#there ain't no me if there ain't no queue
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(you are a) natural, baby - p.2
read it on ao3.
Pairing: Virgin!Sam Winchester/AFAB!Reader (vaguely s1 or 2)
Tags/Warnings: sex in the Impala, oral sex (f receiving), whiny/submissive Sam (with hints of the opposite), Sam being a pussy fiend, you get it 💅
Word Count: 16,202.
Notes: part two, aka: THE GOOD STUFF. this bad boy has been sitting in my drafts for a hot minute. i thought it would be a fun little Halloween present while I'm between other projects :) pure sam goodness ahead, chaps ✨ enjoy!
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"Every time you go down on me," his hungry, sultry gaze devoured yours, "I get to practice on you, too."
You adjusted your clammy hold around his neck, reminded of the emptiness between your legs. “Every time?”
“Every time,” Sam nodded. “But… mostly… other times, too. Any time. That I want. If you want, of course.”
You panted. “Yeah. A-anytime,” you echoed.
“S’ gonna be… a lot,” Sam warned. His chin dipped, stealing an open-mouthed, burning kiss against your quaking pulse. The sound his mouth made against your flesh was sloppy and hot in ways that would’ve destroyed anyone, but you most of all. “M’ not a quick study, ____. I’m gonna have to… take my time with you.”
“Uh-huh,” you squeaked.
Sam laved his tongue—which was ridiculously, pussy-wettingly broad—in one passionate drag from your collarbones to the center of your throat. “…I’ll have t’ be thorough. You know I only do things the right way, baby.”
Mindless, you squeezed your eyes shut. “I know y’ do,” you whined.
“You might have to coach me.” Sam pressed further, plotting open-mouthed kisses all over your pliant neck, just to make it clear the kind of things that tongue could do. “I wanna do it good for you…”
If you had the wherewithal to step back, you should’ve known that Sam was a quick study. A ridiculously quick study, since you’d had him under your spell for a little under an hour and he was already echoing back all the filthy things you’d said to him. He did learn fast. These next parts… he’d learn these very fast, too, even if you couldn’t keep up. The thought thrilled you. For once, a partner that could match you, surpass you. Sam being that partner… God. It wouldn’t have mattered if Sam was good—honest to God, it wouldn’t have. He could be the shittest partner on the planet, and you would still be here. But he wasn’t. What heroic, selfless feat had you accomplished to get this kind of good karma? To have Sam, and selfishly, for him to want you too?
Sam grinned up at you, feeling that same streak of luckiness. His accent was laden with sex, and hearing it in Sam’s voice—your best friend since childhood—when your head was (mostly) clear made you flush like a schoolgirl. It was every stupid high school fantasy come to life. Like the hot professor you had a crush on had asked to see you after class, but instead of boring homework talk, Sam had bent you over his desk and shoved his hands up your skirt like you wanted him to.
“Can you show me, ___?” Sam tilted his head until your noses were nudging, drawling into the immediate heat of your mouth, “How to make you feel good?”
You were so pumped full of arousal that you could hardly talk. You were aware again that you were topless, since the swell of your chest surged up against Sam’s, like the rest of you. He might’ve palmed you there if it wouldn’t mean peeling you off him, but it was clear that was all Sam could ask for—the shivering shape of you melted entirely against him. That was exactly the prize he’d carved out for himself. The bulb of Sam’s nose was smushed into your cheek and your breath mixed in the hair’s width between your mouths, which waited half open. Sam’s fingers sloped into the curve of your lower back, then up around your hips, tracing your waistband again and again. Jesus, he wanted it.
“You sure you’re a virgin?” You managed, laughing between pants.
Sam nodded, less bashful than he’d been when you’d poked him with that word before. He repeated himself: “But… you’ll show me?”
He was serious. Your legs were shaking without shame now, each tremor pouring straight into your helplessly wet core like you were sitting on a washing machine on its highest setting. You were sure you’d never been wetter in your entire life. It had left your underwear entirely, coating your inner thighs. Sam’s gaze never left yours if he could avoid it, yet you could tell that every fiber of his being was hyper-focussed on that space.
You still couldn’t believe your luck. You leaned back, just enough to get a read on Sam with your eyes instead of your hands, and tested.
“You really want this?” You resisted for his sake. “You don’t need t’ feel pressured or anything like that, okay? This is your first time. It should be about you. If you’re not 100%...”
Sam dipped his head in thought. When he came back up, his brow was set. “I want to try… And this is our first time.”
Your head shook of its own accord, mystified. You brushed your fingers over one of Sam’s dimples and downward, just feeling him, and the soft, yielding skin of your lover’s face. He gazed at you with big puppy eyes, mumbling, “How many times s’ somebody done this for you?”
“A couple,” you answered, purposefully bland. “Mostly, y’know, as a lead up to the big part.”
Sam snorted. “Yeah. The big part. Like that,” he gestured at his lap, “wasn’t the big part. Right.”
You allowed yourself to be smug. “I told you, baby. No complaints.”
Sam kept looking at you with those big, pretty eyes, and with each passing second you felt more like an ice cube in a bowl of hot soup, dissolving completely and effortlessly into him. He nodded. “Tell me what to do.”
You let that request sizzle comfortably under your skin for a moment, before taking Sam’s face between your thumbs and greeting him with a sweet kiss. A deep, pleasured sound seeped out of him, and you deserved some kind of reward for managing to peel yourself off Sam just as he was humming in your ear like that.
Maybe you're giving yourself away when you giddily order, “Let’s go to the backseat, huh?”
You helped Sam get his jeans back around his waist. This was accomplished with a generous amount of petting, from Sam and from you, squeezing him through his briefs and kissing him a little meaner than you should’ve. Now that you were permitted to touch him, nothing could stop you.
When you bend below the seat to pull the front bench forward, pouring heat across Sam’s lap and bringing your face close enough to nuzzle his dick, he flashes you a look that’s written all over with the bossy Sam you remember.
Technically you could stay up front, but there were fewer controls to collide with and more space in the back seat. You enjoyed the thought of fucking Sam in the back of the Impala, too… The whole car rocking, the glass fogging up… Dean was going to kill you if he ever found out. A nonsensical part of your mind that had been spoiled too much today almost wanted Dean to know, just so everyone would. Just so it’d be in the air that Sam’s virginity had been taken, and you had been the one to do it.
“Think you can climb over?” You cleared your throat.
Sam waved for you to go first. You weren’t halfway over the bench, sweat-slick and nude but for petal-thin underwear, when Sam darted out the passenger’s side—into the furious rainstorm. Your back hadn’t even hit the other seat by the time Sam was back in the car, but still. The door slammed behind him, softening the sound of the rain. You shuffled up onto your elbows, cursing him, but Sam didn’t care one bit. Just two seconds outside had soaked him from head to toe. Rainwater twisted in his bangs and slithered in long lines down his back, dotting his shoulders. You hadn’t been too diligent putting his pants back on, so the droplets rolled over his hips and into the low waistband of his jeans too. You maneuvered so you were sitting on your calves in the back seat, and Sam paralleled you, wild and determined. He took up half the backseat with his legs alone.
“Don’t give me that look. It was faster,” he mumbled, smiling.
You played annoyed, but then Sam slithered in and kissed you again, greedy and desperate: conditions impossible to pretend in. You give up on scolding him. Getting your arms around his shoulders, you dragged yourself into his lap and struggled a bit on his slippery skin. He helps you the rest of the way. Sam goes the extra mile, too, putting all of your weight on his thighs and rolling his hips up. A little shock of pressure meets you once you’re seated on him.
“Sam,” you yelped.
“You like that?”
He asked as if you weren’t white-knuckling the meat of his shoulders, but you nodded anyway. Throatily, you managed, “Keep going.”
Sam does as told, stirring his bulge up between your legs, making your head loll back until your throat is vertical and you’re purring like a new sportscar. Tortured pleasure throbs up your body. After almost an hour of teasing, of getting off just watching him, even the smallest contact is explosive. You’re honest-to-god quivering. You huffed out deep, rattling breaths and kissed him until your lungs burned. He yields for you—he always does—letting your tongue lick hot through his parted lips. You want him like nothing else. Between your legs, yes, but kissing is closer and you throb every time he surges up in response. Sam is nothing but pretty, senseless noises. It devours you from the inside, how precious and perfect and everything he is, your Sam. Kissing him kickstarts a chemical reaction in your body unlike anything else you’ve ever felt before, soft and musical, like a field of a million fireflies blinking in a hundred ways at night. You rock your body into his and Sam responds every time, the push and pull of your hips rolling to a hypnotic tempo. The next time you withdraw from him to breathe, you stroke his face in both hands, your baby, and kiss him all over until he’s sick of you, kissing his cheek, his chin, his dimples, his jaw, his brow.
Sam had to close both eyes to protect them. “_____,” he whined.
“Quit complainin’,” you drawled, grinning, “let me be obsessed with you.”
Sam squinted, and even in the dark you could see how blown his pupils were. He smiled. “You gonna start kissing up my arm, now? Like in the movies?”
You, of course, took this as a request.
“Oh, cara mia… ”
Collecting his hand in yours, you turned inwards and pushed a deep, lingering kiss into Sam’s palm, then his wrist, looking up at him through your lashes after each devoted press. By the time you were in the middle of his forearm he was sucking in air through his teeth. He’d been playing, but it seemed to be really riling him. You gleamed with delight. You surged one into the center of his elbow, then his warm bicep and up, across his rain-slick shoulder and all the moles there. Sam’s chest heaved. The taut muscles in his arm twitched after each touch, sensitive after so much. Maybe you cheated a bit, skipping straight to his neck after that, but it was a miracle you’d held out any longer. You twisted and plotted open-mouthed, possessive, fervored kisses all over Sam’s throat.
“Oh god,” Sam shudders. His head thudded against the seat. “____. Please.”
The salty tang of sweat and the earthy touch of rain in his taste turned on your lewdest instincts, and all you wanted was Sam’s fingers on you. Inside you. Some part of him, any part of him. Your core blazed with an empty, bottomless feeling. You’d put yourself aside to give your all for Sam, but now the pounding neediness of your arousal was too strong to ignore.
You captured Sam by the wrists and brought his hold over your breasts, moaning, “Touch me.”
Sam gave you a wild look. His warm, huge hands sloped around your ribs and tentatively slid up to cup your tits in both palms. It wasn’t a forceful examination. It’s Sam, greedy and turned on, sure, but he’s nothing but gentle with you, squeezing you feather-light and testing the feel of you in his palms.
“I wanna—” Sam groans, going shy, “I wanna bite you. Can I bite you? Not hard, o-or—”
You're grinning before he can finish. “Fuck yeah.”
Sam goes for the closest thing, your jaw, breathing loud and shaky. Whatever it is about the sound that squeaks out of you unlocks some primal urge in him. Sam bites the meat of your shoulder, using just enough teeth to leave a mark. The stinging pressure is soothed immediately by his hot soft tongue in starved little licks. Sam's learned to just take—both of your tits are squeezed in big, calloused Kansas hands as you're nibbled on.
While you’re sucking new red patches into Sam’s spit-soaked throat, he gives himself one last second to soak in the feel of it before he nudges you away.
“Enough. It’s your—god, s’ your turn,” he insists. “C’mon. Let’s get these off. Please.”
Sam pets at your underwear. Wiping the spit from your chin, you tilted back in Sam’s lap, wincing at even that pressure, and thought. “Al-alright. But… but maybe I should start on my back.”
He pouted. “I wanted to—”
“I know,” you shushed, and grinned filthily over his ridiculousness. “I’ll sit on your face, I promise. But it’ll be better if we start this way, okay? You need to crawl before you can walk here, Sammy.”
You expected Sam to be stubborn as usual, since he insisted on proving himself with everything else. Your resolve was so weak-kneed for him that you probably would’ve let him. It was Sam, begging through sex-swollen lips to just let him fuck you with his mouth, which any reasonable person would’ve crumbled for. And your throbbing, neglected core made you more than reasonable. Instead, Sam went out of his way to surprise you for tonight's hundredth time. He wasn’t always stubborn. He could beg for you to suck his dick like no one else. And, he would forever be keeping you on your toes.
