cw 18+/nsfw content. sam winchester x female!reader. sam being in love and pathetic. male masturbation. sam has a very dirty imagination. no use of y/n. lowercase intended.
notes my exams are done thank you jesus (i failed 2) so i wrote a lil sumthnnnn. I KEPT GETTING DISTRACTED WHILE WRITING SO IF THIS IS BAD IM SORRY.
sam winchester is absolutely miserable and pathetic. and the worst part? he knows it.
every time he sees you all dressed up in those pencil skirts and fitted button-ups for a case, he has to excuse himself to the bathroom so he can hide his aching, hardening cock in the waistband of his boxers.
every time you get out of the shower of your motel room and sit down on your shared bed while dressed only in shorts barely covering your ass and an oversized t-shirt, sam has to immediately face the wall.
every time another guy hits on you, even if you're completely uninterested, his whole mood changes. twitching body, furrowed brows, "i'm fine" after every "are you okay?"
he loves you. god he loves you to the point it's driving him crazy. it's not just love anymore. he needs you.
but he would never tell you, because he is a coward. he hides it.
hides it until you and dean are gone and he's finally alone in the motel rom. until it's finally his turn in the shower. once or twice until you and dean were both asleep and the need was getting unbearable...
tonight was one of those nights too.
all three of you were at a bar, beers on the table, dean digging in his extra greasy burger, you're giggling and, god, it really shouldn't turn him on. but your mini shorts hugging your curves and your exposed thighs are not helping him.
he can feel his dick getting harder and harder each painful second and it is getting impossible for him to ignore it.
so he left. that's how pathetic he is.
now he is back at the motel room. his huge and muscly body is sprawled on the bed and his cock is already leaking pre-cum before he even touches it.
his right hand wraps around his dick, thumb moving over his tip and sam moans in relief. his movements begin slow at first, his hand moving up and down around his shaft.
your image shows up in his mind. how you would look like completely bare in his bed, how soft your skin would be, how your touch would feel.
he imagines all the things he would do to make you feel good. his lips would kiss all over your naked body before he even undresses himself.
sam instinctively speeds up.
he thinks about how wet he would make you from just his words, how sweet you would taste on his tongue.
what would make you whimper and what would make you scream his name in the pillow. what your face would look like when you're just about to come.
he feels his dick twitch in his hands. gosh, he was so close so embarrassingly fast.
he imagines how gently he would part your soft lips as you're on your knees in front of him. how warm your mouth would feel around his cock. how your moans would feel or sound like with your mouth stuffed with him. if your eyes would fill with tears when he would push your head to take him deeper.
he's a whimpering mess by now. he feels his leg muscles tighten as he strokes his cock one last time and he comes, his whole body shuddering, repeating your name over and over like a prayer.
his hand finally falls on his groin, as he tries to catch his breath. his eyes opened, seeing his semen dripping down to his balls.
but, still, your image still didn't leave his mind.
it started with the stubble. he had been working late nights, taking up the extra shifts for a small boost. “any money is good money, kid,” is what he told you. so he stopped shaving, didn’t have the time. and it was showing.
“nice stubble, i like it.” a passing comment. you had rubbed your fingers over the short, prickly hairs when you said it, hearing the rumble in his throat, adam’s apple bobbing.
what you didn’t expect was for it to go to his head—quite literally. because now, a month or two later, it was a full on beard. a giant tuft of hair perfectly wrapped around his chiseled jaw. and you couldn’t lie—it was insanely attractive.
your mother thought it was ugly, begging him to shave it when he had a day off. it really showed how differently you viewed him. while she wanted him pristine and clean, you took whatever he gave you. he was handsome no matter what he looked like, and you made sure to let him know.
the house was empty, except for you and dick. the two of you took advantage of your mother being gone, being up in his office this time.
“sh—it!” you squealed into his neck, hands gripping his broad shoulders tightly, your nails digging crescent moons into his skin. you were perched on his lap, him sitting in his office chair. his hands were splayed on your ass, clutching the fat flesh and pulling you down in time with his thrusts, digging his cock deeper within you.
“yeah?” he gruffed, “feel good, baby?” his fingers spread you out roughly, trying to make more room for himself.
“yes—fuck, yes!” you screamed. one of your hands flew up to his face, fingertips brushing over the coarse hair, eventually lifting your head enough to rub your cheek against it, whines and moans softly sounding in his ear.
dick chuckled at the way you managed to admire his facial hair when you couldn’t form a cohesive thought. he’s glad you love it—it is for you, after all. he pressed sloppy pecks to your neck and shoulder, slowly sucking blooms of purple to your skin, making sure they were in spots a hoodie could easily cover.
he lifted you up with ease, holding you to his large frame before laying you down on his cold desk, pounding mercilessly in the new position.
