#Gutter Magic | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

principiumindividuationis777 · 1 year ago

Text

Doeth (Supernatural Drama)

("Doeth" has two meanings: In English, it is an archaic third person form of "to do", but in Welsh, it means "wise".)

"Doeth"

Chapter I

George Root, from a small town in the ceremonial county of Shropshire, England, not far from the Welsh border, was little regarded by his neighbors, which is not to say that they thought poorly of him, but that they thought little about him at all, and such was to his liking.

Root, 42 and for some fifteen years an accountant, would drive a beige car to work and back, take a regular Saturday walk, and otherwise, saw no company of any kind. A frugal man, his wardrobe consisted primarily of hand-me-downs from his father, uncle and grandfather, which Root, having some knowledge of stitching and alterations, had made presentable despite their age.

George's life would have been so routine as to be outside the routine were it not for troublesome neighbors. Oliver S. Allen was pitied by those who vaguely knew him, and despised what few had the misfortune of knowing him well. For purposes of finance and any slight legal difficulties, he spread a story that his wife had died, leaving him alone to take care of his daughter, Kelly.

In truth, Oliver and his wife, Elizabeth, had divorced, with his wife receiving custody of their other daughter, but they were in London, so few locals knew of this. Given the emotional turmoil and an unscrupulous father, Kelly, about thirteen in age, had become much like her father, repeating his bogus tale of Elizabeth's death, and finding particular amusement in pelting George Root's windows with debris to disturb his peace, which the local police dealt with lightly, given that they too believed Oliver's canard.

Root considered contacting a solicitor, but soon, the Allens became the least of his concerns.

Chapter II

Their small town was given a bit of a stir by the arrival of a film producer of some note, the ambitious Terence Mathis, who, hearing rumors that a coven of witches, perhaps dating back centuries or even millennia, lived in the area, wanted to make cinema, or rather, make money, from the legend.

With a loud, colorful outfit that resembled the gaudiest men of the 1970's, the contrast between Mathis and the quiet Shropshire locale could not have been greater, and he was not well received, least of all by Helen Ford, a very religious woman, head of the choir in the town's only church.

"Excuse me, ma'am. Where do the locals say the Simmer lives?" asked Mathis, referring to the name of both the rumored coven and its leader.

"What business have you with the devil, city man?" asked Helen Ford, very sternly.

"Why, profitable business, of course, but there is no devil, and the only magic is the British Pound."

"Turn to God or you will perish. Simmer knows your mind. She has many times placed hexes on our church, and she has powers like the evil one himself."

"Rank superstition, ma'am, but how about you let me take the risk for you? I'll get Simmer away from you for a while."

Noticing telltale signs from Mathis's fingernails, which she had seen in recovering addicts in a larger city, Ford shook her head.

"You're into drugs too, I see. I cannot help you. You are lost."

Scoffing on the exterior but a bit rattled deep within, Terence, on foot, very quickly and against the lights darted out into traffic. As the Fates would have it, at that moment, George Root was driving homeward from accounting, and in his effort to veer away from the reckless Mathis, struck a pedestrian on the sidewalk.

The pedestrian, Agnes Patala, originally Agni Patala, of Indian heritage, beloved among the townsfolk, passed away at 38 of her injuries.

Root was too stunned to express anything. He continued his routine, but now his eyes were dead. Someone, someone preying on the weak, sensed George Root's state of mind and sought to take full advantage of it.

Chapter III

When word reached the Shropshire town that, less than ten miles away, Terence Mathis had passed away of an overdose, Helen Ford again shook her head sadly, telling the congregation that, "She whose name we do not speak took down this wayward soul. Be sober before the LORD."

Helen referred, of course, to Simmer, and soon, dressed in black, with a black star on her forehead, Agnes Amber, the one called Simmer, walked into the town, and everyone, even the police, even the dogs and cats, fled at her approach. A full-figured woman of about five and thirty, she walked briskly until she stood in front of the home of George Root, and Root's pet cat fled, causing Simmer to laugh in a cruel tone.

Simmer would again and again approach Root's home, ring his doorbell, then leave, until finally, Root reluctantly opened his front door.

"I am of the earth. My card."

A card, decorated with pentagrams, read, "Resh Annwn", which read as gibberish to Root but was a mix of Hebrew and Welsh.

"Birch tree, do not fail me…"

Simmer pointed a wand, evidently of birch, at Root's forehead. The next he knew, George, a teetotaler, was suffering the effects of a hangover, and was quite certain that he had been intimate with the stranger.

