids. The words you had said to him burned into his mind. “We can’t. I can’t.” You couldn’t. “You’ll regret this when you get your soul back.” His fists tightened, leaving half-moon marks on his palms.
He had asked if you wanted him as much as he wanted you, if you wanted him to kiss you, and you had said yes. How could he live with himself knowing there had been so many no’s before those yes’. You could be lying; you could be scared to say no because you had no idea what kind of monster he had become. But then, he asked if you wanted him to touch you, and you hesitated. A wave of relief washed over him when what followed was a question, and nothing else. “You want Sammy, don’t you?” His heart was pounding in his chest, and it nearly cracked his ribs when you answered yes with tears in your eyes. All he could do was watch himself and pray he hadn’t hurt you as the hazy dream he had had before became a clear memory. He recalled everything through gritted teeth, his body at war with itself between sadness, disgust, lust, anger, frustration; too many emotions to name. It was like everything he should have felt then was flooding him now. That night, you had asked him to stay after, and he left without saying anything.
It had clearly been a while between that day and the following memory; the room was different. Another set of words were seared into him. “You left. (…) when you get your soul back, you’ll hate yourself for it, and me for allowing it.” But it wasn’t true. He could never hate you; especially not for something he had done, and you had clearly tried to avoid.
He had dreamt of other women before, ones he didn’t know, and he realized he must have been remembering random hook-ups he had. What he didn’t understand was why he was remembering that now, until he heard the loud sound of a slamming door and the memory evaporated. You had left because of him, because he was arrogant enough to bring someone to his room and have them shout his name knowing full well you were next door.
The next thing he remembered made him sick to his stomach. It was a feeling; the one he felt when he saw you at the bar flirting with some stranger. Sam didn’t remember ever feeling like that, so angry, so possessive, and it disgusted him. He then broke into your motel room and waited, like some abusive creep, and when you fought, he had the gall to wonder why he couldn’t shake off the need to have you, like it was a nuisance to him. God, it was all so obvious to him now. You were ingrained so deep into him you had taken root in his very bones; the loss of his soul wasn’t enough to be rid of you. His breaths were quick and shallow; sweat beads formed at his forehead, and he was somewhere between unconscious and fully awake.
You were angry at him, and worst of all, you were hurt, and he had just made it worse. He had you pressed between him and the wall, and he could hear all the horrible things he said to you. “If you wanted to hide your feelings you should have done a better job. (…) You shouldn’t have made it so obvious.” Feelings. Obvious. It was so much worse than he thought. Sam hadn’t just used you; he had found out how you felt and used that, too. All the love you had shown him in all these years, the respect, the way you seemed to see through him every time and never ran from what you found; he had thrown it all away. He broke your heart like it was fun to do. And in the end, you were still so brave, still did what you had to, because after he said those words you told him to leave, and that knife he had given you for your birthday once was against his neck. She should have cut my throat; should have killed me on the spot. The last thing he remembered was leaning further in and mocking you.
He woke with a loud gasp, tears already falling from his eyes. Suddenly, he screamed and thrashed, knocking over the lamp on the bedside table. The air didn’t seem to want to stick to his lungs, leaving him dizzy and gripping the sheets as he knelt on the floor, sobbing and trembling.
You heard the sudden scream and the noise coming from Sam and Dean’s room, and immediately grabbed the key they always gave you. Without another thought, you ran next door, barefoot, in nothing but your oversized T-shirt.
“Sam?! What’s going on?” There was worry in your voice as you put the key to the lock. When the door swung open, you saw him on his knees next to his bed. You could see he was shaking and breathing heavily, and immediately ran to his side. “Oh my god, are you okay?” He wouldn’t stop crying and was struggling to breathe; his face was lowered to rest his forehead on the edge of the bed. You knelt beside him and placed your hand on his back, rubbing small circles over it to try to calm him. “Hey, it’s okay. I’m here, just try to breathe.” Those sweet words and the way you spoke them made him release a loud sob, before he finally turned to you, revealing his reddened face and tearful eyes.
“I remembered.” He sniffled as you moved your thumb to his cheek to try to wipe some of the tears away.
“Remembered what?” Although you spoke gently, your brows were pinched together, confused by his statement.
“Everything.” His voice broke as he spoke. “How can you even look at me?”
Your hand fell from his face. The moment you had feared so much had arrived. It had been foolish to think it never would. “I-I’m sorry, Sam.” Your hands settled on your lap, tightly wrapped around each other. Just as he was finally able to catch a proper breath, your apology and the glassiness of your eyes left him baffled.
“You’re sorry?” Sam stood up and paced behind you, panting, making you turn to face him. “Look at what I’ve done; what I’ve put you through. For God’s sake, I hounded you for weeks, I-“ He choked on the words. “I used you! Then I-I fucked someone else where I knew you could hear and chased you down when you left!” He stopped for a moment, bringing his hands to his face and trying to breathe so he could at least speak. “I was a monster to you. How - How can you even stand to be near me?” You froze for a moment; the only sound in the room was his laboured breathing.
Finally, you stood up to sit on the edge of the bed. Silent tears fell down your face, and you leaned your head down, unable to look at him. “I promised I’d be here when you got your soul back. No matter what.”
“Wha- When?” His eyebrows stitched together. “I don’t remember that.”
“It was before… whatever you remembered.”
“You knew I didn’t remember, and you stayed anyway. Why?”
“When Dean called, I didn’t know you wouldn’t remember. All I knew was I had made a promise and I would keep it… even if you did remember everything, and hated me, and told me to leave.” Your elbows rested on your knees, and you covered your face. “When I realised you didn’t remember, I was just so happy to have you back I- I didn’t want to think about what I had done.” You took a deep, shaky breath. “I’m so sorry, Sam. I know I shouldn’t have said yes; it wasn’t right.”
He knelt down again, this time in front of you, and gently grabbed your wrists to remove your hands from your face. “Why would I hate you?” How could you blame yourself for something he did? Worse - how could you put all that responsibility on your own shoulders when all he did was hurt you?
“Sam, I was so selfish. I had my soul; there was no excuse.” You sniffled. “I knew it wasn’t what the real you would have wanted. I knew you’d regret it.”
Sam let go of your wrists and fount support in your legs as he sat on his heels and leaned further against you. “My only regret is how much I hurt you.” He let his head fall and buried his face on top of your thighs. “God, how can you ever forgive me?” Turning his head to the side, he let out a small sob. Your hand combed through his hair, and your thumb stroked his cheek, resting there.