Sam kept you sturdy with both unreasonably huge hands clamped around your hips. Then, he turned up onto his knees, dunking you out of his lap and back onto the seat just hard enough to make you bounce. The Impala creaked in protest. When your spine was flat to the black leather, Sam slithered over you and uttered into your ear, sexy and starved:
“It’s Sam.”
You couldn’t help the grin that transformed your face. Or the senseless, merciless throbbing in your panties. Your hair was a mess around your head (or in general) because of him, and with how dark your eyes were, you must’ve looked a few steps away from rabid. Sam did; he panted above you, his seething, ravenous body hanging over yours like an predator over a prey animal. From this angle, the view of him was fucking spectacular. Sam was a wall of taut, sloping muscle covered in all these pretty little freckles. An old pair of jeans hung uselessly on his hips, open at the zipper around an ardent hard-on. Since all of that apparently wasn’t enough, your center was flush right up against it, so when Sam leans forward you feel—all of it, big and warm and iron-hard for you. Just fuck me already, you almost groaned.
You’d barely thought about your own body since Sam’s had captivated you so much, but it was clear he was just as consumed by you. Mouth watering, Sam dropped his hands to frame your ribcage and just looked at you, awed and enamored with what he was seeing. Who he was looking at.
You gazed up at him the exact same way, biting down a mean grin. “Sam, huh.”
He shot you a dark look, which was just hilarious, since he was still looking at you for guidance.
You reached up and slid your fingers into Sam’s damp, lush bangs, stroking them away from the gleaming eyes you loved. You teased, “That’s what you want me to call you when you eat me out, baby? Sam?”
Sam’s lids slid closed. You brushed over his brow with your thumb, maybe enjoying torturing him a bit too much for your own good. His silhouette snaked up to hang over you, and in the dark Sam oozed affection and love.
“My Sam?” You murmured, “That’s what you want me to scream, huh? When you get that pretty mouth between my legs?”
A groan bubbled up from his chest, and Sam poured it into the valley between your breasts. In it was the result of more than an hour’s worth of ruthless, unsatiated teasing, plus at least twelve years spent with a painful crush on you. Before Sam did anything else, he removed his worst enemy from the equation. The skimpy black underwear you had worn were on you and then they weren’t. You opened your mouth to rib him for his haste and Sam was already there, kissing you into the seat so furiously the springs squealed. You squealed too, arching up and finding a broad, heated body layered over your own. The untouched backseat was freezing cold, which was just another reason to soak into Sam and Sam’s touch. Now entirely nude, it was painfully obvious how soaking wet you were. You should’ve been lightheaded with how much slick your body was making for Sam.
“S’ what you’re gonna be screamin’ when I make you cum,” he dared.
You did your best not to let the cartoon hearts floating around your head seem too obvious. “Show me.”
Sam hovered over you then, lips parted and eyes shining. “How do I start?”
“Okay, cowboy,” You adjusted yourself on your back, forgetting to tamp down the euphoric, thrilled energy that had already put you on cloud nine just laying there. You’d tried to put a lot of your own feelings aside for Sam, but now that he wanted them you could only willingly hand them over. “When you’re… doing this for somebody, you should—”
“No, no,” Sam shook his head. His bangs tickled your forehead. “I’m not doing this for somebody, I’m doing this for you.” Wetting his lips, he said, “Talk like it’s for you. Please.”
Your blush was not a horny blush or a drunk one, but a result of your stupid, inescapable crush on him. Holy hell. You might’ve been smiling. “...Okay. Sam. To start, just… kiss me all over. Anywhere you want. You don't always have ta’, but it's the warm-up before the—”
“—other big part?” Sam finished.
You nodded as casually as you could. “Yup.”
Sam raised a dry eyebrow. “Want me to kiss you like you kissed me?”
“You like me that much?” You joked.
Sam’s head tilted, eyes alight. “Oh, mon cher… M’ crazy about you.”
So maybe the two of you had watched too much Addams Family as kids, but if this was the result, you couldn’t mind if you tried. Your pounding heart could’ve burst, you loved him so much.
Sam proved what he said. Bent over you, he lingered for a moment, trying to decide where to start. He ended up in his new favorite place. Drinking you in with low eyes, Sam tipped your faces together and met you with a surging, devouring kiss. Instead of the possessive pawing or the filthy groping you had expected, Sam dragged just his fingertips over the slopes of your curves. The gentleness of it somehow gushed with intensity, so just the slightest touch from him had you hissing with want. His fingers were calloused. They pet from the dip of your collarbones all the way down to your belly button in the most sexually agonizing minute of your life, each inch of flesh enjoyed to the absolute fullest. You rolled your hips up, hoping and praying that he’d drag those fingers further, but Sam didn’t. Again: a quick study.
One long finger tapped the softest part of your belly. “...Can I bite you here?”
“Sammy,” you felt your eyes glaze with desire. “You can do anything you want to me.”
The line he’d drawn on your chest tingled hard enough to send every hair on your body on end, so Sam’s mouth—that hot, wet, gorgeous mouth, made to be between a woman’s legs—was a million times more intense. Sam took his time. He got comfortable, urging your thighs apart with his hips, then dutifully bent to kiss your collarbone. Those maddening hands traced down your ribs, then your belly. He applied just enough pressure to make lines in sand. Sam kissed and caressed you like he was sculpting you right there in the car, squeezing your clay-malleable body for its shape. Again, his soft seeping kisses were improved by needy bites.
You knew that you probably shouldn’t compare, but Sam was… Sam was leaps and bounds more passionate than any other partner you’d ever had. This confirmed it: you were madly in love with him, movie-in-love with him, which might’ve made you a bit biased, but it was true. Sam was fucking awesome. He felt fucking awesome. His soft lips seared down the center seam of your ribs with intent, smushing his nose and chin into your breasts, your belly, licking wide stripes over each hollow and nuzzling his face into you. Other men had done something similar, but none of them were him. So none of them had felt nearly as mind-whiting. Maybe it was because Sam had never done this before, but there was something different in how he went about touching. It wasn’t exactly methodical. He was trying to do a good job, but more than that he was trying to juice some real pleasure out of you. For Sam, the act of eating you out wasn’t an obligation. It was a damn pleasure.
You weren’t sure if you believed all the stuff they said about true love, but man, you hoped it would feel like the first time every time with him. Like it did now.
Sam shuffled forward to give the underside of your chin a brief peck, then turned both his hands onto your tits, kneading and appreciating them until you were making the same noises he’d been making earlier. You're drooling like a camgirl when Sam nuzzles his face between them. His eyes flick up to you once, turning audience into performer, and you're left wriggling and bucking when Sam bites the underside of your breast, crazed with an endless appetite for your skin. He really is a biter.
“So soft,” Sam husked. His eyes flicked up at you from below his bangs, instantly making you clench.
Your laugh tinkled like sleighbells. Your whole body blazed with light and energy in ways you didn’t know you could feel, all of it filling you in surging, boundless waves. And every bit of your reactions were so honest. It made you realize just how often you’d lied during sex, before. You ramped up the little pornographic sounds you thought boys liked, bucked when expected, and closed your eyes more. Sam coaxed those whiny little noises from you anyway. With his face smushed into your breasts and those fawn-brown eyes just craving you, you closing yours would be the dumbest missed opportunity of all time.
“Talk to me,” you gasped. “I love it when you— ah .”
“You’re beautiful,” Sam gushed, like he’d been waiting for permission. He gave your left breast one last kiss, then started to crawl down your body in earnest, shocking your system with anticipation. “So damn pretty. And so soft … Losin’ my damn mind, you’re so good, ____… Gonna fuck you with my mouth. Gonna fuck you so good.”
You whimpered, “Yeah, baby?”
He nodded messily. “Mhm. I’ve thought about it,” he sucked saliva back through his teeth, closing his eyes just to revel in the mounting excitement of it, “all day.”
Then Sam’s plush, wet lips pressed open-mouthed into your stomach, kissing your belly button then the skin below, bumping his teeth on you, making you writhe and mewl. He made all these desperate keening sounds into your flesh as he went. Coupled with his panting and his lips puckering and popping as he kissed you, you knew you were fucking done for. The second that tongue laved over you for the first time you’d be three miles over the edge already.
Now that he was so close to where you wanted, you got your fingers in Sam’s luscious hair and tried to reign yourself back. You were embarrassingly close and Sam hadn’t even kissed you there yet. The space between your legs was so desperate it was sore , this strange, hollow soreness that craved something thick to fill it end-to-end. It was damn evil. You didn’t have to rely on fantasy anymore when it came to what could fill you, but you resisted the urge, knowing exactly what it would do to you. One too-intense thought about Sam’s dick… his huge, filling cock, which had felt so good puffing out your cheeks… inside you, scratching that itch… satisfying that soreness in one great thrust… or a dozen… and you might die. You had to hold out. But Sam Winchester was about to eat you alive, so you stood absolutely no chance.
He waited for his next order. Sam must’ve been truly intent on destroying your psyche, since he scraped his nails around your hips and ass as he did. You couldn’t drag your eyes away from his face. Soft, hazel and mouth-frothingly ravenous, Sam’s gaze raked over you in long and possessive drags.
You suppressed the instinct to squirm with Sam watching you like that, directing, “Spread my legs more, then get them where you’re comfortable.”
He was listening before you’d even finished your sentence, bracing two man-paws over the swell of your thighs and pressing them apart. Wetness cloyed just inches away from his fingers.
“God,” Sam sighed at the sight. He sounded awed, not fully believing his own influence over you: “You’re really, really wet. This whole time…”
You cursed with him, hissing at the freezing air on your exposed pussy. Sam tilted closer and closer to you, drawn in like a magnet, until his hot breath was fanning deliciously close to your core. You choked down a second hiss, wetting your grinning lips, “Yeah. I’ve been half-soaked since this afternoon.”
Sam’s eyes lit up with his scoff, delighted yet sympathetic. “Why? That’s almost half a day.”
“At the laundromat,” you confessed, “n’ we were washin’ everything… you just had that stupid thin t-shirt on and your jeans were so low I knew you weren’t wearing anything under em’… I wanted you to fuck me so bad , Sam, right then and there on the machines. Drag down my leggings and just wail on me…”
Sam’s patchy blush returned in full force. He ducked his head, huffed a breath in disbelief, and pretended he wasn’t entertaining the idea just as thoroughly. “You’re insatiable.”
“Like you aren’t?” You snickered. You flopped backward, hair splayed out behind you and your hands lounging beside your face. “You can’t share a bed with me without practically shoving my hands down your pants, Sammy.”
“It was under my shirt,” he corrected, pinching the meat of your thigh where it was hooked around his. “And—it’s Sam .”
Even that felt shamefully good. You ground into the touch and played up an erotic moan for him, and of course, grinned like an asshole the whole time. “Mmmn, Sam . You don’t know what it does t’ me when you get all demanding.”
Sam dragged in a deep, sucking breath through his nose that almost failed to keep his restraint in check. His palm passed over his bulge in thought, instantly loading you with a truckload of adrenaline. Jesus—like a dog with the dinner bell. Instead of giving up and drilling you into the seats like a part of you wanted right now , Sam’s hands nudged your thighs apart again, patient, and spread your pussy open with his thumbs.
“Jesus fuck , Sam,” you choked.
“You’re so pretty down here.” Sam sounded amused. He makes pretty sound like purty .
“Thank you,” you panted, and somehow kept yourself from shoving Sam’s face where he was staring. “Okay. Okay. When you’re… doing this for a girl—” Sam’s eyebrow raised. “When you’re eating me out, there’s a couple places where it’s gonna feel really good. Like really good. That’s where you need to aim. I know all the tricks, so listen closely.”