George managed not to miss work, nor even be late, but his haggard appearance was noted by coworkers as highly unusual for the normally neat, disciplined Root.

Meanwhile, the chaos continued in the once sleepy town: Oliver S. Allen had died, of unknown causes, in his sleep. Helen Ford again asserted before the congregation that it was Simmer's work. Oliver's death, in turn, devastated his already troubled daughter Kelly, who ran away from authorities and became the town's first homeless citizen.

Chapter IV

By this time, George Root, unable to face the outside world anymore, had taken to working remotely, via computer, his sole comfort in life now being his cat, Tao, so named because his fur resembled the Taijitu. George, like Tao, now spent most of his time sleeping.

After three months time, George finally found it in him to step out his front door again and go for the Saturday walk by which townsfolk had one literally set their clocks. The town he saw was not, however, the little town he had known. Police had lost control of the now unruly traffic, and the first to interact with Root was Kelly Allen, who tried but failed to pick his pocket, having become a street urchin and thief.

As George mournfully sauntered onward, a man of considerable stature and dignity, and eccentricity also, being dressed in Victorian gentleman's clothing, seemed to be awaiting him on the sidewalk.

"Do you want something?"

"I know of you and Simmer, but I bring hope."

"What has hope to do with anything?"

"You do not realize the seriousness of what happened," said the strange man, "For Simmer is with child by you, and for reasons you cannot bear to know, the child could be the son of perdition, the scourge of the world."

"You mean the Beast or something?"

"In a manner of speaking, yes. But the hope is in this bottle."

The mysterious man took out a bottle of liquor.

"I hardly think that becoming an alcoholic would lessen my troubles, sir."

"No, it is not to drink. It is firewater, an Americanism, or so we must call it if it is to work. You must destroy the bottle, and your child will be like any other, not the one to fear."

With nothing to lose, George Root ambled back home and bid the stranger enter.

Chapter V

"The conditions are not right yet, but if my friends… ah, there it is…"

The stranger seemed pleased that, from the sound on the windows, outside it had begun to rain quite heavily. He directed Root, the latter unsure of what to make of any of this, back outside.

Kelly Allen, dirty and barefoot, was just then running off with a gnome statue from Root's front lawn.

"Pay that no mind. We must focus," said the Victorian visitor, who began to say something in Latin, of which Root understood very little.

The man then directed Root to hurl down and break the bottle of "firewater" on his front walkway, which George did.

"It is done."

"What is your name, incidentally?" asked Root, drenched from the rain and from the "firewater" on his shoes.

"Raphael."

Though George asked nearly everyone he knew, none of them knew who Raphael was, nor did anyone know of a man matching his description, neither among the locals, nor among regular visitors.

Chapter VI

Two years later, George Root, having recovered such that he was back to his old routine, was one day astounded to see who appeared to be Agnes Amber pushing a stroller, but Amber was not Simmer, but a commonplace citizen just pushing a stroller.

Root parked his car, and approached her on foot, trying to settle in his mind what his eyes were seeing.

"Excuse me. Sorry to trouble you, but I believe we may have met," was Root's stumbling introduction.

"I don't think so…" replied a confused Amber.

"You see… there's no easy way to say this: I think I am this child's father."

"That's possible, seeing as how I have no memory of that night, and you do look like him in the eyes at that."

It became obvious to George Root, the more he spoke to Agnes Amber, that she remembered nothing of whoever and whatever she had once been. This, thought Root, must have been the effects of whatever Raphael did.

Little by little, the two, with Agnes as nothing sinister, just a struggling, single mother, reached an understanding, and genetic tests proved that yes, Root was the father of the sixteen-month-old boy in the stroller, Angelo by name.

Agnes Amber wanted to move into George's place, along with Angelo, but Root was reluctant.

Chapter VII

As Root and Amber discussed their future, torrential rain beat on the roof of George's home, as Tao slept soundly. curled up in a corner.

"I want to do the right thing by Angelo, but I am very fixed in my habits. I may not be what you are looking for in a husband."

"Who said 'husband'? We could just live together."

"After what I have been through, if we were to live as if married, I would, for my peace of mind and soul, need to have us under the sign of the Cross."

"All right, then, will you marry me?" asked Agnes in reply.

"I hide nothing. I am not one for intimacy. It is not part of my routine," explained Root, "My one foray into it, which was rather too grotesque to describe, was most unpleasant, but even if not for this, no, I cannot."