“It wasn’t you, Sam. Not really.” He raised his head to look up at you with those wet puppy eyes of his, and you felt his grip on your legs tighten.
“I’m so sorry. I-I wish I hadn’t pressured you to say yes like that.” Despite knowing how you felt at the time, Sam didn’t want to assume you still felt the same after all that had happened. You had never given any sign that you wanted to be more than his friend, which probably meant you didn’t. Clearly, you had more respect for your friendship than he ever did.
“I wanted to say yes. I just –“ You couldn’t tell him. Not like this. Not when he was drowning in pain and guilt. If he knew how you felt, he’d just feel worse.
“I know. I remember.” Warmth crept up your cheeks.
“How much do you remember?”
He gulped “All of it.”
Your eyes widened. “Then- you know-“
“Why you didn’t want to say yes to me then.” Of course he knew. That’s why he was taking it so hard. He knew he broke your heart, and he was about to do it again. “You can’t even begin to understand how sorry I am. I know I’ve ruined everything, and it’s probably too much to ask, but- I don’t want to lose you. You mean too much to me.” He was clinging so hard to you it would hurt if you didn’t want him even closer. “If you ever consider forgiving me, staying my friend - my best friend – I promise to spend my life making up for what I’ve done.” Silence hung in the air.
Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, you spoke. “What if I can’t be your friend?” His grip loosened completely, and his eyes became glossy again.
He hung his head and retracted, sitting back on his heels. “Then-“
“You said you know how I felt, but you don’t. You don’t understand. I never thought we – this – would happen.” You gestured between the both of you. “And I was fine with it.”
“I’m sorry – I-”
“You were gone. Dead. And then you came back, and I was so relieved, so happy. I had never felt more grateful for anything.” You gripped the duvet, trying your best not to cry. “Then I found out you had no soul, and I had to live and hunt with a half version of you.” Sam watched you; his brows pinched with pain. “It was so confusing. He looked like you, sounded like you, knew me the way you do. But he wasn’t you.” Your eyes couldn’t hold the tears in anymore, and when he saw them fall, Sam forgot everything, and instinctively moved to wipe them away from your cheeks. He was so close to your face now, you could feel his scent. “I was weak. When he – you – began to touch me, tried to kiss me, and that night when I got hurt – It was like a sick joke. I loved you so much. I missed you. I just wanted you back.”
“Shh, you don’t have to explain.” Your eyes were closed. You could feel his thumbs rubbing your cheeks, his forehead leaning against yours, and it only made you ache more.
“You – he – knew exactly what I wanted, and I caved.” You sniffled. “I laid our friendship to waste just to have a fragment of you. Even though I knew I shouldn’t. And it was never enough. Because what I’ve always truly wanted was all of you; this you.” A small sob escaped you. “I still do.” You confessed. His eyes had been shut as you spoke, but they opened at your admission. You felt him pull away, and when you opened your own eyes, his gaze was fixed on you.
“Sweetheart –” He gave you a sad smile, which was interrupted by a huff and a roll of his eyes. “God, I’m such a fucking idiot. I ruined everything because I never told you – I never understood – it was so much more than just wanting to touch you.” Whereas his breaths were accelerated, yours had stopped all together. “I didn’t lie that night, in the shower. It didn’t start when I got back from hell.” For the first time that evening, the pink blooming in his cheeks wasn’t caused by crying. “I didn’t – I don’t want someone else. I did dream of you. For the longest time.” A smile crept up on him; warm and loving. “I still do.”
“Sam…” The two of you stood there, facing each other, as breathless as if you had been running. All other words evaded you; the only thing you remembered was his name. He was so close, you couldn’t help but look down at his lips, and when he noticed, he looked back at yours. It seemed like you were both stuck, looking between each other’s eyes and lips. Another word came to you, lighting up in your brain. “Please.” Your voice was barely audible. You were already so close; a simple movement of his head would have brought his lips to yours.
“Please what?” It was a plea for reassurance. Sam’s mind was a whirlwind, and he didn’t want to risk doing the wrong thing.
“Kiss me.” He was so nervous he could hear his own heartbeat become louder as his trembling hand caressed your jaw, before he pressed a finger to the bottom of your chin, lifting it slightly. Your movements were slow, tentative, like you were both scared it was all a dream and needed to make sure it was real. As soon as your lips touched, though, it was like muscle memory. The kiss quickly deepened, and you pulled him flush against you by the collar of his T-shirt. A small sigh escaped you and, at the sound, something took over Sam. The soft tip of his tongue brushed against yours, and he pulled you as close to him as he could. One of his hands held the back of your head, while the other gripped your thigh, and he gently laid you back further into the bed, where he rested on top of you. He was so lost in you, he didn’t even realise what he had done. You opened your legs further so he could slot himself between them, and when you felt him press against you your hips moved involuntarily, making you whine. The feeling made him moan, but it pulled him out of his trance. Suddenly, he was off you.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to – we don’t have to.” You grabbed the fabric of his shirt to stop him from getting up completely.
“Sam.” You pulled him closer, and he let himself hover above you. “Please.” Taking his hand, you slid it down your torso and dragged it over your underwear. “I want to.” He shuddered when he felt a wet patch on the fabric, and his fingers twitched automatically, pressing lightly against your core. You let out a small whimper at the movement. “Need you, Sammy. Please.” The plea made him groan, his head dropping lower. When he had no soul, he had wanted to hear you beg; teased you endlessly just to make it happen. Now, here you were, pleading for him to touch you without provocation.
There was a struggle happening within him between the instinctive guilt and shame of wanting you like that, and the acceptance of his own feelings and desire. He wanted you more than anything, but he needed this time to be different. There could be no doubt in your mind about that. “I promise I’ll stay.” There was a sadness in his voice. As if the memory of his regrets was still present.
“I know you will.” You caressed his cheek and pulled him in for another kiss. This one burnt like fire, all consuming. His hand traversed your body like it was discovering it for the first time, squeezing gently what he learned were his favorite parts. In the midst of the kiss and the soft touch of your skin, he felt himself getting drunker on the taste and feel of you. Sam was breathless, and he had only just begun. You weren’t faring much better. Each time he gripped you, or when his tongue brushed against yours, you found yourself whining.
“Fuck.” He broke the kiss and stood up, panting. “I’m sorry. I just need to see you. Please.” His pupils were blown, hair tousled, lips kiss-swollen. Although this was technically not your first time, there was something about him that made it feel like it was. Even he reacted as if everything was new, and to him, it was. Although his body already knew you, his soul had never seen you like this, never touched you, never kissed you.