Sam nodded, 100% serious. Because of course he was. Your chest felt like it was stuffed full of whizzing sparklers when you held eye-contact, and they went off all at once when Sam neared his face to your sobbing core. Your breath stuttered in your lungs. You realized you couldn’t explain it well enough with words alone, so you brought your hand off the seat and slid it between your legs. A pleased sound jumped out of Sam’s throat. And shit, did all that attention—your finger sliding over yourself, Sam’s thumbs parting you for him to see, and his focus rapt on your cunt—feel fucking great .
Wetting your lips and bracing yourself, you shyly found Sam’s thumb and pressed the blunt of it against your clit. “Right— oh , right here,” you panted.
You guided him around each part, explaining to him through clenched teeth and a little bit of humor. Sam was nothing but a devout student. You couldn’t lie to yourself: it drove you fucking insane, how dedicated Sam was to knowing how to make you feel good. It was so strange but so him—his brow furrowed and his eyes sharpened the way they always did when he was truly absorbing something, listening to you walk him through licking you open. He hung on your every word, storing the knowledge beside his laundry list of demonic omens or hexbag herbs. You were crazy for him. He was crazy.
“...and brace your hand right here when you’re ready.” You modeled for him where to place his palm, right on the height of your pelvic bone. “I might wiggle around, so you might have to—”
Sam was way ahead of you. He snuggled up between your legs, saddled the one closest to the backrest over his shoulder, and hugged that thigh against him. Then the whole breadth of his left palm clamped down on your twitching belly exactly where you’d directed, pinning you to the spot. You yelped. Sam’s smoldering cheek smushed into your inner thigh, and he simpered at you from his new comfortable nest. He blinked slowly on purpose, a cat expressing its love. After all the filth that you’d heard from him, nothing could change your mind that he was the sweetest, most basic definition of goodness there was.
Sam watched you with hungry, devouring eyes, and felt lust pulse in his cock when you smirked down at him. Your dark eyes glittered with challenge and fondness. “Samuel…” you warned.
“Shh,” he said, and did what he’d always wanted to do.
The first kiss of Sam’s mouth to your weeping pussy is… it is…
Your entire body pulls together, thread pulling two pieces of cloth into a single seam, toes curling, fingers knotting, jaw dropped, belly twitching, and back snapping up. The slow open-mouthed kiss finds a little suction around your clit, flooding Sam’s tongue for the first time. He basks in you—in your taste, your reaction. An onslaught of pure enjoyment envelops him, drinking you down. Sam’s brows furrowed up in ecstasy, and the bastard actually grinned into your cunt, satisfaction pouring off him in waves. You watched him and those low eyes watched you, already spellbound. This strange brand of utter happiness consumed his gaze, devouring you with his eyes—and you realize with burning heat crawling up your body that Sam just loved to watch you. He wanted to watch you squirm and twist up into him. He wanted you to enjoy yourself, just so he could feel the effect he had on you in real time. Your pussy sobs in bliss, pulsing and pulsing under painfully soft kisses.
“No wonder you’re so wet,” Sam rasps, “you’re already close, aren’t you?”
You conceded with a pathetic nod, breathing hard.
“All this just from blowing me…” Sam smirks.
That smirk opens up, and so do you—two licks and you’re his, all his, giving yourself over to him completely. Sam accepts you at his own pace. The abused blunts of his free fingertips just barely ghost over your open, trembling thigh, bewitching every cell in your legs. Somehow, the lighter he pets you the more intensely you feel it. Perfect ghostly tingles sizzle hot under your skin—the flesh of your pelvic bone, your core, following Sam’s touch. He’s examining you. Feeling you out. You realize that nobody’s taught him how to activate that sensory secret, so Sam is doing it purely because he wants to.
There’s a dim thought in your mind that the backseat of the Impala is pretty cramped with Sam bent over you like this, so you try to squirm back to give his poor legs some room. Your head doesn’t even glimpse the armrest. There’s a flash of vieny hands and a black jelly bracelet, then you’re ripped forward by both thighs down into Sam’s blazing hot mouth again.
“Sam!” You squeal a laugh. “Haha—ah, oh… ”
Sam remained devoted to your clit, kissing it with the same passion he kissed you. At first he seemed hesitant to go where his intuition was taking him, but you’d made it more than clear that his intuition could fuck you six ways to Sunday if he wanted, so Sam went with his gut. Now, with both of your thighs wrapped around his head, he was truly in his happy place.
Letting his mouth slip open, Sam splayed his tongue and shook his face back and forth between your legs. Your moans were helplessly involuntary. The sight of him alone was enough to make you question how real this was, but the pulses of slippery pressure surging up your cunt confirmed it. Some creature on your last hunt hadn’t missed their chance—meaning this, your highlight reel of reserve Sam fantasies, was your heaven. Sounded about right. You dragged your heavy head off the seat long enough to look at him, only to clench so hard that even Sam felt it. He beamed. Fuck, he was gorgeous. And Sam only looked prettier with your slick drooling down his chin like that.
He was so fucking good. So good. Inexperience be damned, this boy could fucking eat . Even better, he fucked you into a nice, warm, sloppy mess and gorged blatantly on the sight of you the whole time.
When you mewled and begged, when your back cinched up, when your breasts rolled with your heaving breaths, Sam drunk you in. You were so sweaty that the two of you were sliding on the seats and you probably looked as pleasantly manhandled as you felt, but Sam loved it. Craved it. His eyes were glittering black slits beneath his bangs, just rushing with lust and overwhelming devotion. Laying in that backseat, you were the hottest woman alive—a statue of Venus come to life, plush, naked skin and all—because it was written all over Sam’s taste-drunk face.
You couldn’t resist stroking your fingers through his sweaty, rain-curled hair, and Sam followed the motion to push a tender kiss into your clit.
Again, his strong, worn hands slid down to cup around the round bottom of your thighs so he could spread you with his thumbs. Sam made a gratified sound in the back of his throat. For a long time he just stared down at your open folds framed by his thick fingers, watching his spit sink into you and getting redder and redder by the second. This was what you meant, thinking his inexperience added something special to this. He had so little reference for what to do, so he acted on craving and instinct alone. And if his instinct was to slot his tongue into you and moan loud enough to shake the car at your taste, then… well…
“Soaking,” he muttered. Sam’s low, dark eyes glittered up at you, “You loved blowing me, didn't you?”
“I do,” you panted.
Sam brought your knees around the back of his head, then rasped: “Tell me how much.”
Perv. You tried to come up with something to say. Something more sexy than revealing, but it was impossible to think, breathe, or talk when Sam started flickering the tip of his tongue over your clit until his jaw was sore. What drools out of your mouth ends up sounding needy and clingy and possessive:
“I love sucking your dick, baby. F-felt so good… so good and big filling up my mouth, pressing into my cheeks… Chokin’ and gaggin’ on it… God. Fucking fuck , Sammy—”
He pinches both your thighs in one mean singe, but his eyes gleam with playfulness.
“— Sam! ” You correct yourself.
Satisfied, he resumes, nudging the long point of his nose into you just for the fun of it. Sam keeps tossing his head back and forth to feel your thighs around his face, and more than once he uses you as earmuffs to thrive in the crushing softness. You know Sam isn’t trying to coax any confessions out of you. All he wants is to make you feel good. But love glows from his eyes and his mouth and his hands. Sam full-on snarls with relish when you squeeze your knees and ankles together behind his head, so he could get anything out of you right now. All he’d have to do is ask: and you would answer in a heartbeat.
“I’m so… oh, fuck fuck fuck—m’ so happy m’ the only girl who’s blown you, Sam… I wanna be the only girl, I wanna be your only girl…”
Sam’s mouth pops off you in shock. He’s the prettiest silhouette, all gleaming spit-white outlines and red-patched shadows. Real horror drops like a rock into your stomach. Shit. You’d read into all of this wrong. Sam just wanted someone he could trust to do this for him, not some idiot crying over him for closeness.
He catches his breath.
“You can be,” Sam croaks, sweetly. “Y-you are.”
Happiness explodes in your chest, but you don’t trust it. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” Sam agrees. He slides up your body all of a sudden, long limbs and bull-wide chest coming to hang over you. A big, dimply smile smushes into your cheek. “You’re my girl.”
Just like that. Oh my fucking god.
“I’m your girl?” You repeat, feeling stupid and crazily, madly, obsessively, fatally in love with him at the same time. He’s sober. He’s saying it to you like he means it. Definitely a heaven fantasy.
“Not like… you know. Mine . I don’t own you,” Sam flushes into your neck. He’s so shy . “But. Yeah, mine. My girl. If you… want that.”
You feel the dark car get darker, bathed in quiet, sacred night, so all you have left to see him by is your hands. Sam is miles of smooth, warm skin that smells of a buttery home that nobody could ever take from you. When you relax your legs by his hips and hug him against you, Sam drizzles himself over you like oil in a hot pan. He’s careful not to hurt you so the weight is nothing but good. You both linger there, pressing the tension and anxiety out of each other. His hard-on is trapped between your hips and his jeans, but instead of it being just arousing, there’s an element of plain intimacy there that you suddenly love. Sam’s close to you and you’re close to him. Maybe you’re as touch-starved as he is, because you’re just as quick to slide your naked belly flat to his and get your hands on him. It’s hard to pet someone all over and hide how in love with them you are at the same time, and you’re plain awful at it. Sam too.
“M’ all yours,” you find yourself saying, in disbelief. “You know that.”
Sam does that little breathless laugh you’re pretty sure you’re gonna hear a million times in those seven minutes before you die. He makes a soft rumbling sound as he rises onto all fours again, flushing all the blood in your body back between your legs. The blunt pad of his thumb brushes down to stir your clit, so you’re already pliant and boneless for him when Sam melts down to kiss your whining mouth. It’s a soft and open and wanting kiss, like usual, but you both linger in it for so long that it feels like the first time all over again.
You come out of the kiss giddy, over-teased, and flustered beyond your wildest imagination, so you blurt the first obscene thought that comes to mind. Just to throw him off, per routine.
Pushing your hips into his agonizingly slow touch, you purr, “You gonna fuck me, Sam?”
Sam blinks down at you, serene, and doesn’t change pace. He keeps one lazy hand attending to your sobbing, desperate clit. “Mn-mn,” he shakes his head, and there it is—the patented Winchester panty-dropping smirk, 100% effectiveness guaranteed. “I’m gonna make love to you.”
It is embarrassing enough how hard you throb at a promise so sentimental, so it’s downright mortifying that molten-hot butterflies explode through your crush-pumped body at the sureness in Sam’s face. Not fuck. He’s not going to fuck you—it’s clear in his eyes and the slow circle of his thumb how all that’s for later. Sam’s going to make love to you, because apparently he’s from the fucking fifties, and oh my god, he’s in love with you and he actually means it and you’ve been stupidly calling all of this a game.
Shyer than you’d ever been in your life, you murmured around a cheek-aching smile, “...I think I really want that.”
“So she can be shy with me.”
You gave his shoulder a playful little smack, which just spurs Sam into giving you the hottest, smuggest glare he can manage. With his big, rough thumb keeping you sensitive literally anything he does is fuckin’ life-alert worthy. It’s almost getting to be too much, and it shows in how you squirm into his hand harder than before. Sam coos.
“You’ll have to wait a bit to have me that way,” he apologizes, like that’s something to apologize for. “I still want you on my face.”
“M’ not gonna make it,” you swallow. Just the coarseness of his voice brings you closer. “Sam. It feels—nnngh. I-I’m not gonna…”
“Then I’ll make you cum twice,” he says, simply, and how were girls not crawling all fucking over him everywhere you went?
Sam replaces his thumb with his mouth, but not before sucking off your wetness like it’s melted ice cream. He is full of millions of these soft, tender, greedy urges he’s all too eager to chase, and it is stupid-hot.
Sam indulged one of those urges, pulling your folds open with his thumbs and filling them with his tongue. You shrieked. A happy hum sighed out of him. He was an excellent kisser, but, like always, he was even better for you, slurping and licking until you’re lightheaded. The delicious tension in your body ratcheted up and up toward that white-hot end, tearing straight for it on rumbling racecar wheels. Sam drew circles around your pulsing clit with his velvet tongue, then surged it hard into your weeping center, satisfying, for just an instant, the unforgiving emptiness there. Shit. Now he really knew where you wanted him. A long, savage whine hissed out of you. Fucking hell.