With further terms, such as no alcohol on the premises, thus began an unlikely Marriage: Unlikely for George Root, in that he was a likely lifelong bachelor, and unlikely for Agnes Amber, up to then a woman of far from abstemious habits, now living as the Shakers once had.

More improbable still, Agnes Amber was fully accepted now by the townsfolk, who no longer feared her, as only George Root seemed to have any memory of her ever being out of the ordinary.

While the small Shropshire gathering mostly returned to its tranquil norm, Kelly Allen remained homeless and, by seventeen, a feral one, with several crimes of violence by now. She often looked at Amber and Root's home in bitter envy, wishing she could have such a home, and a family once more. To Kelly, the rain George now loved was a curse, given that she lived outdoors, and her mischief always escalated when the weather was less than fair.

On the first anniversary of his Marriage to Agnes, George found, to his astonishment, a photograph, lying on the floor, of the man he knew as Raphael, the one who had, so far as he knew, broken some dreadful spell. Agnes, however, did not recognize the man, nor did anyone else in town. Tao, the housecat, though, seemed, in his own way, to recognize or acknowledge something about the photo, or perhaps the man.

The end.

0 notes

sorryitsmyfirstdayonearth · 2 months ago

Text

Baby giraffe

(Sam Winchester x reader)

Summary It’s Sam’s birthday, and the two of you decided to celebrate at the bar, and then some more in your motel room. Sam’s a little tipsy, but he’s not lacking in enthusiasm. If only those dang long limbs didn’t get in the way. CWs drunk birthday boy Sam, 69, safe sex, a little bit of throwing up but it happens off screen, fluff so sweet you're gonna have to call your dentist. 18+, 5.5k words AN Happy birthday, Sam. You’re my favorite. ❤️

Sam Winchester masterlist ⏐ SPN masterlist

“Put – me – down!”

The sentence comes out of you more sputter than words as you slap your palms against Sam's lower back and ass, giggling like crazy. In response he sends a quick, sharp slap to your rear as well, which is somewhere at the height of his head. It sends a delicious shudder through you.

You must have made the last stretch to the motel, which was already in sight when you complained about your feet hurting from dancing and Sam decided the best way to deal with your pain was to fling you over his shoulder. Your stomach hurts from laughing and his shoulder boring into it but you're not gonna complain. Well, you're not actually gonna complain. It's all for show.

There's a brief scary moment where Sam leans forward, his hands around your waist, to set you back down on the ground. He sways a little, but manages to keep his bearings, and then your feet are meeting the ground.

The sight that greets you is as near to perfection as you could ever get. Sam's beaming face, cheeks flushed and pink from alcohol, hair tussled from where he was holding you.

So naturally, you grab him by the collar and pull him against you, kiss him hard. What else is a girl to do?

Again with the swaying, the shots the two of you decided to down as the grand finale to celebrating Sam’s birthday definitely getting to you, but the good thing is that you take a step back to make up for Sam's leaning into the kiss and stepping forward, which puts your back against the outside of the motel room door.

Sam's tipsy kisses are untethered and wet, the way he otherwise kisses you only in the deepest throes of passion. He presses his tongue against your lips, and you part them with a moan, which only encourages Sam, makes him press his whole body against you.

With the last little bit of wherewithal you are able to muster in-between the fog in your brain that comes from the drinking, and the fog that comes from your arousal, you run your hands along Sam's sides, then to the front of his jeans. Sam breaks the kiss, looks down his body, then back up wide-eyed at you.

“Get your mind out of the gutter, birthday boy,” you say with a sly grin. “I'm looking for the keys.”

“Oh,” he says, with another breathtaking grin as you push your hands into the front pockets of his jeans. Sam's breath catches, the corners of his mouth twitch. You pout up at him.

“Where are they?” you ask. Sam lowers his head, presses his nose against yours.

“Y’gonna have to go a little deeper,” he says and you pretend to gasp then giggle, and so does Sam. He gives you another quick peck, then pushes one hand into a back pocket. He takes out the keys, briefly dangles them before you like some magical price he won, then begins poking them at the door’s keyhole.

He doesn't find it immediately, and you look at his face with a challenging expression but then he finally does, pushes the door open and the two of you walk in.

Sam throws the key on the table and then he walks the few steps towards you after you’ve thrown the door shut behind you, drags you close by the hips, swaying a little which makes his body bump into yours.

“Where were we?” he asks and you bring up your arms, wrap them around his neck.