“god, you feel amazing, sweetheart,” sweat dripped down his brow as he watched your breasts bounce each time his body met your own, being hypnotized by the hardened peaks of your chest.
his gaze lowered to your abdomen, catching sight of the bulge his cock was creating, disappearing each time he pulled away, and filling back up when he’d bottom out. he rubbed the protruding skin with a large padded thumb, biting his lip and smirking as you squirmed, breathless cries spewing from you.
then he glanced over at the small clock on the corner of his monitor. you had about twenty-five minutes until your mother came home, and dick wanted to get you over the edge before then.
you whined as he slipped out, feeling the loss of him immediately. right as you were about to cry out for him, he dropped to his knees and swiftly pulled you to his tongue, devouring your slicked up folds as you panted harshly.
“oh—fuck!” your head slumped back on the wooden table, fingers draped between his silver and black strands, tugging as he licked and sucked at your clit. it didn’t take him long to build your orgasm back up, his lengthy fingers drawing in and out of your walls, hitting that squishy spot inside you that made you see stars.
“c’mon, sweetgirl, ain’t got all day,” he cooed. wet muscle lapped at your leaking hole while your free hand gripped the side of his desk, pushing yourself up to look at him, catching him staring up at your face—which was fully contorted in pleasure.
he smirked against your skin as you came, fingers still moving while he drank up your arousal. you thrashed against him, moans echoing off the walls of his office as you coated his graying beard and the edge of the table, being fully consumed by the sensation of his facial hair rubbing on your skin.
he stood up soon after, shakily pumping his cock with his hand, spreading your release on him. dick let out a low groan with a twinge of a whine as his cum shot out of his swollen tip and onto your trembling, spent body, being splayed on your sweaty skin right as the front door began to unlock downstairs.
Dean had you spread out across his car’s backseat, the cool leather sticking to your skin, the windows fogged from your uneven breaths. He was half-sprawled beside you, one hand braced against the seat, the other buried between your thighs, thick fingers working you open with an ease that made your whole body twitch.
“Jesus, sweetheart,” he rasped, pretty eyes fixed on your face as his thumb brushed your clit in slow, deliberate circles. “You’re already so wet, and I’ve barely touched you.” His grin was crooked, smug, but the heat in his gaze made it impossible to feel embarrassed—only hungrier.
Two fingers slid inside you, curling just right, and your back arched against the car seat. Dean’s low chuckle filled the space, equal parts filthy and affectionate. “That’s it. Right there, huh? God, I love how you clench around me when I do that.”
Every thrust of his hand was firm, unrelenting, but not careless. Dean knew exactly how to tease, how to edge you close before backing off, how to make you beg for more without ever giving you too much too soon. His free hand came up to cup your cheek, thumb dragging over your bottom lip. “You gonna let me hear you, baby? Don’t go all shy on me now. Want you screaming my name.”
When he pressed his thumb harder against your clit, your hips jerked helplessly, a broken moan spilling out of you before you could stop it. Dean’s grin widened, his voice a low growl against your ear as he leaned over you. “That’s it. That’s my girl. So fuckin’ sweet for me.”
His fingers worked deeper, faster, curling just right, and your legs trembled as you clawed at his flannel. He kissed your jaw, messy and hot, but never stopped moving his hand, never let you slip away from the edge he was dragging you toward.
“C’mon, baby,” he murmured, teeth grazing your ear as your whole body shook beneath him. “Let go for me. Wanna feel you fall apart on my fingers.”
The pressure broke all at once, your orgasm ripping through you as your cry echoed in the car, the windows fogging further from the heat of it. Dean groaned at the way you clenched tight around his fingers, his mouth finding your throat to leave a lingering bite.