“Oh my god, please , Sam. More, please please please. Fucking—”
Your toes curled into Sam’s bow-taut back. He smushed himself in even harder, nuzzling his nose into you, stirring the bulb around your clit and god , tongue-fucking you in earnest. It was—holy shit, holy fucking shit, you couldn’t even think. All your body knew was open: your legs, for Sam, your body, for Sam, and your pride. You wailed and sobbed like no other man had ever made you before, reduced to shameless pleasure-drowned scraps. Every fiber of your useless, pliant form was heaved toward the center of the universe where your body met his, the black hole, the singularity, back bent, toes and fingers curled to a snapping point, Sam’s mouth oh god his fucking mouth —
“Tell me you’re mine,” Sam begged, licking and licking and licking until you couldn't think, “ Tell me .”
“I’m yours Sam m’ all yours m’ all fuckin’ yours—”
You were his. You came in great, crashing, seizing waves that rippled hot and harmoniously through your entire body, from the curled tips of your toes to your tingling scalp, so intensely—because you were Sam’s, Sam wanted you, he loved you—that you felt dangled over the most thrilling brink of your life. You’d cum enough times in your life to know it wasn’t possible to feel this good—slippery velvet heat good, oh god his mouth good—so it had to be some kind of magic, something close to death, to heaven, and Sam had killed you. If that was what was happening outside the planet-wide fireworks show sizzling and popping behind your closed eyes, you’d have everything you’d ever wanted and more. Sam keeps lapping between your legs a-and what a way to go it is, because you know, instantly, that no other man could even nudge you in the direction of the orgasm Sam had just brought you through. No one else could ever compare. The moment when it all will slow, you’re sure that you’re never going to be the same person again. You’re his. The words sing through your whole fizzing, flashing spirit.
After what felt like hours of delicious, mind-blowing, heart-stealing pleasure, you curled back into the ice-cold relief of the Impala’s leather and gasped for your life.
Sam was still going. His tongue never stopped, scooping in to taste the fruit of his labor. He slurped your orgasm down like he’d been chasing your peak just as fervently as you had, like it was his favorite part of his fantasies and the real slippery wetness of it was a million times better. You keened. Sam persisted. You squirmed away, groaning at the overload of soft tongue and deep hot breaths on your core. Your sex wept for mercy. Sam had reduced you to a weeping, twitching, floundering mess, yet he still wanted more—and you were dying to give it to him, but it was too much to o much too m—
“Sam,” you choked.
It took a push to the face to get through to him, and even then, Sam retreated with a soft mournful sigh. Jesus. He was obsessed with you. You wanted this, him, the aftertaste of him in your mouth, to never fade. So the feeling is definitely mutual.
The air in the Impala cloyed with sticky sweet warmth, coating the windows and the seat with the smell of you and him. Your throat ached from hoarse moaning. Slowly, your soul started to sink back into your body, reminding you again of your situation. A tacky layer of sweat clung to your skin. Your toes and your belly and the muscles of your legs were raw from clenching so hard, and Sam was blowing hot breaths across your tummy as he gathered himself. His damp hair tickled your hip and jesus , your slick was all over his face, smeared down his chin and his nose and his lips most of all. You realized that happy tears had made tracks down your temples. Sam must’ve realized this too, because he rushed to peel himself off your soaked and sticky inner thigh to scoop you up.
“Honey…” he cooed.
You reached out for him and Sam lifted you up himself, completely changing the bloodflow in your body by seating you on his lap. His whole figure was blazing hot, and watching you cum because of him was definitely not helping him cool off. It was an emotional orgasm as much as it was a physical one, so nothing stopped you from rolling your fingers through his floppy bangs or burning kisses into his grin or digging your nails into his firm back. You could feel the raised scratch marks there, bright red and drawn like wing scars down his shoulder-blades. His skin felt ridiculously nice smushed around your own, and Sam was so big and huggable that you disappear in his arms.
“You did so good , Sam,” you croaked, and didn’t bother to wait until you’re not kissing him to talk. “So good. So fuckin’ good. Never came fucking harder in my entire life —” you seared a kiss into his pink mouth, “—holy—” another, “—fucking—” and a third, even deeper, “—shit.”
Sam met you halfway for each, but the moment your assault was over, one big hand supported your jaw as he plants a sweet, slow, sappy one on you that makes you wonder just how necessary condoms are, anyway. He’s laughing to himself the whole time, gleaming with mole-speckled pride.
Draped in his arms like a damsel, you drawled, “You’re a damn natural.”
“You know that after one round?” Sam smirked. He was all too aware that his lips were all glossy from tongue-fucking you, and he licked them without shame when he offered, “I dunno. Maybe I should give it a second go, just to be sure. What do you think?”
Your pussy is raw with millions of zinging overstimulated pulses, but the question buries you under a cement truck’s worth of pure want.
“...Mmm, I guess you’re right. Better get a bigger testing pool here, Sammy.”
The force of your high is still pulsing in your core, so when Sam growls at you through a laugh, bangs astray, drops onto his back and snaps those man-paws you love around your waist, you throb hard enough to stop your heart. Sam’s hands are beautiful and sinewy in all the right ways, so you can’t help but submit when they, coupled with Sam’s arms, bodily haul you onto his face. You pant, giggle, and try not to crash face-first through the window by catching yourself on the armrest. Sam helps to brace you with a hand curled around your hip and another surged up the flat of your back.
Your thighs aren’t even settled on your calves when his tongue slips into the clutch of your pussy again. The squeal that shocks out of you makes Sam chuckle. (Which you feel up close and personal). His first suckling kisses are so perfect, you swear you could split the leather armrest with your nails. Tense overstimulation ratchets your cramped limbs to a snapping point, until Sam’s insistent lapping draws you… slowly… into rampant pleasure. Your joints melt into the inside-going-out burn just under your skin. All your worries about choking him dissolve like salt into water; the next rapid flicks of his tongue underline in red, please don’t be gentle .
And fuck, does he look sexy suffocated by your cunt like that. Your thighs swell around his face so prettily, and he’s already so invested that you can’t see his mouth or nose—just feel them all wedged up against you. He closes his eyes to savor that first taste of you again, giving you a flash of soft dark lashes on cheeks flushed hot enough to melt ice. His happy groan vibrates right to your core. Sam is already intimately educated in ways to drive you crazy, so he returns to them straight away. He licks you soft between your folds then darts his tongue hard into your center. If he wants to make you gasp a certain way, he knows where to lay open-mouthed kisses. But above all else, Sam fucks your clit good and sloppy, whorling and flicking his tongue in all the right ways. There's a dim, pussy-throbbing idea in your mind that if this is Sam on round two, you hope you survive this to see round fifty. Or round one hundred. Fuck. You were his.
Silently, you pray to the universe that someone won’t walk past and think you’re being murdered. Heavenly, loudly, hands-to-the-glass murdered.
You burst into tears, it’s so hot all at once. There are big hands kneading you all over and lips sealing warm and familiar around your clit right away—it’s fucking maddening. Dots start to fuzz in the ends of your vision.
Hoarse, you plead, “H-holy, holy fuck, Sammy, please.”
“So sensitive for me,” he hushes. It’s more than true; he parts your soaking folds with one big lave of his tongue, instantly making you sob.
When you’re not being eaten out like a four-course meal, you’re a tough, unshakable hunter, so all this whining desperation makes you yearn for a bit of leverage. Scrambling for something to say that will affect Sam how he’s affecting you, you hiss through a sultry moan and look him straight in the eyes: “Imagine how sensitive I'll be on your cock, Sam.”
Sam smiles dirtily. “I have been.”
An unbidden mewl seeps from your mouth just hearing that, confirming, once and for all, that you’re done for. It's half a moan of pleasure and half a moan of indignation. Of course Sam is better at this than you already. Of course he, of all people, can make you miserably horny with just one sly smile. Fuck him. Hopefully.
For your own survival, your brain filters out everything but him for just an instant. Your own fiery arousal fades to background noise, so you’re left swamped by the sight of him, lips puffy from kissing, his chin glittering, his brow furrowed into cute little creases, the light playing on the low slits of his green-brown-whiskey eyes. Nothing but bliss glowed from his face. Two coarse palms surge down on your trembling hips, pushing your pussy onto Sam’s velvet-wet mouth. You couldn’t escape if you wanted to. He has to be an angel, because these feelings gushing from your vessel are too good to contain or understand.
It was so fucking much but somehow, to your most primal instincts, it’s not enough. Dire need exploded through your every pore. You forgot about holding yourself up straight and root both hands into Sam’s thick, sweaty hair, flushing your blazing cheek and nose against the cold window in the process. Hoarse, ragged moans poured from your mouth. The instant you started to roll across his face, a harsh, lewd noise escaped Sam and he followed those magnificent instincts straight to your next climax. His lips parted and then his whole mouth splayed open, giving you something to rock properly against. Take it, his eyes urged. Take what you want from me.
You do. You roll and grind on his tongue until your pulse is throbbing in your cheeks and echoing in your ears, until Sam’s fingers are bruising your thighs, until he’s just as wild-eyed and lust-crazed as you are, chasing the circle of your hips. Looking down, all the pictures and white noise floating around your mind coalesce into the realization that you’re riding Sam Winchester’s face. A flood of heat burns through your sopping core. If he’d made a mess of you before, then you made the same of him now, your bodies meeting with obscene shlicks and slurps that Sam revels in. He groans like an animal with each slide, only adding to the filthy music.
“ C’mon,” Sam swallows.
The next peak comes even faster than the last, slamming your accelerator hard, tearing faster, faster, faster through you, the dial inside you climbing higher with every mewling breath. And just like before, you’re brought to a place that no other man could even hope to take you. Your sobs were interrupted by a sharp gasp of pleasure. Sam is big, safe, enveloping arms and loving hands and fuck—fucking hell, that perfect tongue, just as wet as your sex, flickering so fast over your clit you swear he’s vibrating. Y-you can’t… god, you can’t even think. You’re so close, so close—so close for Sam, fucking fuck—
“—am Sam Sam Sam Sam Sam please please Sam please— ”
Just as that thrilling rush of throbbing, ecstatic pressure punches through you, Sam takes over, riding you through it. He coasts your hips over his face, sealing his mouth around you and just going for it. Your mind—explodes, just as sweetly as the first time. It does always feel like the first time with him. With Sam taking care of you, your hands scramble for purchase on the sex-fogged window but miss terribly and you end up flushed to it by the forearms, huffing brainless, helpless, wordless nothings into the glass. Your thighs quake, your toes curl, your hips ache, every molecule of tissue in your feeble body surged toward him in ecstasy. Perfect rippling pulses hammered between your legs. You were there.
“Sam,” you sobbed, “Oh god, Sam.”
You came with a voiceless wail. Sam was still his insatiable self, drinking up your slick until you’re squirming and spent. He learned to let you go eventually, as much as it dissapointed him. When he does you feel the outline of huge handprints bruised into your hips, and combined with everything else, with the sticky spit in the creases of your thighs, with being in love with him, you knew if you looked him in the eye right then you could cum all over again.
You do anyway. Sam is already smiling up at you, sex-dazed and shining with spit. There’s so much of it—that special concoction of your slick and his saliva—that it drools down his neck and glitters on his cheeks. He sucks your taste off his swollen lip like it’s the last cool drink of water he’ll ever have. Your fingers had made his hair into a crazy, sultry mess, and behind his bangs, his dark eyes are charged with something hot and powerful. To make matters worse, Sam knows how devastatingly sexy he looks. Between sharp gasps for air, he swirls his tongue across his chin to get another taste of you, and when you’re sitting thick and good in his mouth, the fucker grins. A sly, unsubtle grin. This is everything he’d ever fantasized about.