“I was hoping to find some dick,” you reply, and Sam huffs. His hands wander down to your ass and he pulls you in.

“Y’re so nasty,” he mumbles, pressing his forehead against yours. “I love you.” You push up on your toes, kiss Sam again.

“I love you too,” you mumble against his lips. “Now get naked and fuck me stupid, Winchester.”

The heat has been burning inside you all evening. Looking at Sam or talking to him or just knowing he exists tends to do that to you, but the way he let loose tonight has made you nearly dumb with lust for him. You could see he was getting tipsy earlier, the way the color of his soft skin changed, the way he suddenly looked like all the tension had been taken from his body. His smiles coming so much easier. Sam doesn't drink a lot, but after a string of exhausting and demanding cases, you fucking deserved a break. Especially on this special day.

When Dean started talking to a tattooed redhead, you could have thanked all the gods above and below. It meant you and Sam would have the motel room to yourself. You were hoping to rearrange it right along with most of your insides.

Only you hadn't considered that Sam was going to turn into a baby giraffe. Or one of those inflatable arm wavy guys they have in front of car dealerships. It would probably be best to keep him confined to the bed, where he is less likely to sustain a serious head injury. Not that you mind the safety precaution. You did imagine some rigorous wall fucking earlier, but that can wait for another time.

Right now, you just know that you need Sam close.

So you kiss him again, your arms slung around his neck. He needs to take one step to the side to balance himself, and you just hang on to him, like one of those small monkeys with the long arms. The two of you could open your own zoo.

You let go of Sam, bring your hands to the buttons of his shirt, begin undoing them. You need to bring your lip between your teeth to concentrate, since there’s a lot of them, and your fingers aren’t the most useful right now. After a few seconds you notice Sam is watching you, so you look up at him.

Some of his hair is hanging over his forehead, and he has a soft smile on his lips. You look back at the buttons, then raise your eyebrows.

“What?” you ask.

“Nothing,” Sam replies. “You’re just cute.” You make it to the final button, step closer to Sam again, needing to tilt your head back to look at him again.

“Cute?” you ask in a challenging tone. Sam nods, his hands slowly wandering along your sides again. He leans in a little, his lips ghosting over your cheek, the faint smell of whiskey on his breath, sweet and smokey.

“Cute,” he says, kissing your skin, the contact of it traveling all through your body. He moves his head, kisses your other cheek. “An’ sexy.” You close your eyes then, just as Sam’s hands wander up your back again, this time under your shirt. It feels like your entire power of perception is focused on the spots where his fingertips are running along your skin. It’s like he’s shooting lightning bolts from them.

“And?” you say quietly, eyes still closed. You feel a small huff escape Sam as he chuckles at your greediness for his words.

“And really smart and brilliant and–” he says but you shake your head just a little, not enough to dislodge him from you.

“The other stuff, Sam,” you say and Sam ghosts his lips down to the edge of your jaw, making a small moan escape you.

“All mine,” he says, his low voice so close to your ear that you’re sure you can feel it in your spine.

You turn your head, bring your hands up to grab Sam, pull him against him, kiss him hard. He kisses you back, uncoordinated and wet and messy, the way he only gets when you’ve got him really wound up. Or, as it turns out, when he’s had a couple too many Old Fashioneds.

His hands are already under your shirt, so that’s where he starts with undressing you. Since he pulls on the back you get a little tangled in it just as he’s pulling it over your head, but you make it out with most of your face and some of your hair intact. It doesn’t matter, because Sam looks at you like you’re made of solid gold.

He kisses you again, his hands running all over the skin he’s just uncovered, both his and your breathing having become a little heavier. You manage to locate the hem of his shirt too, tug it up, and Sam helps you grab it, stretches to pull it off himself.

If you weren’t crazy for him earlier you’re for sure crazy for him now. Your hands run over his back, his sides, exploring all that warm, soft skin you get to touch. A few of your fingers grace the leather of his belt, which focuses your mind on a really good idea.

Sam looks down when he hears the clink of his own belt, hair falling over his eyes, then back at you. He kisses you again just as you manage to undo it and move on to his fly.

“Wanna do you first,” he mutters and you grin.

“Do me?” you ask back. “Like this is a prom hook up?” Sam chuckles, leans back to look at you, almost leaning too far, but luckily he’s still got his arms slung around you, so he manages to regain his balance quickly.

“I wouldn’t have been brave enough to talk to you in school,” he says with a dimpled grin and you roll your eyes.