When you finally slumped back, boneless and wrecked, Dean pulled his hand away, licking his fingers with a satisfied smirk. “Goddamn. Better than I imagined,” he muttered, eyes burning into yours. “And trust me, sweetheart—I imagine it a lot.”
sam winchester loves oral more than the sex itself.
he can spend hours and hours between your thighs, sucking on your swollen clit, tasting your juices and dragging high-pitched moans out of you. you always lose count on how many times sam has made you finish in a row with just his mouth. that's how much he loves it.
he loves the way you arch your back when you get closer to release, the way you whimper when he circles his tongue around your clit, the way he curls his fingers inside you enough to make you lose your breath.
he loves it more than you do. loves hearing every whimper, every shaky breath, every "oh god, sam" he manages to make you moan out.
and if he is in a teasing mood, he loves to hear you beg.
bringing you over the edge for what feels like hours, his tongue working on your clit just right, before he pushes himself off you with that stupid smirk on his face.
he loves to hear you whine. he never continues until he hears you say "please, sammy." and then he is on you again in a second like a starved man.
but when sam is back from a hunt, you're the one who has to push him off you, because he can never get enough.
his hands are keeping your hips in place, your legs locked around his head, desperate fingers gripping his hair. he moves in a way that makes you think he will die a happy man if he got to spend the rest of his life between your thighs.
he's dragging his tongue between your folds, sucking on your clit, he's moaning every time you soak his face with your juices, like you've rewarded him.
and the only time he gives you a second to catch your breath is to whisper "i missed you so much" in a soft voice, before he goes right back, making you finish over and over until your consciousness gives out.
NOTES: this has been finished for quite awhile and awaiting a proof read so here yall go <3 enjoy her
TW: smut, no underage, cheating (dean is dating your sister and cheating on her w/ you), it’s not mentioned but implied that deans home life is bad (because he’s always at your house), semi-public sex (fingering under a blanket), risky situations, intimacy, kind of sad tbh
Dean becomes a fixture in your house long before you realize what he really means to you. He’s twenty, all bravado and swagger, cocky smiles and easy jokes, and your parents think he’s the best thing since sliced bread. Your mom adores how charming he is—“lemme get that for ya’” this and “yes ma’am” that—while your dad can’t get enough of having someone around who actually knows what a carburetor is. Dean slips into the family routine so easily that it’s like he’s always been there. He shows up for dinner, and your mom piles an extra scoop of mashed potatoes on his plate. He helps your dad work on his hobby car and then cracks a beer with him after. He stretches out on your couch like it belongs to him, boots crossed at the ankles, laughing at whatever game’s on TV. By the time you really start to notice him, he’s practically part of the furniture—woven into the fabric of your home in a way that makes it impossible to imagine him not being there.
And at seventeen, you’re supposed to see him as nothing more than your sister’s boyfriend. That’s all he is—loud, teasing, a little too smug. He flicks your forehead when you talk back, steals the last slice of pizza when you’ve been eyeing it, calls you “squirt” or “pipsqueak” until you roll your eyes. He ruffles your hair, laughs when you stomp your foot, plays the role of the annoying older brother everyone expects him to. He’s a nuisance, someone to tolerate because your parents love him, and your sister looks at him with stars in her eyes. But somewhere between the hair-ruffling and the name-calling, there’s something else. Something you don’t have a word for.
By the time you turn eighteen, everything feels different. You’ve grown into yourself, shed some of the girlishness he used to rib you for, and Dean notices. He doesn’t mean to, hates himself for it, really, but he does. He notices the way your skirts hug your hips, the way your lips shine when you lick them, the way your laugh tilts softer now, womanly. He notices the curves of your body, the sway when you walk, the way you tilt your head when you tease him back. He notices, and it eats him alive. The first time it hits him, it’s like a punch in the gut. Your sister’s in the shower and you’re coming down the stairs in a little sundress, ready to go out to meet your friends, and he looks up from the tv. The words die in his throat.
Instead of teasing you, he mutters, “You’re not walking out in that, sweetheart,” voice rough and strained. His eyes drag down your legs, slow and hungry, lingering at the hem of your dress like he’s imagining what’s underneath. He looks away, but you see the muscle in his jaw twitch, the sharp inhale.
You smile slow, syrupy sweet, because you know exactly what just happened. And it’s so wrong, you know that. But it feels so good to have someone like Dean—older, rough around the edges, reckless in a way that should scare you—give you that kind of attention.
From there, every interaction takes on an edge. He still teases you, still calls you “kid” and “pipsqueak,” but there’s weight in it now. Heat. He passes you the salt at dinner and his fingers brush yours too long, his calloused skin scraping against yours, making your stomach flip. He shows you how to check the oil in your car, standing behind you, his chest brushing your back. His voice drops low, close to your ear, warm enough to raise goosebumps, and when he finally steps back, you’re left shivering. Sometimes you catch his nostrils flare when you lean too close, hear the faintest growl caught in his throat when you test him. You can feel the tension radiating off him, like a live wire straining to snap.