He’s gonna be the fucking end of you. God.
“You did so good,” Sam murmurs, like you’d been the one to dig in and do all the intense, mind-whiting work. He swallows. ‘Cause he’s only on round two, and nothing in this world could slow Sam Winchester down.
Holy fucking shit. You pressed your forearms into the stinging-cold window to remind yourself that all this was real, then made an attempt to roll off him. It ends before it even starts.
Sam, your quick study, realizes that he’s fucked your legs numb, and helps you unsaddle his face—not before stealing one last kiss between your legs, though. A thready cry squeaks out of you. He coos you through it, and knowing Sam, he is more than willing to have you again, so you’re only half-surprised when he guides you to lay down beside him instead. Big, sweet hands thread through your hair. Sam’s sex-rasped voice satisfies the greatest itch in your mind, and you can hear it through his chest where your cheek is lazily smushed on his skin. Without looking you know that those lanky legs are bent up uncomfortably against the opposite door, so you scooch up and roll Sam onto his side to face you. Because he’s still sensitive, considerate Sam, who can apparently eat pussy for ages, he tries not to suffocate you between him and the seat. You really want him to. After a bit of lazy adjusting and prying your hot skin off the leather bench, you’re sandwiched happily just like that.
And while you’ve shared a bed with Sam before, not once had you even had a taste of what it’s like to snuggle with him. No gap is spared when he closes in, so you’re pressed together in every possible way—your belly against his toned stomach, your face into his cheek, your legs smoothed between his. There’s so much skin and muscle and Sam that you just drown in it. The best part of it is easily his arms. You don’t remember how Sam got one smushed around your head, but his bicep is the perfect pillow and his hand curls around to run his fingers down the side of your neck. His other arm has you in a comfortable vice, hooked around your waist, and for no reason at all his palm comes up to spread between your shoulder blades. Just one of his hands feels like it could cover your entire back. Fucked out as you are, just the notion makes your core feel tight and hot.
Your first dose of clarity after Sam has tongue-fucked you into not one, but two full-body orgasms, drops the most glorious realization on you of all fucking time: all that? All, what? Two hours of being all over each other? That was just the fucking foreplay.
Into your cheek, Sam whispers, “Th’nk you. M’ real glad it was you, _____.” His whole body swells up with easy happiness, and he teases in a sigh, “My girl…”
Your mind floats back into your body as he says this to you, soft and loving in your ear. Sam keeps going, mumbling about how much he appreciates you, how grateful he is that you’re his first time, and all you can do to keep yourself from blurting out three dangerous words to him is kiss him. Sam moans. You get your fingers into his hair and sear your lips to his, over and over again until Sam’s tilting so far into it that he’s half on top of you. Each kiss is barely a kiss at all, open-mouthed and mostly tongue. It was your turn to be a quick study: when his need for air hits a breaking point, you let him go and drag your tongue from his chin to his jaw, tasting yourself on him with a giddy moan.
Sam stutters your name.
“Too fuckin’ good to me, sweetheart,” you curse, hoarse, “Can’t even—nngh, can’t even think, you made me cum so good.”
Sam hums. “Yeah?”
“Mm-hmm. So fuckin’ good,” you repeat. Riding a wave of possessive desire, you plant a sloppy kiss on him and gush, “You’re all mine. Gonna hoard you like gold, Sammy.” Cupping his jaw in your palm, you hiss for the second time, “Wanna be the only girl you fuck like this,” you pop off his mouth to gasp, “wanna shout in the fuckin’ street that I took your virginity.”
He starts laughing, which dissolves into a deep, bassy moan when Sam meets your next kiss. Coy, he grumbles behind a smile, “Haven’t taken it yet.”
You slither the flats of your hands down on his chest, which is a bit of a squeeze, but feeling the heft of his pecs in each palm is easily worth it. “Then get on your damn back already so I can ride you til’ I pass out.”
Sam groans at the thought. “You’re so vulgar,” he blushes.
“Sammy,” you say near his face, smirking. “You’ve got no idea the kind of dirty shit I’m keeping myself from saying right now.”
His face makes an interesting journey from horny to hornier. “...Well. C’mon. Don’t leave it to my imagination.”
That invitation just begs for you to drool out every disconnected filthy thought you’ve ever had of him in the past year. A buzz of embarrassment seats itself in your gut, but it sits in the skyscraper shadow of your post-three-orgasm arousal, which conquers everything in a hundred-mile radius. You’re easily convinced.
“I’ve had the stupidest, biggest crush on you for the longest time, Sam,” you said. “And since you’ve got back from Stanford, s’ gotten a million times worse. Half the reason m’ so fuckin’ turned on right now is because this is you, not anyone else. Every time I’ve touched myself in the past year, I’ve thought of you, of that fuckin’ horsecock in your pants, of you splitting me open til’ I’m ruined for any other man. I wanna fuck you so hard that we break the shocks on the car and have to explain it to your brother. Wanna fuck you so hard we pass out. But the dumbest, hottest part of it all is that you don’t want to fuck me, you want to make love to me, and I’d totally let you just cause’ you’re you.”
He sucks in a breath.
Sam covers his face, eyes gleaming with love and boiling hot flattery, “You’re—y-you’re shameless.”
You’re kissed so hard that you think you see stars. In agreement, you sigh, and Sam swallows that too, his kiss wet and devouring. “I love it,” he swears.
Sex should be a pretty passionate activity, but Sam turns it into something beyond. He reduces your body to it’s rawest, most honest instincts, so it’s more than easy to lay out all your feelings on a platter for him. A set of calloused fingers splay around the hinge of your jaw, and Sam’s thumb pushes up your chin so he can take his time with you. The jet-engine lust pumping into the kiss slows. He takes it somewhere else, somewhere you’ve never been with anyone before. Sam punctuates his ragged breathing with sweet, chaste kisses, dipping his head so your lips brush together feather-light, your noses bumping.
“In fact, ‘got a big crush on you too, pretty girl,” Sam husks. His fawn-brown eyes are blown black, like a doe’s. “...You wanna see what I do for the women I crush on?”
Your cheeks hurt from sly smiling. “Funny. You Winchesters think you’re so clever—”
His hand scrambles across your back, cupping your ribs, then skipping all pretense and shooting straight for the bend of your knee. You assume he’s just aiming to get you closer when he needily jerks your leg over his hip—then the full shape of Sam’s thick, panty-dropping hard-on grinds between your legs, crystal-hard and eager in his boxers.
“Sam!” You squeal.
He’s harder than a guy has ever been for you, and so, so much bigger. Sam’s dick makes a huge, handsome outline in his ridiculously tight jeans.
“Can’t wait any longer,” Sam confesses, shaking all over with restraint, “want you—now. Right now. Please—_____—please please please—”
That desperate, gluttonous emptiness from before rules over you again, and your brain is so fucked out and needy and desperate already that just the thought rearranges the atoms in your body. Having Sam inside you. Before, it was just some fantasy—pasting a Sam mask over sensations that other people had given you. But Sam wasn’t the guy who’d taken your virginity or the others that’d followed. Regardless if it’s the same equation as always, it will be Sam pounding you into the seat and it’ll be Sam losing the rhythm of his thrusts as he cums inside you. He’ll make the prettiest noises buried in you to the hilt. He’ll fuck you—make love to you—good and right. The emptiness in your core is so all-consuming that your muscles twitch and tremble of their own accord, and only Sam, your Sam, could fix that.
The hand by your face gathers your hair out of your eyes and groups it in one fist, not quite pulling, but holding, as Sam starts to saw himself against you recklessly. “Can I?” He slathers your abused throat with kisses, “Please, _____ please can I—?”
“Fuck yes,” you gasp, sinking your nails into his shoulders. “Fuck me, Sammy, baby, god fucking drill me through the seat—”
“Show me how,” Sam demands, wiped of all shame, and holy mary mother of fucking god is it the sexiest thing he’s ever said.
You order him onto his back, and Sam, your dutiful student, immediately listens. He adjusts so his head is propped up on the armrest, reminding you of his fixation with watching you during sex. Each new thing you discover about Sam’s sexual tendencies flies straight into a special locker in your mind, safe where you can (hopefully) revisit them. He’s a whiny, noisy bed partner. His appetite for cunnilingus is bottomless. He feels even bigger than he looks, especially when you wobble up into a kneel on either side of his shuddering thighs.
“Gonna ride you,” you tell him, swallowing down the rush of drool that follows the idea. “You're gonna hold my hips to keep me steady, ‘kay? Pull n’ push with me.”
The thought of any pushing or pulling at all in your position makes something deep in your hollow gut blaze. Twitching with desire, Sam nods. His palms have this coarseness from labor that feels way too sexy on your waist.
Sam squirms under your shadow. His legs are too long to lay vertically along the seat, so they prop up a bit behind you to give your back a comfortable rest. Sam’s blush has graduated in rosy patches down his neck, and holy shit you’d almost forgotten about the freckles underneath. They’re sprinkled all around Sam’s big, trusting doe-eyes and spiral down the center seam of his body. If you think about Sam’s muscles—the miles of tension-squeezed abs and corded ribs, the… fuck, the heavy rise and fall of his pecs… and just… everything, you’ll probably forget a couple of important phone numbers. His chest is peppered with moles too. But in the process of riding his face and sucking his dick, you’d painted Sam’s whole torso with pinkened nail marks. They’re scratched down his abs and pressed in little crescents along his hips. His back being flat to the seat means nothing. Some of the lines there, the epicenter of your marks, creep over his shoulders. No wonder he looks so pleasantly lovesick. You’d really made it clear that he was yours.
He outlines one precious keepsake with his finger as you hang over him. It feels good, being in control again. You’d forgotten Sam was a virgin, since God didn’t give skilled mouths like his to just anybody.
Balancing yourself with a hand on the ceiling, you throw him your sexiest grin and wiggle your hips for him, “I look pretty like this?”
“As a picture,” Sam rasps, fondly.
“Hold that picture in your mind a second, then.”
Halfway between awkwardly bending over the front seat to dig around for the condoms Dean must keep in here, you realize how unsexy you probably look. Then one of Sam’s hands drops onto your thigh, lazily hooked around it for no reason other than to touch you, and you stop worrying altogether about any problem you've ever had.
“Holding…” Sam murmurs, tapping your leg.
After a bit of fishing around the glovebox, you uncover an untouched condom. You turn the wrapper over in your hand, checking it for punctures, and once you’re sure it’s safe, your libido shoves your brain aside and takes the wheel.
You could be sexy about it. You could pounce low on him, ass in the air, and take your time pulling his jeans off til’ he’s truly starving for it. But Sam already is—he’s so desperate to feel you that he keeps rasping it, over and over. Please _____ inside please please, he chokes. Hours and hours of his sweet soft pleading has made you just as rabid, so you tear the condom open with your teeth and jerk his jeans and boxers down in one tug. Your free hand is trembling so hard that you’re thankful Sam lifts his hips to help. His cock slips free and arcs up toward his navel. It’s flushed and handsome, just like before, and seeing it instantly makes the ache in your core fucking starve. The itch crawls within you, fierce with need.
Sam takes one look at you eyeing his cock like that and drags you down to steal a dizzying kiss. His hand covers the whole back of your neck. You get one deep, shattering taste of him before you’re reminded how insanely lucky you are.
“M’ not gonna last, seein’ you on me like this,” he warns the second his lips pop off yours, “Please, _____—”
“Shh, baby,” you soothe. Sam lets you push yourself up again. “Let me go first. I promise you’ll get your chance. Just enjoy yourself, huh?”
“Hard not to.”
Sam slumps back, relieved. His hands slump similarly on your thighs, wasted by exertion, but his eyes gleam with trust and humor and lust in ways that you’ll never forget. The familiar sparks of a Sam rush roll through you, happily married to feelings so new they’re still pounding hard through your chest. He’s gazing up at you and all you can think on loop is, I’m his girl. I’m his girl cause’ he wants me to be his, cause’ he’s thought about it before, wanted me before.