“Can I see you, too?” You didn’t know why you felt so flustered asking that question; you had obviously seen him before. But you couldn’t help it.
“Of course.” He conceded, removing his clothes, leaving only his boxers. You kneeled on the bed to face him; your hand running over his toned chest, down to his navel. The touch alone was enough to make him sigh. As soon as he saw you reach for the hem of your shirt, he stopped you. “Let me.” His gaze pierced into you as he slowly removed your shirt, broken only when it slid over your head. “God.” He exhaled. Just like that time in the shower, he twitched when he looked down at you, and oddly enough, it made you giggle. “What?” He asked, worried.
“Your reaction. It was the same as the first time you saw me.” Sam didn’t remember that particular detail.
“I know it’s probably going to sound weird but – it feels like it’s the first time.” His hands held on to your waist.
“It doesn’t.” You smiled and wrapped your arms around his neck. “It feels like the first time for me too.” With that, your lips found each other’s again, and Sam laid you back down on the bed. His big, heavy hands moved slowly through the newly exposed skin as he left a trail of nips and open-mouthed kisses down your neck.
“You’re so soft.” He grumbled, squeezing your hip before grazing his tongue over your collarbone. “God, I want to kiss you all over.” His body and mind were fighting between the desire to have you completely right then and there and savouring you properly. The way you gripped his hair showed you were having the same struggle. His lips latched to your nipple just as his hand moved down to remove your underwear in a swift motion. A loud moan slipped from you when you felt the cool air touch between your thighs; contrasting with the warmth of his mouth on you. He stayed like that for a while, revelling in the small sighs he ripped from you as his tongue and teeth explored every inch of your chest.
You tugged on his hair a little tighter to pull him up for a kiss, making him groan against you. “Sammy, please.” The breathlessness with which you said his nickname almost made him lose his mind. “Touch me.” Your own hand slid down, his muscles contracting reflexively under the graze of your fingers until you reached the band of his boxers. When you finally touched him over the fabric, he whimpered louder than he meant to.
“Baby, you’re gonna kill me.” Sam was already embarrassingly close, but he wasn’t ready to be done. He nipped at your soft skin, unable to contain his hunger, and slid down your body to slot himself between your thighs. Your legs were propped up, and he leaned against one of them to watch you closely. His fingers brushed softly over your mound down to the source of your arousal as he laid kisses to your inner thigh; eyes never leaving your face. That barely-there touch made goosebumps erupt in your skin and mellow sighs slip from your throat. “You’re so beautiful.” He punctuated the compliment by finally touching you where you wanted him most, drawing small, light circles that made your sighs turn into moans. Eventually, his gaze descended, switching between where he was touching and the skin he was kissing. He slowed down for a moment, caressing your lips and the juncture at the beginning of your thigh, which made your head fall back into the pillows with a whine that was both protest and pleasure. “I’m sorry, angel, it’s just – I can’t believe I actually get to touch you.” Another kiss to your leg was accompanied by the most lovesick puppy eyes you had ever seen on him.
Your cheeks were on fire, and you didn’t know what to say. “Fucking hell, Sam. If you keep saying stuff like that you won’t even need to touch me to make me cum.” He tittered at your very unintentional blurt, revealing those sweet dimples you adored so much.
“That definitely won’t do.” He said, bringing a finger to your entrance and slowly teasing it. The feeling made your eyes flutter shut with an exhale.
Your reaction to his touch drained the cockiness straight out of him. His lips parted slightly as he watched his fingers go into you with ease, and he was left in complete awe when he looked up to see your face. You fisted the sheets as you felt his fingers curl inside you, rubbing, almost as if by instinct, against that spot that made a coil tighten in your lower belly. As your moans got louder, he felt himself melt against you, biting your inner thigh to stop his head from slipping straight to your core.
“Mmph. Can I please taste you?” He muttered against your skin. The need was almost too much, his eyes scrunched shut and his brows were stitched.
“Mm-yeah.” You could barely speak between the sounds he was pulling from you; the pressure inside you building up gradually.
As soon as you gave him permission, he dipped down, covering every inch of you in kisses as his fingers curled going in and out of you. Your breaths became deeper and longer, with exhales that ended in moans. His tongue lay flat against you, swiping up and down a few times before it pointed to focus on your clit. “Ah- Sam.” You called, gripping his hair. Sam’s eyes were fixed on the way your face scrunched up in pleasure; how your lips became more vibrant the closer to the edge you got.
“You look so fucking pretty with my mouth on you.” The vibrations of his murmuring rippled through you right before you felt his lips latch onto you, making you cry out.
“Fuck!” The coil was about to snap; he could feel it in the way you tightened around his fingers. You couldn’t keep your eyes open at this point and were doing your best not to snap your legs closed around his head.
Sam could feel your thighs begin to shake. He saw the way your breaths were ragged and closed together, the way your belly contracted; the sound of your moans and cries of his name only adding to the overwhelming pleasure he got from seeing you like that. His hips moved of their own accord in tune with the movement of his fingers and tongue, trying to relieve some of the pressure that kept building under his boxers.
“That’s it, angel. Want to feel you cum on my tongue.” The band snapped with a force you had never felt before. Every muscle in your body contracted, to the point your loud moan became completely silent. It felt like being electrocuted from the inside out, exploding into the longest, most absolute bliss imaginable. He rode you through it, gently but surely, helping to ease the comedown from such a high, long-lasting peak.
When you finally settled, trying to catch your breath, he hugged the thigh he was leaning into and reached for the hand that had been gripping his hair and was now resting on your stomach. “God, you were so perfect.” He looked at you, smiling in awe; his chin still glistening.
“Me?” You huffed, looking up at the ceiling, unable to even let out a proper chuckle. I didn’t even do anything.
“Yeah.” The way he said it, so loving and sincere, with a crinkle in the corner of his eyes, made you sit up with a solemn look. He mirrored your movements and stood back, observing you, until you were on your knees. You reached for him, placing a hand on his cheek, and he immediately pulled you into his lap.
“I love you.” The words brushed against his lips just before you kissed him, coming as naturally as if you had said it a thousand times before. Sam couldn’t help the whimper he let out at your words. His grip instantly became tighter, as if he were trying to meld together with you. You had said it so easily, unprompted, of your own volition, sealing them with a long kiss that told him to keep them – that you didn’t need him to say it back; because that wasn’t why you said it. It only made him love you more.