You start testing him more. Sitting too close at the table so your knees press together. Holding his gaze when he calls you “kid,” letting your lips curl at the corner, daring him. Brushing against him when you pass in the hall, hips grazing, your hand lingering a second too long on his arm. Every time, his jaw tightens, his eyes flick away, but his body doesn’t move. He plants himself there, rooted, and you can feel the restraint coiling tighter and tighter. The thrill of it makes you reckless.
It builds until it breaks.
The first kiss happens in the kitchen sometime after midnight. You’re pouring yourself a glass of water, the house quiet, when he wanders in shirtless from the couch—because even though your parents adore him, he’s still not allowed upstairs with your sister.
He leans against the counter, all bare chest and lazy smirk, and you joke, “my sister’s lucky.”
He laughs easy, but when you don’t join in, when you look at him steady, the sound falters. His eyes catch yours and hold.
“Don’t talk like that,” he growls, low and sharp, like it hurts him.
You tilt your head, lips curling. “Why not?”
And then he’s on you. His mouth crashes against yours, hot and desperate, his hand fisted in your hair like he’s drowning. His tongue shoves into your mouth, tasting you deep, filthy, like he’s starved for it. You feel how hard he is when he drags you against him, the press of him thick and scorching through your thin pajamas, making your knees buckle. It lasts seconds before he jerks back, swearing under his breath, stumbling out of the room like he’s fleeing the scene of a crime. You’re left breathless, your lips swollen, your body lit up like fire.
After that, he tries to be cold. Calls you “kid” again, avoids your eyes, spends whole afternoons shut in the garage with your dad’s tools. But it’s paper-thin, transparent. He looks away too fast at dinner, grips his beer bottle too hard when you laugh. He avoids you, but the second he steps into a room, his gaze finds you first.
It’s him who cracks.
Of course it’s him.
The second kiss is worse—because it isn’t a kiss, it’s a collision. He corners you in the hallway, voice harsh, whispering that you need to stop, that you’re playing with fire. But his words falter when you step close enough that your chest brushes his.
“Or what? Gonna kiss me again?” you taunt, and that’s it. He snaps.
Your back hits the wall and he kisses you hard enough to bruise, his hands everywhere, your waist, your ass, your throat, and it’s frantic. Like he can’t get enough. One hand slides between your thighs without thinking, thumb pressing against your heat through thin cotton like he’s staking a claim. You whimper into his mouth, nails digging into his shoulders, and it only makes him rougher. He grinds into you, hard, desperate, like he’s seconds from pulling your panties to the side and taking you right there in the hallway. When he finally tears himself away, his chest heaves, eyes wild, lips swollen. He looks wrecked.
From then on, the secrecy becomes its own living thing. Sometimes you both slip into his car, parked out in the driveway, late at night. Climbing into his lap, straddling him, kissing until you’re dizzy. His hands grip your hips like he’s trying to keep you tethered, muttering “we can’t, we can’t” even as your hands push lower, unbuckling his belt. You slide your palm over him through his jeans, grinning when he groans, his head falling back against the headrest.
“You’re supposed to stop me,” you whisper, sweet as sugar, rocking against him.
Instead, he fists the thin garments you’re passing off as pajamas, white-knuckled, as you grind down on the hard line of him, teasing him until he’s panting, cursing, begging you under his breath. You’re the one who kissed him first that night, tongue sliding hot and insistent into his mouth while you work him over with your hand. He gives first, always does, but it’s you who pushes him there—your control, your daring, your fingers wrapped around him in the dark while he trembles, undone by you.
Movie nights become a minefield. He sits on the couch, one arm draped around your sleeping sister, the other hidden under a blanket. His fingers slip under your waistband, slow and steady, pressing into you until you’re dripping for him. He strokes your clit with a practiced touch, whispering “good girl” into your ear while your sister dozes, oblivious, head resting against his shoulder. He pushes two fingers inside you, curls them just right, and you bite your lip until it bleeds to keep quiet. “She’s got no idea how soaked her sweet little sister is for me,” he murmurs, low and smug, making your whole body shiver.
But it isn’t all frantic. Sometimes it’s unbearably tender. You sneak downstairs and find him half-asleep on the couch, the TV glow soft on his face. You curl up beside him, and without hesitation, he pulls you close, one big hand warm on your hip. “Hey, baby,” he says quietly, voice gravel-rough, and he kisses the top of your head. He exhales slow, like he’s finally at peace, and shifts in his sleep, pressing half-hard against your hip even in this state. His hand tightens on your waist instinctively, pulling you closer, like even halfway unconscious, he can’t let you go.