Your legs are jelly. But you’ve never needed anything more than you’ve needed him right now, so you haul yourself up onto your shuddering knees, notch the condom around Sam’s flushed head, and drag it down with you as you saddle him—
—filling yourself with Sam’s cock.
You’re so wet and so needy for him that you just slip right on, almost to the hilt. You settle on him completely when your fucking legs give out. Because. Holy shit. Holy fuck—fucking. God. Holy fucking shit.
Sam’s ragged chant of your name becomes a belly-deep groan.
Stars spin behind your eyes. Jesus, it’s a stretch, but he more than prepared you for it. The pressure is too blinding for you to blink your spotting vision clear. You’re thrust full-throttle into your other senses instead, which are flooded with nothing but your singularity, the center of your universe, Sam, Sam, Sam. The burn of the first push is barely a thought in the sloppy pile of feelings, pictures, and undeniable want that he’s reduced your mind to. Fuck, does he fill you good. Fuckin’ perfectly. You think your weight drops all the way on his lap, but there’s so much to take that you can’t be sure. His breath catches. His hands claw, scratch, grope around for your hips. When he finds them, you’re ground down on him deep, and—and—gggoddd, that itch. A genuine wail sputters out of you. The spot deep within your core that’s been dying to be just fucking reamed explodes with slippery pleasure. And Sam is so absolutely massive that he brushes up into it with every breath, making you sob with want before either of you even moves.
You bite down on your knuckles, keening, “Sam.”
So full. So full of Sam’s cock. Holy fuck.
Below you Sam is flushed scarlet, his head lolled back, his dark lashes squeezed shut against every perfect rippling pulse squeezing around him. Rough gulps of air drain into his chest. You balance both palms flat to it and dizzily glance between you, where your cunt has greedily swallowed every inch of him you can get. The massive length of him looks like it's disappeared, but for… f-for you, fuck, it's done anything but, twitching in you and filling you snug as a glove. Smaller guys were usually easier to track inside you, so you figured it'd be twice that with someone as big as Sam. He'd be so big that you couldn't not feel every inch of him. Instead, you're turned into a star, a mess of heat and light and energy radiating around a single point too powerful to feel through mortal senses. There's no separation between what's you and what's him. He becomes you.
Sam stares at the spot where you're stretched tight around him, transfixed and panting and hornier than he's ever been in his entire life. Gazing at him in a haze, you remember what you’d planned to do.
You could sit there until the car was rusted and the asphalt was gray instead of black, just breathing, and with every breath soaking up each twitch and flutter Sam gave you. He moans and shuffles his legs further apart like he’d kill for the same thing. But as fucking delectable as it would be to just grind yourself down on his willing cock forever, Sam deserves more than that his first time. If it was someone else in your position, you’d hope they’d give him a good time—but this responsibility was yours, and you were determined to prove that not one other person in the history of dick-riding could blow Sam’s mind like you could.
“Gonna move, Sammy,” you warn him, and he’s so far gone that he doesn’t even snipe at you for the nickname.
Squeezing him inside you, you caress the hands on your thighs and follow them down to Sam’s shoulders, really kneading him, feeling him, with your hands. The lightest of touches has him squirming with need, so a few piercing clenches one after the other makes him groan open-mouthed. It’s when you lean some of your weight onto your toes and tilt yourself off him that Sam’s breath stalls. He finds it again the moment you drop yourself back on those last few inches, gasping as you start a pattern. Elastic pleasure pools fiery-hot down your inner thighs. You could feel the rolling pulse of Sam's cock as you rocked on his lap, the throb of it filling your whole sparkling body.
Sam curses. “G’nna cum s’ deep inside you, baby…”
You don’t know how it’s possible for him to make you any wetter, but he manages it. Again, you see-saw off and on him, “—shit, s-so deep,” Sam snarls. His neck chords with handsome muscle. Slow pulls turn into rocks. “So deeeeep—”
The pleasure is incomprehensible, whiting out all other pitiful, useless sensations. There’s nothing else but him and his big hands on your back and the curve of his dick swelling thick and hard between your quaking legs. There’s a big difference between him and the other men you’ve had, and already you know exactly what it is—the feeling of him is going to sit hot and satisfied in your gut for damn weeks. Tomorrow you’re going to feel so thoroughly fucked and empty that you’ll never think of anything but Sam ever again. You bite down on your lip and add a little swish to the end of each bounce, and sure enough, Sam chokes on his last groan.
“You fill me up s’ good, Sammy,” you rasp, curling your fingers on his twitching stomach.
“Mm-mm. S’ you,” he echoes, swallowing, “god, s’ all you. Takin’ me perfect.”
He is so fucking wonderful. When you rake your palms down the soft yielding flesh of his middle, Sam’s head thrashes back and he clamps down hard on his tongue, whimpering and keening through his teeth. You get enough leverage on your hands to really start screwing yourself down on him, and every drive is a full-body taste of silky throbbing euphoria. There’s no plan beyond fucking him senseless, yet your hands and your mind are more connected than ever. Fuck, he’s perfect pinned down like that, your brain thinks. Your hands hear this and suddenly you’re pressing Sam’s wrists into the seat beside his head—
“Yes!” He squeals.
Over an hour of foreplay has rid Sam of his last shred of embarrassment. His face, upturned and so pretty that way, advertises a swath of open throat for your taking. His bangs are a sweaty mess all tangled up in his face too, but you can’t get your fingers through them without sacrificing the fuckin’ renaissance painting underneath you. He drapes himself out for you like a girl, his jaw slack and his wrists daintily posed beside his face.
He is so, so generous and just as smart, since the second he realizes how you want him Sam gives you exactly that.
His wrists pry free from yours with embarrassing ease. You don’t waste a second sealing the fingers of one hand around them both, and from there it’s just instinct to slam Sam’s bound hands overhead and kiss him stupid. His excited squeak melts from your crown to your toes, adding this electric edge to the mind-numbing heat exploding inside you. This is only the second time you’ve ever felt it, but Sam is long enough to jumpstart the sparkling glittering radiation feeling that makes your pussy see stars. The sharp percussive mewls jumping out of you spiral into something purely animal. When you finally get to brush back Sam’s rain-tangled hair, the dirtiest, happiest grin is waiting for you there.
“____—yes, yes oh my god ____ yes —” Sam drawls between searing kisses. His head lolls at each vicious bounce.
“So noisy,” you grin.
Sam melts at this small praise, as well as your next kiss. “You like it,” he dizzily smiles.
Of course. Clenching on him hard, you drop into a few mean, fulfilling grinds and tease into his sensitive ear, “Love it when you won’t shut up, Sammy.”
Sam laughs, and despite your experience, you’ve never made a guy laugh during sex, so. Wow. You only have a bit to enjoy it before Sam’s getting his revenge. You feel him plant his heels in the door and then—oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck, he’s slamming up into you, the huge line of his cock sawing without end against the spot tha—t-that… the spot… Your whole body explodes with happy flashes of light. It spurs from you the filthiest, most obscene kinds of moans a man has ever made you make, almost weeping for joy at the perfect velvety pressure flash-flooding your cunt.
“So noisy,” Sam husks back.
That’s the last thing he says for a while, because everything after that dissolves into delectable broken noise. Since he knows you love it so much, Sam chokes and moans until he’s out of breath and slack-jawed. His face fixes up like—well—like he’s being ridden all the way to Texas, sweaty temples lolling against his raised arms. You usually fixated on your partners during sex like this, but only because there wasn’t typically much on your end. Now there’s so much packed into every acute shift that you take it greedily by the handfuls. It’s the sloppiest, hottest, most delectable sex of your entire life. Sam’s brain apparently remains intact despite the nuclear meltdown sizzling through you both, because your low bounces start to be met by fierce upward twists of his hips. New colors join the stars spinning behind your eyes and your pussy throbs with new intensity.
“Mnmmn yes yes yes fucking yes—” you rattle in a sob.
And when your lungs are empty Sam’s still cork-screwing hard against that raw bundle of nerves inside you, stealing the rest of your breath so you’re left hanging there with your mouth open, thunderstruck. For a few breathless beats all you can hear is the percussive wet pull of him plunging into you. He seethes in absolute delight, back curling, and you don’t think you’ve ever seen Sam enjoy something that much. Somebody. You.
A few more heavy grinds and you know you’ll be done with. Your legs burn thigh-to-toe with weighty exhaustion, and even the sweaty muscles in your belly are knotted to a breaking point. Sam’s losing his patience. Most of his writhing is playful, until his wrists really start to twist in your grip for freedom. It would be easy to give Sam what he wants, especially when that means immediately being flipped over, spread apart and fucked senseless, but your tank’s not empty yet.
With the last of your strength, you slam Sam’s hips down onto the seat to keep him in place. (So full so full so fulllll.) A good rippling squeeze lets you feel just how deep he is. He’s not trapped a second before he’s trying to earn back enough room to meet you bounce for thrust. But, again, Sam is a damn genius. You sink him into a kiss that leaves your ribcage singing with love and stir your hips around his lap, murmuring between breaths, you’re perfect Sammy. Every starved inch of him calms for just a moment. When the tension roped in his wrists relaxes, you release them, and Sam melts into everything you give him: the slow, soft kissing, your hands caressing from his forearms to his triceps to his chest, and the heat of him radiating inside you in more ways than one.
On the next circle of your hips, you see it on the horizon: the finish line. Your whole body sings with the urge to fuck yourself on Sam til’ you’re spent, and orgasm number three has made your already thin self-control grow microscopic. Sam takes one look at you, crawling inside and out with fever, and asks to take over.
“Baby,” is all he says, pleading. His voice is so stringy with worn patience that it cracks.
“Yeah,” you rasp. “Please.”
On top of being beautiful and smart and patient, Sam is incredibly merciful. Instead of ruining your life by pulling out and leaving you empty as he fucks around positioning you, Sam sits up, shifts you into the safe bowl of his lap, and lays you both across the slick seat while you’re still connected. Then he does what your Sam apparently does best, and makes love to you.
There’s no shyness this time. Sam greets you with a happy, sloppy, moaning kiss that fills your gut like fire. He drapes over you like a new sky, too broad and big for his own damn good. Then he fills you like fire, until you're a pathetic, keening mess greedily writhing down on the cock you're already full of. Riding him had put into perspective just how long he is, while this position made it jaw-droppingly clear how thick. And vieny. And perfectly curved. One little jostle rubbed all the happy places in your pussy that made your brain melt out of your ears. Sam hasn't even started and the fabric of your reality is already twisting and unknotting. You're drooling and your hair is a nest and your lipgloss smeared off ages ago, dried on Sam's throat and probably Sam's dick, but you can't be bothered to care. One broad palm rakes soft down your belly. Sam coos as he pushes into you, murmuring apologies like you’re not spreading your legs for him as wide as they’ll go. He loves you.
“Always wanted this,” Sam prays, and decides at that moment, for no tactful reason, to start petting your swollen clit with his thumb. “Always wanted you.”
“Mmnn—mee too,” you hiccup. “Ssso muh—much, baby.”
The swath of hot-hot skin previously only available to your hands squishes you against the leather head-to-toe. Sam's arms tremble just trying to hold himself up on his hands, so he gives up all together and smushes himself all over you, especially where it really matters. His hips stir in and in and thank god they never stop. It's almost embarrassing how easily you disappear in Sam's shadow, until you think about it a little harder… get that image of yourself absolutely dwarfed by Sam's back, or Sam's hands, or Sam's fingers… Sam's huge cock… and suddenly... Something deeper than your gut tells you to dig your nails and knees into him for dear life, and that instinct finds its ground fast.
It only takes a few experimental drags for Sam and Sam's sexy ragged breathing to get you where you need to be. With his face nestled in your neck and the powerful line of his body curled over you, he has room to get a hand splayed on your bare thigh—pinning it back for himself—to fuck you honest. You think/hope/pray that Sam is winding up to do just that. He pulls out in a way that makes you both take in a breath, then sinks home with the kind of thorough, aching, agonizing focus that makes you sob openly in the backseat. Because he's well and truly evil he nuzzles in close to your neck with noisy kisses as he goes, and never once closes that perfect mouth.