The ache for you was becoming unbearable. His hands gripped your hips, and you couldn’t help but roll them, feeling how hard he was. His brows pinched in pleasure as he ground himself against you, feeling your lips against the column of his neck. It wasn’t long before his boxers were soaked in you, the friction and kisses only making you wetter. You saw Sam’s pink cheeks, his desperate breathless look, and realised he was waiting for you to tell him if you wanted to go further.
“Sammy.” There it was again. It was like you knew what saying his nickname like that did to him. He’d give you anything you asked if you just called him Sammy with that sweet, sighing voice of yours. “Need you inside me. Please.” In an instant, he picked you up, pulled his boxers off, and you were back down, drenching his cock even more. Your nails scraped his back at the feeling of his head rubbing against your clit. Neither of you could take it anymore, but you were the one to finally make the move that pushed him into you. A harsh groan came from deep within his chest at the squeeze he felt as he sunk further in. When he finally bottomed out, you both let out long exhales. He could feel the way you fluttered around him, adjusting to the other-worldly stretch you seemed to have forgotten. Sam waited patiently, taking deep breaths to keep himself from moving. You experimented with small movements at first, ones that gradually punched the air out of his lungs. Soon, the roll of your hips became deeper; the position creating the perfect drag of his length against your clit as he went in and out.
Soft moans filled the room as you moved together in tandem at a slow but steady pace. He used one of his hands to grip your flesh and aid your movements while he laid feverish kisses on your lips, jaw, and neck. The movements slowly became harsher and somewhat faster, but your need to feel each other kept you from racing to the finish line. Despite that, the more he felt how wet you were and how much you clenched around him, the more Sam’s ability to hold off his orgasm faded.
“You feel so good, baby – ah – I don’t think I can last much longer.” He admitted through heavy breaths, kisses, and whimpers.
“It’s ok.” You held his chin and looked into his eyes. “You already did so much for me.” A moan interrupted you. “Ah – Thank you f-for – ah – making me feel so good.” Your eyes squeezed shut at the building pleasure. It seemed you were getting close too.
Sam held your face, pulling you in for another kiss as his grip on you tightened and he took control of your movements. “You do - so much more - than that for me.” It was getting harder for him to speak too. “I love you, too, angel.” His face scrunched up in pleasure, and you could feel his hips begin to stutter. You hadn’t expected him to say it back, especially not at that moment. He held you flush against him as he came, and the mix of his words with the feeling of him pulsing inside you, filling you with his warmth, brought you over the edge. You gripped the hair at the nape of his neck with one hand and scratched at his back with the other; crying out his name.
It felt like you had fused together in that moment, and when you finally came down from your highs, he held you tight and laid you back on the bed with him. Just like the first time, he stayed inside you; lightly rutting into you whenever he felt you clench around him.
“You didn’t have to say it.” You whispered against his cheek following a soft kiss.
Sam turned to you; his thumb caressing your face. “I wanted to.” His lips reached for yours. “Just like I want to stay here, with you.” You couldn’t help but smile. Eventually, he did leave you for a moment; to get a warm wet towel to clean you up so you could sleep comfortably. Once he was done, he settled in next to you, pulling you into his arms and a deep sleep; not even thinking that the following morning, Dean would come in and find you sleeping naked together.
summary: when clark starts acting strange in class, he drags you somewhere secluded to help him feel better (red k!clark kent)
warnings: pure smut, pwp, fem!reader, dirty talk (like a lot), slight dubious consent, overstimulation, belly bulge, sex in a semi public place, pet names, cursing, bickering, bondage, red!clark kent (1.5k words)
a/n: this is literally pure smut. I saw my first red kryptonite clark kent episode, and now I'm freaked, so here we go.
You were going to kill Clark Kent. Well, not really – but it's the sentiment that counts, and as far as you were concerned, he was dead meat. This is the fourth time that he had knocked over the beaker, and you were reaching your limit. “Kent, if you don’t back away, then I will splash this sulfuric acid in your face.” you mutter, glaring over at him as he lies back in his chair, looking completely and utterly unbothered.
“C’mon,” he laughs, chewing gum between his perfect, pearly white teeth, “Don’t tell me this is actually fun for you. Why don’t we get out of here?” he smirks as he stands up and waltzes over to you, causing you to shield the beaker on instinct
You huff out an irritated laugh and glare up at him, “Are you out of your mind, Clark? Do you know how long we’ve been working on this-” “Have you ever considered that maybe you’re too uptight?” he mocks, a small smirk making its way across his face as he gets closer.
You can feel your cheeks heat up as you place your hands againts his chest in an attempt to stop him from getting any closer, “Clark there is something seriously wrong with you,” you mutter, looking up at him and his dazed expression curiously “are you…feeling okay?” you ask, reaching up to feel at his forehead for some sort of fever, causing him bite back a laugh.
“Y’know maybe you’re right.” he hums, turning to look at your chemistry teacher, “Mrs. Simmons, I really think I oughta go to the nurse – y'know, all the chemicals are making me kinda sick. Mind if my lab partner here takes me?” he asks in fake pain, clutching his head like it’s a lifeline.
You try your best to contain an eye roll as she gives you both permission to leave – that poor gullible old woman, bless her soul. The next thing you know, you feel Clark lead you out of the classroom, but not in the direction of the nurse's office.
Instead, he pushes you into an empty closet, knocking down an old broom in the process, causing you to yelp. “Aw come on, don’t tell me you’re scared of a little noise” he teases cockily, his head leaning down to allow his lips to brush against the top of your head, making you shiver. “Clark, you really don't seem okay.” you mutter, backing up slowly before your back hits the cold concrete wall.
“What? Because I’m not the same boring guy you think you know, you assume somethings wrong?” he mocks, looking you up and down, as his hands make their way across your waist, gripping your hips. “sweetheart, you have no idea what I’m capable of.” he chuckles, shaking his head with feigned laughter.
“Clark, I don't understand what we’re even doing in here-” you huff, but your words die in your throat as you feel Clark's hand fiddle with the strap of your tank top, pulling it down slowly to reveal your pink lacey bra strap, a smile breaking out across his face. “Oh, I like this,” he grins, toying with it delicately as you feel your body tremble. “You pick this out just for me?” he teases, voice low, and you can't deny how wet it makes you.
“Believe it or not, I don't think of you when I’m changing, Clark” you mutter, trying your hardest to stand your ground but failing miserably when his hand gravitates lower, his fingers rubbing at the top of the lacey cups of your bra – you can practically feel the wind get knocked out of you in response.