Other times, he’s filthy enough to make you forget your name. He drops to his knees in the upstairs bathroom, the shower running to cover the noise. His tongue works you mercilessly, stubble scraping your thighs, his hands gripping them open wide. “Keep quiet, sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice wrecked. “You don’t want her walking in, do you?” Then his tongue is everywhere—slow, fast, obscene—lapping you up like he’s addicted. He groans when you tug his hair, like he’s just as desperate as you are. The thought that your sister is only a few rooms away only makes you gush harder against his mouth. You come shuddering, your cries muffled into your palm, his name breaking on your lips.
Your parents are blind. Your mom piles food onto his plate, your dad chuckles about how nice it is having another man “practically living” in the house. Your sister leans against him on the couch, whispers in his ear, and calls him hers. Maybe that’s the cruelest part, how easily he fits in, how naturally he belongs. How no one suspects the way his hand finds your thighs under the table, the way you both flinch when your eyes meet across dinner plates.
Dean swears, every single time, that it’s the last. He mutters it against your mouth after pulling you out into the dark, grits it through his teeth as he buttons his jeans in the bathroom, whispers it when you’re curled in his lap, your head on his chest, his heartbeat wild under your ear. And every time, you almost believe him. Almost. Until the next time his hands are on you, his breath ragged, his voice breaking as he tells you he can’t stop.
Because the truth is, he’s your sister’s boyfriend. He belongs to her. That’s the line. That’s the rule. But when his mouth is on your skin, when his hands hold you like you’re the only thing keeping him steady, when he whispers, “If I’d met you first,” quiet and raw like it’s killing him… his forehead presses to yours, his cock still twitching against your thigh, wet with both of you, and you know he means it.
That in another life, he’d have claimed you openly, without shame. And you’d have let him. You’d have begged for it. Because in this one, you already let him ruin you, over and over, every single time. Even though it’s the most shameful thing you’ve ever done and will probably ever do.
⟡ letter from lyn: a reupload from my old account, so if you have already read this then that's why!!! I'm reuploading all my old post as well as new stuff.
⟡ warnings: fingering,
one hand on the steering wheel, the other buried between your thighs – dean called it multitasking. truth was, he sucked at multitasking. his gaze kept flicking from the road to your face, completely captivated by the way you bit your lip, lashes fluttering, and breath hitching with every slow curl of his fingers.
the impala was drifting dangerously close to the white line, then the yellow. he let out a quiet swear under his breath, his gaze forced back to the road – but it didn’t last long. not when you were gasping, squirming in the seat beside him, hips occasionally bucking against his hand when he hits just the right spot.
“i think im drivin’ just fine,” he muttered, it was an unprompted statement.
you let out a soft moan when his thumb brushes over your clit, the sudden jolt of pleasure making your hips jump off the seat. his fingers never stop, still massaging your inner walls with an expert precision
the cabin of the impala is thick with desire, the low rumble of the engine nearly drowning out the soft, wet sounds coming from between your thighs. dean’s fingers move faster now, slick with your desire.
dean’s intense gaze falls back to you, his voice dropping low as his fingers keep working you open. “you always complain about me fingerin’ you while i drive,” he huffs, his tone laced with amusement. his fingers slip out of your warm heat — only to push back in knuckles deep. “but you still spread those legs for me every damn time, sweetheart.”
“dean,” you moan out, head thrown back against the seat, hips bucking up against his hand. “wanna come.”
he lets out a laugh, the deep kind that rumbles from somewhere in his chest. his fingers curling perfectly, making a come ‘ere motion, hitting the spot that makes your toes curl. the rough pad of his thumb never stops circling your clit, only serving to bring you closer.
“you know i dont like when baby gets dirty,” he rasp out, his voice strained, “but i’ll make an exception for you.”
his fingers pick up speed, thrusting into you with more purpose, each movement is rougher, deeper. his thump presses down just a little harder on your clit, sending a jolt of pleasure straight through your core.
“go ahead,” he hums, voice thick with lust. “make a mess on my seats, sweetheart.”
that’s all it takes.
your back arching off the seats, a broken cry ripping from your throat as your orgasm crashes over you — hot, intense, and overwhelming. your walls flutter around his fingers, clenching hard as waves of release and pleasure pulse through you. your thighs tremble, body shaking from the force of it, yet dean doesn’t let up — working you through every second, helping your overstimulated body ride through the high.