“So tight,” Sam groans. “Take the whole thing so good,” he praises, genuinely impressed, and you can't help the tingly pride that sits hot in your gut when he says that.
“I do?” You ask, just because you're a cocky asshole.
Entertaining your cockiness, Sam thinks for a minute. “Yeah,” he breathes, then suddenly all that delicious heat sitting pretty inside of you draws out in one pull. Sam shushes your frustrated whining and drawls a single request: “Feel it again.”
At first you're not sure what he means, and no one can exactly blame you, since that's what Sam Winchester and three orgasms can do to the human psyche. He's also fucking pulled out of you, which you rightfully react to like he's just dropped you naked in the Australian wilds and flown off. You haven’t been lonely and empty for more than a second when Sam returns every inch he stole. His bulbous tip spoons through your folds, and everything after that is filling, surging, slick velvet heat so stellar your limbs go numb.
“Hah—ah—hoollee—holy shit,” you stammer.
“Feel it?” Sam hums.
Brain melted, you answer, “Feeeel—?”
“This, _____,” Sam replies, all sweet and patient.
Knowing exactly the kind of puddle he’s reducing you to, Sam does it again. He pulls out fast and sinkssss in, slow and hot while making all sorts of pretty sounds. This time he kisses you as he blows your mind. Considering how Sam’s already mastered staring hungrily at your cunt stretched tight around his base as he sinks in, it’s an uncoordinated kiss. All of his student ambition has been poured by the truckload into fucking you—and reminding you that he is.
“You n’ me,” he whispers, starry-eyed. “Perfect fit.”
In a daze, your hands clamber for something to cling to besides Sam’s poor, abused back. They end up smoothing soft and needily through his silky hair, so it’s a matter of circumstance when Sam starts pumping his hips and you pull so hard that he howls with pleasure. A very happy circumstance.
Somehow, Sam is lucid enough to still be thinking about the how in all of this. He tests. Slow, stomach-deep, thorough thrusts that blend into wild snapping ones that jellify your surviving senses. Because he apparently doesn’t understand that fucked-out squeals of his name mean harder, Sam asks:
“Want me gentle?” He mumbles pretty against your cheek. “Or more?”
“Plea— please sah—Sammy,” you sob into his hair. “Please go harder. Hard s’ you want. Won’t hurt.”
“Mn—m’ not gonna—can’t hold—” Sam chokes, and whatever he’s trying to say dissolves when he shamelessly licks open your mouth. You’re lovingly kissed, put nose to nose with him, and made victim to Sam’s warm whiskey eyes—
—then you're fucked inside out.
Before you can even suck in a full breath, you’re being deliriously pounded into the trench you and Sam have dug into the seat. Viciously, beautifully pounded, too-good-to-make-noise pounded, arms-locked-still pounded, jaw dropped and toes curling. The kind of sex that’s born from years of wound-up, silent frustration that erupts all at once. Sam’s fingers curl into your thighs like he needs this. Every stroke is life or death, consuming him with an insatiable, maddening craving for more more baby closer s-squeeze me harder so fuckin' pretty n’ warm . Thready sobbing gasps punctuate each thrust, but you're too busy being disassembled atom by erotic atom to know if it's you or him. His dick starts to blaze deliciously hot inside you, closer, closer…
Sam’s teeth snap together. “Oh shit oh shit yes—can’t—get—enough a’ you.”
Your hands are jostled back down to his shoulders, and you feel like if you don’t hold on you might be drilled straight through the crust of the earth. The second you sink your nails into Sam’s back, that’s it. Something in him splits, then his hands are clamping down under your thighs and you’re being bent in half. Knees to your chest, hips curved up, pussy spread for him—everything. Every one of his breaths is coarse with a throaty whimper. He could’ve given out ages ago, but Sam just keeps going, hips pistoning, nails digging, until sweat is beading down his flushed neck and he’s panting with his tongue splayed like a dog. Your ass is going to be all sorts of colors tomorrow morning.
Of course, it’s when you can’t feel your legs and your blazing lungs stop working that the whole Impala starts to rock. The leather seat squeaks on beat and the carriage bounces harder and harder on its shocks. You swear the damn car’s going to flip when Sam’s thrusts stutter, losing their tempo. Sam twists his hand to get two fingers rubbing like lightning at your clit and you’re gone, too exhausted to do anything but cry, blissed-out tears pooling in your collarbones.
“Sammy please,” you weep.
He pants, “Gonna—gonna—”
You're pretty sure that's when the orgasms start. Maybe it’s not just one of them, but a million little zinging ones blending together in one deliciously long stroke. Slick is rolling down your ass and Sam’s cramping thighs, and his voice is muffled in your neck, cursing filthy half-words like he does in your fantasies. You melt helplessly at the seams through it all, clenching on him without end. Sam moans hoarsely through his broken voice and fills you for good. The last of his weight comes crashing down on top of you, beautifully squishing you between a swath of broad chest and the seat. Pinned down, fucked open, and flattened to the leather, you try to stay conscious as Sam’s climax wracks through his whole body—and yours, fused to him in a sloppy puppy-love kiss. Together, your finales hit a fever pitch too fantastic for mortal bodies to handle. It sings through you to him, where Sam’s skin meets your skin, his lips to your lips, the two of you ringing like bells until finally, finally, finally they coalesce into the same vibrating frequency. You’re him and he’s you and holy fuck, Sam Winchester just made stupid, crazy love to you.
Two heaps of clay, you collapse into each other. Sam’s mussed hair tickles your neck where he’s gulping down deep, rattling breaths. It’s the first thing you notice when you regain your sense of what-fucking-dimension-am-I-in. Each filling inhale presses you down a little, and god should it not be as awesome as it feels. A couple more minutes and Sam could easily suffocate you, which is why you don’t move, content to die as you lived: utterly obsessed with him.
Somehow your brain is still capable of drawing connections to your body, because your fingers are curling into the soft tuft at the back of Sam’s neck of their own accord. An obscenely happy cocktail of endorphins throbs between your spent legs and swirls around in your brain, blissed out.
Sam pets your waist with just the tips of his fingers. After a long, euphoric sigh, he murmurs with a dizzy smile, “How’s my girl?”
You’re too out of your mind to speak. All you can think to do is throw your arms around his neck, and Sam, your genius, just gets it. With a lazy pull of his hips, his warmth leaves your very happy core. That itching sense of emptiness starts to ghost through your system the moment he’s gone, though, and you can’t help but sigh at yourself. This is not over. You’re never gonna get enough of him.
Sam handles the condom, then, to your delight, returns to his earlier spot cuddled up between your legs. This time, he’s brought blankets with him. In moments (that fly by even faster in your cum-drunkness), you’ve got a fluffy one propped up under your head and a big, warm body at your front, who squeezes you closer the same way he had before. Sam doesn’t wait a second to squirm his arms under and around you. He gets you all wrapped up in an cozy embrace, only to be consumed by cuddles himself. Greedy and unafraid, you haul the other blanket over you both and hug Sam tight enough to squeeze out a few giggles.
“That was—” Sam starts, grinning all handsome and sleepy-like.
“Wait, shh,” you stop him. “You hear that?”
Sam tilts his head to listen. He studies you, intent, his whole face swimming with satisfaction. “Huh?”
You twist up in the mess of blankets to kiss Sam’s ear, snickering to yourself. “S’ your brother, revving a chainsaw,” you tell him, dryly, “cause’ he’s gonna fuckin’ kill us for doing this in his car.”
Sam’s eyes drifted peacefully shut. Since he is forever out to get you, one pretty hand of his smooths between your own. He confesses, grinning, “____. Not even that could ruin this for me right now.”
You can’t help it. He flushes your whole body with love in the dumbest way. In a moment of glorious, beautiful weakness, you brush the hair from Sam’s face and murmur, “Guess you are a quick study, then, Sammy, cause' that's how I've felt this whole time…”
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taglist: @cookiemumster1 @lacilou @cevans-winchester @leigh70 @seraphimluxe @emily-roberts @emme-looou @aloneatpeace @williamstop @ornella0910 @chaoticshepardplaid @dakota-dream @lcvecstiel
#supernatural reader insert#supernatural#spn#uncouthspn#user uncouth#sam winchester#sam winchester x reader#sam winchester x you#sam winchester imagine#sam winchester x y/n#there ain't no me if there ain't no queue
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You think you can outdo me on the rhinestones?
#i say this every time i make gifs of these men#but i swear these arent sped up they just move that fast#gvf#greta van fleet#joshua#daniel#josh kiszka#danny wagner#mine#there ain't no me if there ain't no queue
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#Ain't no party like DJ Lethal party cuz a DJ Lethal party don't STAHHHP#this has been sitting in the drafts for far too long. figured it was time to let it be free.#god the guys look so carefree just having blast partying and supporting their dude Lee#Lee is in the zone doing this thing on the tables like the mad scientist he is#John is having the time of his fucking life being Lee's hypeman and I just wanna take him to the dancefloor and get down#Sammy's so cute shaking hands with that his cheeky smile of his#and Wes is like “y'all know where to find me. just keep the shots coming bitchesssss🤪”#I just wanna party with these guys so damn bad#Limp Bizkit#nu metal#DJ Lethal#John Otto#Wes Borland#Sam Rivers#Showin' mad love for the Dee Jay on DJ Lethal Thursday#down the rabbit hole#just give me something to queue
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Dazai and Chuuya: *done with a discussion topic*
*silence*
Dazai, quietly: Beau
Chuuya: What?
Dazai: Beau.
Chuuya:
Dazai, smilling after a moment of silence: It means "Beautiful" in French right?
Chuuya, nervous and also smiling: Yeah...it does. Pretty, beautiful...
#NOW CHANGE THE LANGUAE TO PORTUGUESE AND THE CHARACTERS TO ACTUAL PEOPLE#THIS HAPPENED TO ME LAST NIGHT AND I THOUGHT DANISH BOY WAS ACTUALLY HAVING AN GENUINE QUESTION#NOW IDK WHAT TO DO#because I thought 'ain't no way he is calling me pretty“#and now idk if it was a compliment or a question#and now he's no longer in Portugal#I HATE NOT UNDERSTANDING SOCIAL QUEUES#anyways my 'love stories' disguised as bsd incorrect quotes XD#japan#bsd#bungou stray dogs#bungo stray dogs#skk#bsd soukoku#soukoku#incorrect quotes#bsd incorrect quotes#bsd skk
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oh yes, I can write pretty, flimsy things about love and hope and perseverance and all that. but then look at me, and where are those? words and words only. I could stop myself from doing things. the difference is I either don't want to or don't care. I have scars already. what's a few more? it won't change anything. if I really wanted to 'get better', I'd actually try to eat enough, for a start. and look at me. having one, maybe two meals a day. what's the good of writing things supposed to be encouraging when I don't believe them? I can talk about getting up and going on until I'm blue in the face and still I sit here, uncaring, watching everything fall apart more than it already was. which is fair. that's what I deserve. y'all should quit following me. honestly I don't see this going anywhere good. I think it a higher than 50% chance that I will die by suicide within the next year. but do I care about that, either? nah. and it's not for lack of faith in God, just in myself, I suppose. and my kitten is currently curled up all comfy on my lap, so it's not that I have nothing to live for. just that, as me, I don't want to live. nor do I know how to change myself. and I'm ever so tired. I know how I'd do it, it wouldn't be hard. I want a hug but no hug will fix this. I don't think anything can, really. if I told my dietitian I was feeling like this right now she'd probably be concerned. last time she knew I felt like this she made me promise to go and tell my parents. well. what they don't know won't hurt them, ain't so? nobody in real life actually needs to know, not now. it's possible someone will see scars and put two and two together, but still, harming isn't so bad. on its own it shouldn't be a problem, right? and nobody would suspect me of eating problems unless I mentioned it. not like some of the girlies who actually have actual problems. maybe I'm just making it all up. yeah it's all in my head and I'm imagining things. I just looked round the room extra hard at everything in case I'm hallucinating. if I was I feel like I'd know, though, somehow, idk. maybe I'll have a psychotic break one day like my sister did. but really it's all in my head. well I know how to fix things being in my head. simply break the head and the problems are all gone.