And like a sixth sense, a cocky smirk makes its way onto Clark's face like he can sense the lie you’re feeding him. His hand trails down until it reaches the waistband of your low-rise jeans, delicately rubbing where your skin meets the denim. “I know you take pride in being a real smart girl, but you’re a terrible liar,” he muses, eyes glued to your cleavage, which peeks out from your skewed tank top.
“Clark, I don't know what game you’re playing-” you hiss, “but this has to qualify as some sort of public indecency” you growl, and his eyes roll back in playful annoyance. “I was right, you are uptight.” he laughs, “I just wonder what else is tight,” he mutters, his head coming closer to yours as his lips brush by your ear, and as much as you don't want to, you can feel yourself melt into him.
what were you doing, Clark was your friend – and sure, maybe you had a small crush on him, but you were sure his heart only beat for Lana Lang. Unfortunately, you’ve never considered your self-control to be your biggest strong suit, and you don't object when Clark's hand dips below your waistband.
“Pretty pair of jeans,” he murmurs softly, “I think I’d like 'em better off, though,” he adds, unzipping your jeans slowly and shoving them down your legs, his eyes focused on your pair of pink lace panties that now have a growing wet spot on them – a smirk snaking its way across his face.
“If I’d known this is how you felt, then I would've done this sooner, baby,” he chuckles, “all you had to do was say the word.” You feel his hands reach the waistband of your panties, snapping them against your waist playfully as his fingers inch further down, spreading the growing wetness across them, causing the fabric to turn nearly transparent.
You feel your knees begin to buckle and your eyes rolling back as his arm shoots out to grab your waist, single-handedly holding you up. He looks around for a brief second before his eyes zero in on an old desk in the corner, carrying you over to it without hesitation and setting you on it gently. He then grasps your left leg to spread it outwards, giving him the perfect view of your panty-clad pussy. He was going to enjoy this.
He fills in the empty space between your legs with his body, unzipping his jeans and pulling out his rock hard cock. giving it a few pumps, he pulls your panties to the side, spreading his tip across your clit, and making you mewl out loudy. “clark- clark, I-” you cry out, as he pushes his tip against it teasingly “shh, i know baby, i know” he murmurs with faux sympathy, his spare hand holding your face as he talks you down.
After a few more seconds, he decides to spare you the torment and pushes his full length into you, your forehead falling against his muscular chest in pure pleasure. He was huge. And when you look down, you can see where he’s splitting you open, a bulge in your lower abdomen prominent as he makes you cry out. He’s drilling into you at an unreal pace when you try to shift away, the pleasure becoming too much for you to handle.
When he notices, he grabs your wrists, binding them together in front of you. “nuh uh, baby, don't try to run from me now” he muses, keeping his pace consistent as your face contorts in pleasure.
“Clark ‘s too much,” you whine, trying your hardest to shift away, but you’re no match for his strength – though he sure is having a great time watching you try. “Baby, don’t be dramatic” he mocks, looking down at you in feigned pity “I can feel you squeezing me. she just loves me, doesn’t she, sweetheart?” he teases smugly, his hand coming down to press on your lower stomach, making you mewl out at the pressure.
Clark just croons in response, and he can tell you're close by the way you squeeze around him. “all it takes is a little bit of cock and you can’t even put together a coherent sentence? What happened to the smart girl from chem class, huh?” he muses, and he can feel you clench around him at the nickname.
“Oh you like that, dont you, baby?” he hums, his hand coming up to lift your chin, your dazed eyes meeting his, a cocky smirk plastered on his face. “Never thought you’d be the type to enjoy that kinda thing. Don't get me wrong, i’m glad you are. You’re just full of surprises,” he laughs conceitedly, still pounding into you as you whine out incoherently.
It only takes a few more seconds before he feels you getting close, your body tensing up around him, making his eyes roll back at how hot and wet you feel. What really sends him over the edge is the look on your face when he presses all the way into you. He could get used to that.
Before you know it, you feel blinded by white hot pleasure and your body goes limp, the only thing holding it up being Clark's arm around you as you come down from your high. You’re a mess of twitches and whines as he finishes, pressing his forehead against yours as he stays sheathed inside of you.
“Y’know, baby, this was better than the nurse,” he smirks cockily against your mouth, “but then again I never doubted you” he murmurs, leaving you blissed out and wondering what just happened, and why you wanted more.
CW .✦ ݁˖ Fem!reader, p in v, unprotected sex, creampie
The room filled with the soft sounds of your lovemaking and the rhythmic creaking of the bed. Each thrust of his hips against your ass sent shivers through you as Clark presses kisses to your exposed neck, occasionally biting down and sucking gently. “You like that, don’t you?” he murmured softly, his voice hardly more than a whisper. You let out a soft whine in response and Clark scoffs, “Of course you do,” his voice laced with a gently teasing tone. His hips continue moving in a slow, steady rhythm, filling you completely with each thrust.
You choke out a moan, your body trembling as Clark puts one leg up on the bed, the new angle allowing him to reach impossibly deeper inside your gummy walls, filling you in a way that made your vision blur and your brain feel fuzzy. “Too much?" he asked and you could only nod weakly, your hands gripping the bedsheets for dear life.
Without much warning, Clark pushes your face into the plush pillow beneath your head, muffling your sweet moans, as your walls flutter uncontrollably around his cock, signaling your impending orgasm. His own release building rapidly as his balls slap against your clit with every deep thrust.
Your orgasm crashes over you suddenly, your walls clamping down on his thick length like a vice. Clark groans loudly, feeling your pussy squeeze him perfectly. "Fuck, I'm gonna..." Before he could even finish his sentence, he was coming hard, filling you completely with his milky seed.
Clark stays buried deep inside your spent hole, his cock still twitching inside you as you both come down from your highs. With a gentle nuzzle against your ear, he murmurs, “We're not done yet, sweetheart. Just getting warmed up, and you know I can go for hours if I want to.”
A/N .✦ ݁˖ Was going through writer’s block while writing this so I hope it’s still up to par !! If you enjoyed this, support me by reblogging and do not copy, steal or put this into Al.
MEMORIAE NOCTEM
“Tell me what you think about, when you do this by yourself.”
WINCHESTER, Sam (soulless); READER, Fem. Romantic (established, casual)
Sam pays you a late night visit, and wants to know what you remembered about him.
c. S06.e06-08 (missing scene) wc. 4.1k
cw. fingering. piv. sexualized grief/yearning.