“atta girl,” he murmurs, smirking as he watches you come undone beside him. “knew you had it in you.”
despite the aftershocks rippling through your body, you manage to mumble, breathless, “eyes on the road. you’re gonna kill us.”
dean just snorts, smug as always, but his gaze shifts back to the highway. your eyes linger on his profile — jaw tight, eyes still dark with lust, lips twitching into a satisfied grin.
then, without shame, he brings his fingers — still slick with your release — to his mouth, sucking them clean with a low hum.
“don’t even need to stop for snacks,” he mutters around his fingers, smirking like the tease he is.
fem!grumpy!reader having the worst day ever and good ol’ sam winchester helps you out!
tw: sexual content (grinding, fingering, so mdni‼️) slight d/s undertones, language!!
you’re pissed at dean for throwing a pot of water on you because you wouldn’t wake up on time, forcing you to drag yourself out of bed and get ready for the day. your makeup looks terrible, with your foundation caking around your forehead and your eyeliner smudging towards your outer lashes. your outfit doesn’t even exude ‘cool girl energy’, with a shirt you stole from sam bunching up around you waist and your jeans being too tight. you just can’t win!
sam promised you that you’d switch seats every time you went somewhere, yet you finds yourself being tossed around in the back of baby whenever dean takes too sharp of a turn. their investigation into whatever monster it is this week is going nowhere, and you can’t even use your resting face to intimidate some poor trucker into answering their questions. by noon, dean’s all worn out with being the ‘muscle,’ and banished you and sam to the local library for further research. at first, you protest— claiming that there’s no reason why you can’t just go back with dean to the motel and take a cat nap for some energy. but, dean winchester doesn’t budge, he never has, and you’re forced to sit beside sam while he does all the heavy lifting.
you’re bored out of your mind, not even excited to find some book that no one has ever heard of and become a self-proclaimed expert. sam, admittedly, is losing his patience. you won’t quit fidgeting, continuing to ask him ‘why he’s letting you waste all this time’ and ‘why won’t he let you go explore.’ eventually, sam glances around the desolate library, the two of them tucked away in a corner dusted over with cobwebs.
“c’mon, baby. on my lap.” he orders, causing your eyes to blow wide. sure, you’re flirty with him, but you can do that with everyone! it’s the way you appear uninterested, while you can keep someone hanging on. you glared at him, because you’re not that easy. “tsk, no way, sammy. ‘m not one of those stanford girls who throw themselves at your feet. besides, you’re not really my type.”
that, surprisingly, is what sets sam winchester off. not the whining or the occasional rude comment, but the fact that you dared to say that he’s not your type. because he’s totally your type! if not, you wouldn’t be wearing his shirt, and leaning on him whenever you celebrate a hunt well done with too many drinks. in one swift move, sam settles you on his lap— both legs straddling one thigh. one of his hands forces your face into his neck; you’re so close that you can smell his aftershave and the lingering sweat from earlier. his free hand continues to work on a computer, searching for something that can help the hunt.
“what am i supposed to-” “keep quiet, honey. ‘m bein’ nice and letting you sit in my lap, when i shoulda left your cute ass somewhere so i can work.” you don’t argue any further, but try to relax while straddling sam’s muscular thigh. god, even with the denim separating you, you can feel how sturdy he is. you’re hot, so incredibly hot, and he’s… handsome. and if you just inched forward, you could feel your clit up against the seams of you jeans.
trying to rid those thoughts from you head, you distract yourself with taking a nap. sammy’s like a human teddy bear, and the brisk chill of the library is forcing you to get even closer. there’s a few minutes of silence, which sam appreciates, but he can feel how your breath is hitching against his neck. sam focuses on the lore he’s reading, and doing his best to not pop a boner. then, sam can hear how you begin to still, and he knows you’re asleep. there’s only fifteen minutes of sleep for you before you’re up again, but you keep your eyes shut. the heat in your core is too much to bear, and you need to use sam. you roll your hips softly, but it’s enough to jolt sam. when he doesn’t say anything, you do it again— creating a slow rhythm of movement that’s just enough to build up an orgasm.
sam, of course, noticed. he couldn’t exactly ignore it. a pretty girl humping at this thigh? too good to forget. yet, he remains quiet and continues on his search. until, you let out a low whine that sends shocks through his skin. “sammy… talk to me. wanna hear you when i cum.” you whisper, beginning to nip marks into the side of his neck.
the research is easily forgotten; sam’s hands diving to your waist and guiding you along his thigh. “yeah? you wanna cum, baby? i dunno if you’ve been good enough to cum. you were so mean when we got here.” sam replies, as you shake your head in disbelief. you need it, you need it so bad that you think might die. your panties are slick with wetness, your jeans clinging to your thighs even more than this morning. but, you can’t stop! his hands are strong enough to where he could easily bruise the skin of your waist, and you have to hold back a moan at the idea. you push back from sam’s neck, one hand going to prop yourself up on the table.