#your post is kinda queuete#posted to queue because ain't me as has energy to deal with this being seen and read by people at this point#written on the last day of july just after posting the poem 'little bird'#personal#tw suicide#tw ed#tw sh#puddleglum hours
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Fall Out Boy performing this ain’t a scene
Credit to owner
#patrick stump#pete wentz#joe trohman#andy hurley#fall out boy#fob8#this ain't a scene it's an arms race#damn Patrick is so amazing#fob#01.14.23#2023#this video makes me so happy#video#photo credit to owner#queue all the love to leave my heart
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MercyMae drew a meme about playing defense in S+ clam blitz.
Zachruff posted this photo. How??
Pearl drew a showdown in tabletop turf war.
ICN64 drew a smallfry.
Fable drew a cute Fuecoco!
From October 17th, 2022
I'm usually streaming this game on Tuesdays at 1:30pm central time over on my Twitch channel and I'm open to playing with viewers!
#splatoon#splatoon 3#sploon#sploon 3#s+ clam blitz#glad that ain't me#how do people post those photos#how#tabletop turf showdown#smallfry#pokemon#fuecoco#art#artwork#artwork from the plaza#plaza#plaza art#nintendo#nintendo switch#queue#twitch#twitch streamer#twitch streaming#streamer#small streamer#playing with viewers
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Thinking of an Anastasia (1997) AU for Princess Tutu.
Before getting into it more fully I always enjoy tweaking or even completely changing endings for AUs, if I just wanted these characters to act out that movie as is I'd be better off just doing screenshot edits. Since I'm taking out any and all actual history from this fairy tale (sadly the idea that Anastasia lived is a fairy tale, poor girl) I get to play around with culture and character motive and stuff like that. To that end:
First off we're gonna chuck that version of Rasputin entirely and just full on replace him with Drosselmeyer from the show. No changes, he's perfect.
Anastasia: Duck/Ahiru
Dimitri: Fakir
Vladimir: Autor (only instead of knowing the royal family he's just obsessed with them)
I haven't figured out the others yet, I'm thinking Edel might be a good replacement for Dowager Empress Marie (but maybe she's an auntie instead? Could keep her the actual grandma, still thinking).
The really fun part is what I can do to get the other characters in! Since we don't have to worry about historical accuracy I can have Duck stick around with Edel and you know... live with her. Actually be the rediscovered heiress and how all THAT plays out. Duck feels so out of place, she's so awkward when everyone around her is so elegant.
Pique and Lillie can be childhood friends that Edel reunites her with, and they remember her (as a child) but she doesn't remember them. They're happy to just pretend the last 15 (or whatever) years didn't happen and be chummy like they weren't separated, but Duck doesn't know how to deal with them.
Maybe Mytho is a prince from a foreign country and Rue is his betrothed. Duck is warned not to fall in love with him, that even if he weren't betrothed as the one and only heiress (to a country no longer under family's rule but semantics, don't worry about the politics) she can't marry the heir to another country. Duck is too busy admiring Mytho and Rue to pay attention to the warnings.
#queue#princess tutu#nenna rambles#mostly this could be a chance to have a “what if Anya chose her grandma over Dimitri” story#except you know Fakir ain't going anywhere#truthfully this is an idea I started having right before the UT hyperfocus grabbed me by the neck#it's been fun to get back into some of my older fandoms
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the way that this blog has gone from a multi-fandom blog to essentially an f1 blog (with an occasional random post scattered here and there) in a matter of months is insane to me
#watching f1 and the drivers creep their way up to the top of my popular tags is my new favourite pastime#like honestly it's just post after post of f1 stuff in my queue 💀#and then on race weekends i ALSO spam the blog with posts like what?? how could i have possibly queued that many too#f1#formula 1#this fandom has sucked me in and i ain't leaving any time soon#cait's thoughts 💭
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I just feel like demons would have absolutely nothing on me. I'm not scared of bumps in the night, I have 3 cats that get late night zoomies. Scratching on the walls? My cat does that too, it barely registers anymore.
They can't pull my blanket off of me, i have a relflex to pull it back cause my husband is a dirty blanket hog.
What, are they gonna move my shit around??? Jokes on you, bitch, i don't remember where i put anything, i have adhd. I totally could have put my keys in the freezer, that's not even weird.
They wanna stack stuff? Me too motherfucker, you don't scare me
What now? Checkmate, demon
#nexa rambles#humbly hopeing this doesn't get me haunted tho lol#i stand by it tho i don't think i'd notice for a very long time#if a demon wants to stay it's gotta pay rent tho#this mortgage ain't gonna pay itself#where are queue and i'm so sorry
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//if it isn't obvious lol i'm trying to make a dent in my inbox today. i won't be posting everything today, but i'll be queueing up responses to post throughout the week :3c
#❝ ain't no jesus here‚ billy boy ❞ 「 ooc 」#//and i'll also probably delete some older asks that i know i won't end up getting to fjl;sdakjf#//if you've ever sent me something and i haven't replied. i promise i'm not ignoring you!#//i'm just god's favorite chewtoy rn#//<- joke#//but yeah i'll get to as many as i can today and queue them up so i'm not just spam posting today haha!
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missing dean being the bestest friend ever to pythia they were so cute n domestic together<3
i was doing some edits of pythia the other day and i have come to the conclusion that they are not bestie enough. they need matching friendship bracelets. AND MATCHING TRAMP STAMPS. next chapter I'm forcing them to get matching tramp stamps <3
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Maybe in another world she could look upon the same boy and see a boy standing proud and tall for better reasons, look how tall I am getting mother, tell me I am getting bigger, instead the Fates were cruel and she saw a child soldier too eager to stand straight to avoid reprimand.
How long is a woman meant to be torn inside by divided loyalties. How long was she to play the pawn to her father’s schemes and be the dutiful daughter?
You’re growing so tall little one, so strong would be the praises that the woman would have spoken in another world had the Fates been kinder. As Damian grew more capable, so did his trials grow more gruesome.
“You did well today” My heart broke to see you in pain. “You are quickly outpacing your tutors” Your grand father will break you a thousand times to forge himself a worthy heir.
What good was to be the most dangerous woman in the world, what good was all this power if she could not even soothe her son in fear of reprimand.
“You have always been my moon and stars, Damian” How this was practically an emotional outburst for a woman that kept her stern resolve even at the worst of times.
“Be a good son and walk me to my chambers little prince”
Ra’s had spies everywhere she would not even trust the chandelier to not be reporting back to him.
“You are soon to be a boy of ten-”
How every step back to her chambers seemed heavy with burden.
How ludicrous it was that she could not remember the last time she told him she loved him. When was the last time she smelled his hair? Or squeezed his cheek so firmly it made the boy’s face contort? Had she ever? Had she ever grabbed him to hug him so tight that he struggled to breathe? Tickled him mercilessly until he hiccuped pleading for mercy while the room rattled from his giggles?
How dreadful that she had a child of nearly ten and barely got to experience motherhood.
She poured him tea. Her hand maidens had attended to every need she would ever have before she would have it, as it has always been.
“Do you ever contemplate your errors little prince? We rarely are given chances of trying again, are you one to be forgiving of mistakes, I wonder”
@the-demons-son
#thedemonsson#;;talia al ghul threads#cryptic as always ain't you tals#give me my little muffin bratty boyyyyyyyy#;;queue
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stop lying to me! i can see right through it!- Stella to Data from defensive memes
Hungry . . . Oh so hungry . . .
It called to him, spoke to him, and yet he could say nothing for it. He didn't want to feed on its insanity, nor did he wish for it to take precedence over his own thoughts.
Where had they been? Oh right . . . She had asked him if anything was hurting, and he claimed he was fine. That's where they ended with that.
The ringing in his ears grew heavier, louder and more insistent. His hand had nearly reached for the sickle that hung heavy on his back, only for his hand to clench into a fist.
Fight back, fight back, fight back!
"I told you I didn't want you to interfere, it would only get you hurt." Data spoke, stepping a few ilms to the right so that should she dare to come closer he wouldn't feel the temptations become aggressive. The Warrior of Light's aether smelled so heavily of sugar, so syrupy and flavored with goodness that - !
A hammering throb wove up from his upper jaw, straight into his temple and through his skull. Dammit, dammit, dammit! He staggered back, breathing heavily through his nose as his sharpened nails dug into the very creases of his forehead.
That's how it was, Tesleen explained when he'd been transported from Lakeland to Inn at Journey's Head. The pain is said to be excruciating but everyone goes about it different, changes at different rates.
"I said - I said get out of here!" His head shot up, eyes a piercing cataract as the symptoms progressed. His hand jerked forward, grabbing for the neck of the sickle. He snarled as he fought to keep it sheathed and unused.
Hungry.
Starving. Want . . . aether. Desire . . . aether!
A scream sounded from the Miqo'te as he jolted back, slamming into the wall for the Inn, knocking over a table and startling Tesleen as she raced forward toward him regardless. His hand drifted to his mouth as pools of white substance with the texture of watery clay began to ooze from his mouth with each cough he expelled.
Don't let me get near Stella. Anyone but Stella. . . anyone but you all here.
He couldn't stand seeing the way they looked at him. Like he was a monster, a fiend, inhuman, and already too far gone to even speak to him like a person. A being. Real.
But it had only just begun . . .
#WARRIOR OF LIGHT // ♦︎ — › asks.#WARRIOR OF LIGHT // ♦︎ ᴠɪʀᴛᴜᴇ ᴏꜰ ᴛᴇᴍᴘᴇʀᴇᴅ ꜱɪɴ — › sin eater au.#:: oathofpromises ::#STELLA LET ME USE MY AU SHE LET ME USE IT#it's got dark themes o<o tread lightly#I ain't queueing this nope#this goes out now because I think about this OFTEN#also I know in the AU it's post Tesleen but I LOVE HER SO SHE STAYS IN THIS ;;;;
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If i get one more "hit a glitch" or "minor hiccup" from this hellsite one more time, im burning it down like twitter smh
#ruii.txt#just let me fucking queue my shit ffs#it's like almost 6am and i ain't in the mood of games tumblr#now i gave you a second chance that you never deserve bc i want a fresh start#now you wanna be buggy and glitchy as hell wtf#if twitter wasn't in deep shit i would have never considered coming back here#but here we are#yeah im petty as hell idc
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#long tags on this post bc I have an opinion and want to vent about it. but I am genuinely curious about the results#like. I know for a fact that my roommate does this intentionally. he told me that he does#just bc he thinks it's nice to chat in the kitchen#I'm of the opinion that Get Out Of My Way You're Interrupting My Video Essays#I'm just curious how universal of a feeling these are#bc I do think he's unhinged but maybe not! maybe not#I've mentioned in the past that if I'm cooking/cleaning in there I just want to be left alone#and then again I was like ''man if I'm in the kitchen I just wanna listen to my videos and make my food and go''#''so I always try to use the kitchen when it's empty. if other people are cooking in there. i'll just wait''#and then immediately after he was like ''nah I like using the kitchen at the same time as everyone else bc it's nice to chat :)''#I didn't push the subject any further bc I didn't want to make the vibe weird#bc like. I think it'd be a little rude to do so. it's not worth it#but at the same time like. I'll leave the kitchen if he comes in right before I start cooking. and wait like a good 1-2 hours to make dinne#when I was literally right about to start#and like. he ain't thinking about my preference. why is his preference getting prioritised over mine here#(bc I'm not willing to make the situation uncomfortable is why)#and I was gonna be like ''I mean it's a harmless habit ig'' but then in the tags of a post that's in my queue I rembered. that ain't true#bc he didn't stop doing that when he was ill/contagious! and he got me sick! inconsiderate on a few levels
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