It’s late, sometime after midnight. Through the window, a thin sliver of moon watches you. Chilly, not quite cold, you pad your way to the bathroom, make your way with the lights off. No need to wake up, all the way, for this.
There's a long shadow in the corner, watching you, waiting. It can’t be a simple nightmare, you’re sure that you’re awake. You stumble backwards, shaking, terrified. Someone is in your home that shouldn’t be.
As your eyes adjust, you realize it’s him, spilling out of the armchair he’s reclined in. The sprawl of his limbs is unmistakable. He greets you, tells you to calm down, but his sotto voice is flat, too even. It doesn’t calm you in the slightest.
“Sam?”
The look he’s wearing is intense, predatory. It’s meant a lot of different things in the past. Most frequently, it’s made good on incredible dicking downs, but right now it’s creeping you out.
What’s between you is easy. Casual. Predictable. At least it had been, before you found out he’d died. His brother had called you, spent too long with your silence, until you’d found something to say.
Thanks, I guess? and Sorry, for your loss.
His brother called again, not long ago. Said the dead thing didn’t take. Told you to be careful, that whatever happened to him changed him, that he’d been through hell.
“Through Hell.” Sam laughs, looks to the ceiling, and rolls his eyes. “Fuck, Dean. That’s almost clever.” He tells you his brother wasn’t wrong. He is different, things have changed, but not everything. Not what he wants to do to you.
He assures you he’ll go, if you want, but that he doesn’t think you do, lets his legs stretch long as he leans all the way back, and the audacity of it is both enraging and arousing. When his fingers curl towards the expanse of his lap, you’re reminded of all the things they’ve done to you, will do to you, if you’ll cooperate. You refuse him, at least for now, stand firm, demanding an apology before you’ll consider fucking him.
“You’re getting ahead of yourself.” He looms over you, arms crossed, mocking you in a mirrored stance. At his full height, Sam Winchester is big. Imposing, when he wants to be.
Your stature doesn’t compare, not by a long shot, but you jut your chin up defiantly anyway. He looks down at you as you look up at him. He brings his mouth to meet yours, but you lean back just enough that he knows not to kiss you. Yet. A rough, callused thumb presses into the dip below your lip, pulling down to expose your teeth.
“I’m sorry.” His mouth ghosts over yours, and you feel the shape of his contrition, passing like a secret between your lungs. It is factual. Functional. Your want deems it sufficient.
Almost.
“What if I was gone?” You tease, a sultry challenge, not quite ready to forgive. His grip on you tightens, big hand palming your face. “Somewhere you couldn’t find me.”
“Not possible.” You’re in his arms faster than you can think and he is arching your back, making an offering of your thinly covered tits. He presses his face against you, dragging his teeth along the angle of your jaw, an uncoordinated assault on your neck, your ear, your cheek. “There’s nowhere you could go that I wouldn’t find you.”
He grabs your ass, making you whine with the strength of it. He wraps you around him, rocking your mound against his hip, and you’re too desperate now to refute his claim.
“Not when you want to be found.” You catch his lip with your teeth in response, nipping it lightly before letting it go. He growls, staring at you, mouth hovering just over yours, his pupils blown so wide they blot out the thin ribbon of gold that usually surrounds them.
He looks unravelled. Unrestrained. Unsafe.
You know that Sam's a dangerous guy, but you’ve never really felt it, until now. Now there is a dark and wild part of him, prowling just below the surface, a thing he's never let you see before. It gives you a thrill in the hollow of your throat.
He kisses you. Fiercely. You can’t catch your breath, can’t stop the way your head swims. You feel his thumb pressing into your jaw, hinging it open so he can lick into your mouth. You let him suck and bite at your lips, leave them raw, puffy and slick from how he’s marked you with his spit, his eyes following the string of it that drops down to your heaving chest with a look that makes you whimper with need.
“You gonna sit in my lap now?” He stands you in front of him, drops back into the chair. He’s pulling his shirt off over his head, chest taut, forearms flexing. He spreads himself out, the bulge in his jeans shifting on its own when you lick your lips. You feel ravenous.
Your panties are being pulled down, his knuckles brushing against your slit to see how wet you are. He tugs at the hem of your shirt, expression dark, and you sweep it up over your head for him. It looks like he’s thinking of something filthy. You want to know if it’s a memory or a fantasy, maybe a mix of both.
“What’s that look?” He shakes his head, doesn’t answer, watching you stand there, naked, rubbing your thighs together, spreading your slick around. He takes his time and soon you start to shiver. “Sam. I’m getting cold.”
His eyes flick up to your face, pausing on the way to note how hard your nipples have become, and he opens his arms for you. “C’mere then.”
You climb into his lap side-saddle, burrow into the warmth of him, your ass wiggling against him, needy, and he lets you stay there as long as you want. He wraps his arm around you, asks if that’s better. You don’t bother pretending that it isn’t, the tenderness of his embrace is so familiar. It reminds you of a memory of him, one where he’s a little warmer, more playful.
The slow and deliberate way you’re kissing is trying his patience, has him crushing you against his chest. Your closed-mouth kiss is subtle, pressure and suction sweetly tugging at his lips. It’s not long before you take your turn gnawing at him, fingers clawing at his back, tugging at his hair.
Gripping you firmly, turning you so your leg falls open, you’re already whimpering from how he spreads you wide. “Touch yourself for me.” He coos, kissing your temple so softly you could mistake him for that other Sam, again. “Tell me what you think about, when you do this by yourself.”
“You?” You slip your hand down, over your belly to the damp patch of curls, the ones barely hiding your arousal from him. You breathe deep the scent of his sweat and your cunt and the lingering traces of aftershave he wears. It’s cheap but that doesn’t matter. On him, it smells good. “You wanna know if I think about you.”
“And?” He studies you, like you are data he is collecting. The focus of it furrows his brow. His eyes flick between the apex of your legs and your mouth, both wet and open, the latter smirking as he stifles a groan. Not so empirical, now. You are wetter than you expect, when you part your lips to slide your fingers through your slick. Rocking so your ass rubs along his length, you start to pet yourself in earnest.
You press the place between your shoulderblades into his chest, arching your back, his fingers brush the underside of your tit and you gasp again, your head lolling along the top of his shoulder. He chuckles, or maybe growls, and it vibrates low in his throat. You’re awash in a sea of memories, where all at once you are settling in next to him, asleep, on your couch, and his hands are under your thighs making you spill cereal all over the floor, and he is waking you from behind, entering you so, so, slowly.