“please, please, sammy. i’ll be good. it’s just… so hot. and ‘m so wet. feel me.” instantly, sam reaches to unbutton your jeans, shimmying them down slightly and brushing his fingers over your pussy. oh, fuck. you’re right. your black panties are discolored in the library’s low light, and sam can’t take it. two fingers sneak into your panties, burying themselves between your folds. you almost moan too loud, but sam’s quick enough to pinch your hip.
sam seethes, “keep it quiet or i’ll give you somethin’ to choke on. jesus, baby, you’re so wet. can’t believe this is all f’me, who’s apparently not your type.” you can hear the hint of mockery in his voice, and you want to bite back— be even more of a brat. yet, you can’t focus with how his nimble fingers are pushing into your cunt, flexing upward to that sweet spot that makes your whole body tremble. “sammy, ‘m sorry, ‘m so sorry! i’ll behave, i s-swear. i need you.” you whimper, your jaw going slack as sam continues to guide you along his thigh.
you don’t even have to look at sam to know he’s smirking. you can feel it in the way that his fingers thrust in and out of you, while his thumb goes to paw softly at your clit. there’s this tight sensation building in your stomach, you’re just so close. your eyes finally meet sam’s, and you’re sure that he’s never going to let you live this down.
“you gettin’ close, brat? good girls ask if they can cum, right? go on, ask me. make it real sweet.” if you weren’t so desperate, you’d deliver an open-palm slap across his perfect face. but, that sensation is gnawing at you, like working a case on an empty stomach. sam notices how your eyes almost cross once you register what’s he’s asking, the way your lips part in the most kissable way. god, if you weren’t in public, he’d fuckin’ ruin you. you stutter out, “can i please cum, sammy? i promise i won’t bother you for the rest of the day! i’ll do your laundry for a whole month! just let me cum, sam. want it so bad.”
sam doesn’t respond— instead, he speeds up his ministrations on your clit and grind your hips down harder onto his thigh. it seems like you reach your peak in a matter of milliseconds, with your head tilting back and then crashing into his shoulder. sam’s hand travels up from your waist to the back of your neck, cradling you even closer to him. “there’s my sweet girl. you did so good, hmm? jus’ needed a little help, huh? ‘s okay, baby. relax.” sam hushes you, his voice almost honey-like as you come down from your high.
tuckered out, your breath begins to even and you can slowly feel yourself succumb to a light sleep. you don’t even realize how sam slips his fingers out from between your folds, briefly pausing to collect some of the slick and sucking them clean. he groans softly, forced to confront the task at hand with a raging boner and a sleepy you stuck on his lap. sam presses a kiss to your forehead, before returning to his research. much like you, sam doesn’t notice the five missed calls from dean on his lockscreen. that would definitely take some explaining…
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ac speaks!
my first time really writing smut yall… be nice if you can🥹🥹 besides i just love sam!! also i feel like the ending lowk sucks but lmk what yall think!!
cw: smut.ᐟ fingering.ᐟ boyfriends dad!mark meachum.ᐟ age gap.ᐟ 18+
#notes: this was supposed to be longer but i have no writing motivation so you get whatever this is...
wc: 670
boyfriends!dad mark meachum was better at everything... especially in the bedroom.
mark didn't fumble, hesitate, or leave you aching with half-finished touches the way his son always does. he was deliberate, from years of practice, to please.
the way his calloused fingertips push against your gummy walls, molding you open until you’re nothing but pliant under him. mark knows how fucked up it is, how wrong it should feel— but how could he deny you.
sweet little thing, always hovering around the house when he was working, tidying up what wasn’t yours to touch, offering to do the dishes just to make yourself useful. so eager to please— and for his son that didn’t know how to appreciate any of it.
“look at this,” mark whispered, half scolding but savouring. his thumb drags lazily over your slit before he sinks two fingers inside, the stretch immediate in a way your boyfriend never manages. “tight little thing— no wonder he doesn’t know what to do with all of you.”
and they weren’t pretty fingers— knuckles scarred, nails clipped down to nothing. the kind of hands made for labor, gripping tools. he should’ve had a gold band circling one.
but his fingers didn’t just work against you— his mouth always joined in too. brushing over your lips, your neck, tasting the sweet of your skin even as he stretched you open.
sometimes mark kissed you just to watch you squirm, to see your body melt under the tedious curl of his fingers. other times, when your eyes drifted half-lidded, you’d press your lips against the grey stubble on his chin.
he should’ve been the kind of man who knew better, who left you untouched because of the lines of right and wrong. but wrong felt like home. and there was something about his age, the years carved into his hands, his demeanour, and voice that did it.
you’d never think of your boyfriend like this, or feel the same desperate cling to his touch. but mark— mark was older, more weathered, and yet something in the way he handled you— made you ache harder, your knees go weak, every nerve in your body swear he was the only one who could make you feel this good.
you shiver, cheeks burning, trying to form the words around the desperate gasp stuck in your throat. his thumbs rub lazy circles over your clit, watching you twitch against him.
“say it,” he urges, one hand tugging lightly at your hair to lift your gaze to him. “you’re my girl, right sweet thing?”
your lips tremble, and a strangled sound slips out. “yes— i’m yours— please,” you gasp.
"don’t you forget it,” he tsks, "my boy might be your little toy, yeah? but he doesn’t know i stuff my fingers in this cunt when he’s not looking. or that you let me come inside you,” mark murmured, dragging his mouth along the curve of your jaw.
“he doesn’t know you cry on my cock when he’s passed out down the hall. and how you beg for it, beg for me— not him.” his fingers curled tighter, forcing your hips to rut against his hand. “tell me, baby girl— when you kiss him, is he tasin' me on that pretty tongue?”
the door creaks open down the hall— faint footsteps of your boyfriend brushing the floor. your body seizes, heart pounding loud enough to drown out everything else.
mark’s eyes blaze with a twisted dark amusement. his rough hand clamps over your mouth, fingers still sliding deep and hard inside you without pause.
“shh, keep it down,” he growls, voice low and nasty against your skin. “make a single sound and you're caught. and you want him knowing just how dirty you are for his old man? gonna break my sons heart?”
mark's thumb presses merciless circles on your swollen bud, fingers twisting, pushing you past the edge you’re desperate to cross. your muffled moans choke under his palm as your body shatters in secret.
hear me out... fauxcest with ex-bf's dad soldier boy
this was a fun idea i love this trope 18+
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“that’s it, babydoll. ridin’ me perfectly. bet my idiot son couldn’t fill you this good, huh? had to come to me, didn’t you? nasty little girl, fucking your boyfriend’s dad.”
“ex,” you correct ben weakly, with your eyes rolling back into your head, choking out gasps at every thrust he steadily punches up into your weeping pussy.
“ha, right. ex-boyfriend’s dad. same difference. you’re still a twisted girl for letting me do this to you, fucking this sweet little cunt. jesus, listen to the fuckin’ sound of her.”
ben’s hands grip your hips bruisingly tight, his fingertips pressing into your supple flesh, guiding you up and down his length with effortless strength. your sticky walls flutter around him, trying to mould to the sheer width of his cock—he’s much bigger than his son, your ex, much bigger than anyone you’ve ever taken, and it’s like he can tell.
“you embarrassed that it feels so good, baby? being stretched out like this? shit, listen to you, kid. you just needed daddy’s cock, didn’t you? just needed a dad? oh, is that what this is?” ben laughs, and it’s mean—mocking in a way that pricks at that sensitive nerve in your chest. “can feel your pussy squeezin’ me, kid, i know i’m right.”
your face scrunches at his words, but your sweet slick still oozes out, betraying you and creating wet squelching sounds every time he rocks back up into you. you soak his bare lap with your arousal—drenching his pubes and lower stomach. the foul sight of it all makes your head spin, and his words only worsen the guilt and disgust in your chest. maybe you really are a twisted girl, but it doesn’t matter, not when the throb of pleasure in your cunt continues to grow stronger, hurtling you towards a second orgasm.
“it’s why you broke up with him, isn’t it? couldn’t call him daddy and take it seriously? you needed me instead, didn’t you? needed your dad. this was fuckin’ wasted pussy on that idiot. could’ve been mine, kiddo, all those months. but it’s fine. it’s dad’s cunt now, you got that? s’mine.”