“Not all the time, but.” Your mouth feels like a desert no matter how you work your tongue around it, so when you speak it’s in a croak you barely recognize as your own. You lick your lips and find he’s close enough that you taste his skin by accident. “Sometimes, yeah. I think about you.”
“Did you, when Dean told you I was dead?” He bites your cheek, not enough to mark, but enough to send a shock of pleasure through you, making you cry out. It mingles with the sadness that drives between your ribs, traps your breath in your lungs.
A wave of sorrow washes over you, tightens your chest to think of it again. You defy him, focus on the ache you’re feeling, the rock of your hips in the direction of pleasure. It’s true what they say: grief makes you horny. “Why would you ask me that?”
“I want to know.” He’s grinding up into your ass, the rub of the fly on his jeans rough against your skin. He covers the hand between your legs with his, guiding your fingers with gentle insistence against your clit. “Were you sad?”
You buck into his touch, ignoring his questions. The want between your legs blooms deeper within you, making you twist in his hold, spreading your legs wider while he urges you to answer.
“A little, at first.” You swallow, struggle to hold his gaze, feel ashamed. You didn’t rend clothing or wear black or throw yourself on the proverbial casket. If there was a real one, you didn’t know about it. “I didn’t really think about it, you, much after a while.”
“But you did.” You whine his name, protest compounded by pleasure, bring yourself to look up at him and he nods at you, studying your face. “You cried for me.”
“Jesus Christ, Sam.” You’re writhing against him, your hand left to continue its work at your clit as his fingers dip lower, teasing at your slit. It feels so deeply fucked up to be getting off on this, telling him you didn’t really mourn even though it felt like you did, at the time. “Is this what you came for?”
But then, he’s getting off on it, too.
“Correct me if I’m wrong, but.” He slides his fingers between your lips, stuffing you full with one smooth stroke of his wrist. He uses your cunt to hold you in place, against his cock, harder. He works into you, a gentle wave, the curl of his fingertips making you quiver until his pressure inside meets yours outside and you can’t keep your eyes open for the feeling of it. “Nobody's come yet.”
You bark out a laugh that gets caught in your throat. It hitches from the force of it, tangling with your pleasure, stumbling over the joke that isn’t funny, but it is. Your whole body shakes against him, and he works you harder as your cunt clenches around his fingers with your laughter and your lust until you’re gasping for breath, and soaking his hand.
“God damn, that’s tight.” His mouth curls into a shape that feels like the inside of a smile. “Always said I liked your laugh; I like it even better now.” Affection, perhaps, familiar yet distorted, and a curiosity that borders on surprise. That he’s remembering another version of you through time, the way you’re comparing him to the memory of the man he was before, stirs in you a sense of quiet mourning. You can feel it competing with the rising tide of your climax on his fingers and yours moving faster, deeper. You’re holding, clinging, on to his forearm but when you try to help him start fucking his fingers into you faster he drags them from you, stifling your protests by shoving them into your mouth. “You’re getting ahead of yourself. I wanna feel you first.”
“Then take your clothes off and fuck me, Sam.” You pull his fingers free, thick strings of drool keeping them connected to your tongue, and twist awkwardly to climb towards his mouth. He manhandles you into his arms, telling you he’s going to ruin you. Wanna see you cry for me. He kneads your ass as he crosses the room, jerky, almost awkward, shedding his pants along the way. Legs cinched tightly around his waist, you lean in to kiss him, softly. Once. Twice. “Whatever you want. Fuck. I haven’t felt you since you died.”
He bullies you onto the bed: pries your limbs open, lays you out roughly beneath him, kneels over you, naked and erect. You have to swallow because the sense memory of his cock in your mouth is so vivid it makes your mouth water. You’re about to bow to it, take him deep and see if the rich, salty musk of him is the same as you remember, when he knocks your knees open, forcing your legs wider, making room for him to settle between them.
You reach down to touch him, that same velvet softness you remember wrapped around steel you could never forget. It’s light, your fingertips revelling in the feel of his skin. You sigh and it sounds like a secret. He groans and it feels like one, too.
His hips shift, the tip of him brushing against you, and you take both hands to part your lips and use him to spread your wetness all over yourself, and him. You grip his shaft and coax him to your entrance, and the stretch of him is less familiar than you remember, though you’re sure it’s not a matter of anatomy. Time has just passed, and your bodies have forgotten. You moan, your guiding hand keeping its grip, drawing out your reacquaintance.
“Slow.” You manage to get out, thick, almost drunk. “Please, go slow, Sam.” You squeeze him, suck him deeper in fractional inches. “I missed you. I.” You thought you’d never have this again. “I wanna remember.”
He goes slower, his cock flexing inside you, body going rigid when you clench around him in response. The agony of it is wonderful, consuming, a dizzying hiatus of time. You’re certain that this must be Sam, as you remember him. Patient. Deliberate. Worshipful. You moan for him, long and ragged.
You guide him home, but when you look at him, his face does not match the one in your memory. Where you should see ecstasy, euphoria, you find a carnal snarl, lip curled and teeth bared. You chase more, try to fill the space where his reverence for you should be with the length and girth of his cock.
“Shit.” He grabs you, pins you, keeping you in place so you can no longer move. “You’re really crying.” Wetness stains your cheeks, too late to hide it, and when you try to wipe it away he stops you. He has not finished cataloguing your tears.
“I.” You have nothing to say for yourself, you blink and a few more tears slip free. “I guess so. Yeah.”
He withdraws, just his tip lingers, barely inside you. A string of slick trickles from his shaft down your slit, and then south to pool between your ass cheeks. Everything feels thick and fuzzy, Sam becomes a contradiction.
“You wanted something else.” He kisses you, slow, tender, the way his words aren’t. “Something soft?” He dampens his lips on your cheek, gentle, while he fucks into you hard enough to steal your breath. “You need me to be sweet, while I take you apart?” His touch is featherlight; his body weights yours like an anchor, sinking deep. “Tell you you’re beautiful, that I need you.” It is a promise; it is a threat.
“Sam.” He grinds against you, face a jarring omission of feeling. The incongruity of him betrays an existential un-knowing, the source of a slow beating pulse of madness, growing in his mind. You wonder if he notices, if he feels the void you see.
“I could.” It hits you, like the snap of his hips, that of course he does. He must. He is here to reconcile himself. “I remember what to say.”
He is an exacting calculus where earnestness should be, and yet beneath it all, despite it all, you just see Sam. The same, but different. Dead, then not so much. Sometimes absence is just absence, and somehow that stings a little less.
“You could.” Split open on his cock, you remind yourself how empty you will feel, when he leaves. “But you don’t need to.” He is thick and hard and throbbing, buried to the hilt in you, and you decide there’s no need to hurry along your parting. “I’ll remember either way.”
Immobilized by his weight, grunting, whining from the strain, you clip the corner of his mouth trying to bite him, pull his lip taut and bloody when you finally catch hold. Your limbs scrabble at him, back arching your tits into his chest, elbows knocking his wrists, trying to wriggle free. A bruising grip takes hold of the back of your thigh, presses it down into the mattress. It’s enough, you break free.
His hair tangles in your fists, both of them, fingers knotting around long strands and pulling until you feel resistance. His head jerks, jaw slack, he shows you the whites of his eyes, the white of his teeth. The sound you tug from him through the roots of his hair is throttled by the tension coiled in the muscles of his neck, long and guttering, it bleeds through the confines of his ribs and into yours. “You feel so fucking good.”
Locked together, his limbs around yours and vice versa, the sheen of exertion building between you lets your bodies start to glide against each other. The smell of his sweat is tantalizing, intoxicating, and you turn your face toward his armpit, breathe deep. Low thunder rolls over as he laughs, a single raindrop of him hits your shoulder from the stormcloud of hair above you.
“This what you want?” Twisting, stretching, he brings his body close and you bury your needy mewling against the hot, damp funk of him and the moistness of it clings to your nose and cheeks even after you pull away. You gnaw at the delicate skin there, worry at the ropes of muscle that cling to his ribs. “Little freak.” His tone is a steady, unmodulated assessment, and you mumble that it takes one to know one around his flesh. “Sure.” His teeth click together and it makes you shiver. “That’s why this works.” He isn’t wrong.
A frenzy builds in you as he fucks you harder, faster, a litany of want and need and filth cascading from your mouth. Your ankles hook over his shoulders, his knees bracket your hips. He leans back, stares down the length of your legs, watches, as his cock glides in and out of you. He describes it in detail: the sheen of your cunt juices coating his dick, your thighs and ass; the sound of you, thick wet squelching he says is because of how you’re trying to milk him, but he’s not ready to come yet; the hidden secret he excavates, dipping his thumb between your puffy folds to circle your clit. You writhe for him, absolutely undone.
“You’re close.” You are, but you bite your lips and shake your head in dissent. “Don’t lie. I can feel it.” You can too, the way his thumb slips and slides over your pleasure with the wetness that precedes your release. “You wanna come for me?”
“You wanna make me?” His eyes darken and this, you recognize. Sam Winchester, consumed by lust, considering your challenge, and preparing to rise to it.
He drags your ass up onto his thighs, still petting you as he starts to fold you in half. Delirium takes over, the air evacuates your lungs as he stretches over you, the full length of his torso melting into yours. He fills you, impossibly deep, needs only the new angle and the weight of his hips to drive him deeper.
“Hi.” You stare up at him, mouth agape, so close to him. His breath fans over your face, hot and even, makes you shudder.
“Hi.” He waits until you nod, let him know you’re ready. When he starts to move, a thorough analysis of flesh, you see stars.
He takes his time, telling you how tight you are, how good it feels, how you’re taking all of him. His pelvis rocks down into yours, grinds your clit against his pubic bone, until you become his pleading supplicant, pressing your face against his wherever you can. Cheek to cheek, nose to chin, mouth to mouth, your tongue sliding over his in a petition that defies words, begging from a place beyond the confines of language.
You are breathing in tandem, your hearts beating in one syncopated rhythm, your fucked out, glazed over eyes hold his until they cross from being too close, revert to staring at the mole on his left cheek. Drunkenly, you kiss it. Awkward, haphazard, you miss your target and your nose slips into the corner of his eye. You snort, he grunts, and the absurdity of all of it tips your chin up, sends effervescent mirth spilling from your lips. You twitch and convulse with laughter, and it pulls him deeper, inside you.
“God damn.” He curses into your shoulder, constricting around you as his climax hits. “That’s tight. You’re.” You can’t hear him, though his lips move against you like he’s still saying something. His breathing quickens, stalls, whistles out of him in high pitched, desperate pants.
Pain blossoms at your shoulder, he bites you, as hard and deep as the rut of his hips into you as he comes, and it drops you, from the height he’s taken you, into the dizzying descent of your orgasm. Your eyes roll back, your hands claw at his back, ass, and legs to hold him closer, sweat drips from the backs of your knees, and your muscles shake, pull tight, go rigid. Every nerve ending in your body reports an incoherent ecstasy, white heat coursing through you, the blurry sight of God, and Sam, everywhere, holding you together as you come apart.
The gentle, rhythmic laving of his tongue over your shoulder guides you back to reality. Sam is still everywhere, heavy and molded to you, crushing the air out of you with the weight of him. You turn into him, nudge at his cheek with your nose. “Sam, I can’t breathe.”
He grunts, pushing up and off you. The dim light from the street paints him in shades of blue-grey and yellow, a sinful nocturne of rippling muscle. He catches you staring as he walks to the bathroom, smirking at you over his shoulder. He disappears into the sound of running water.
You assess yourself, aching and tender with the promise of bruises on your thighs where he held you down. The place where your shoulder meets your neck aches whenever you move it, and it’s tender when you touch it, makes you hiss. You keep trying to look at where he bit you but can’t, your anatomy doesn’t allow it. “I think you broke skin.”
You don’t realize he’s come back until his hand cups the base of your skull, guides you so he can examine the mark, and then confirms it. He sounds proud of himself. “Looks that way.”
The sheets pool around your hips as you sit up, hold your hand out for the glass he’s drinking deeply from. He pauses, mid-sip, and hands it over. You mumble between gulps that you should make him stay and do your laundry, at least, before he leaves.
“What makes you think I’m leaving?” The glass stalls at your lips. Two fingers on the bottom, he tilts it until you’ve drained what’s left, a small rivulet escaping the corner of your mouth. He catches it on his knuckle, wipes your chin and relieves you of the glass, setting it beside the coaster on your bedside, crowding you against the headboard as he climbs back into bed. “I’m not finished yet.”
a/n : thanks are owed to @sorryitsmyfirstdayonearth for their tireless support, and to @plasticflowersinahistorycemetery and @velvourne for the lengthy soulless Sam study sessions. i know they happened months ago, but i remember.
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