“Well, I would have been,” you say, then look into his eyes while you pull down the zipper of his jeans. “And I would have blown you in detention and then told everyone about it.” Sam shakes his head.

“I was never in detention,” he says and it makes you laugh, which in turn makes him grin. He gives you another kiss and you run your nose against his.

“I wanna taste you, Sam,” you say, making your voice low, hoping to convince him of something you’d never thought you’d have to convince a man of, but Sam has other ideas.

“Me first,” he says and you groan, press yourself close against him. You feel the rumble of Sam’s chuckle against you, and then your drunk brain blesses you with another idea. You pull back, look up at Sam and something in your expression must make him suspicious.

“Wha’?” he says.

“Get undressed,” you say, letting go of him, your hands going behind your back to your bra. “I know just the thing.”

Sam follows suit when he sees you tearing at your own clothes, almost like he thinks just because you’re hurrying that it means there’s a competition. You watch him bring up one leg, tear at his sneaker while he bounces on the other leg, and shockingly he doesn’t break anything in the process. He stares at your breasts once they’re naked and when you wiggle your ass to get out of your jeans, he stares at that instead. Wide eyed, mouth open, full of wonder - there’s another zoo metaphor in there but your brain is too horny to focus on it.

Once both of you are naked you step closer to Sam again, press yourself against him. His half hard cock presses against your stomach and you rub yourself against him while Sam searches out your lips again.

“Get on the bed,” you whisper against his lips. Sam nods, then kisses you yet again, pulls your close while he grows harder and you wetter. It’s not until your hands find his ass and you give him a small slap and you tell him to get on the bed again that you both manage to break free.

Sam sits on it, then scoots back. You watch him for a moment. His broad shoulders, heaving chest, taut stomach. His erection now standing proud. Thighs you’ve ridden more than once. All down to his fucking adorable toes.

You climb on the bed too, over Sam, kiss him again. His hands go into your hair as he pulls your close, presses his tongue against your lips. You open up, let him in, and his taste nearly makes you dizzy. It’s damn tempting to just slide your hand down, find him, let him push into you. But you both wanted something. And you’re feeling daring and experimental and it’s Sam’s special day. And also, shockingly, you’ve never done this.

Sam raises his eyebrows when you sit up, confusion making his features even prettier than they already are. You climb off him, somewhat ungainly, then straddle him again, high on his torso, the other way around. You can’t see Sam’s face like this, which is a damn shame, but you can guess at his enthusiasm when his hands go to your ass, squeezing, like he’s trying to drag you closer. So you indulge him.

Your pussy meets his face and, the way he always does, Sam dives right in. He hasn’t done much but his enthusiasm alone makes soft, warm pleasure break out all over your body as you slowly rock yourself backwards. Sam must push his head up, and then he’s kissing your lips down there like they’re your upstairs lips - deeply, passionately, like they’re the best thing in the world.

You close your eyes, hum at the feeling. Your buzz isn’t as strong anymore with the adrenaline coursing through your body, but you’re pleasantly floaty and you nearly get lost in the slow rhythm and pleasure when Sam starts gently sucking on you. It’s only when you blink your eyes open, seeing what’s under you, thick and flushed and wearing a crown of pre-come despite no touching, only from eating you out, that you remember your original plan.

You lean forward, which has the added effect of slightly shifting your position and bumping your clit into Sam’s chin. You open your mouth, stick out your tongue and run a long stripe along Sam’s cock.

He flinches, not expecting the touch, but when you do it again, he slightly pushes himself up against you. In response, you bring one hand up to help, collect his pre-come and run it down his length. Then you kiss his head, slightly suckle on it and Sam groans into your pussy. You nearly go cross-eyed.

“Fuck,” he grunts out and then he’s on you again. You open your lips wider and slowly take the head of Sam’s cock into your mouth, run it over your tongue. He tastes salty and familiar and you push a little deeper, begin massaging his balls just as you wonder why the hell you’ve never done this before.

You need to press your hand into the mattress again to get your hair out of the way. You let Sam drop from your mouth.

“Sam,” you say, breathing hard, trying to get his attention but Sam seems entranced by your pussy. “Sam, baby.” You feel him move off you, and he mmh hmm’s.

“Can you give me my hair tie?” you say, wanting his touching back as soon as possible, but also not crazy about getting a mouthful of your own strands. “On the bedside table.”

Sam must look to the side then, and you hear his hand meet the wood of the table until he taps you on the hip and at the same time, nips at the back of your thigh. The place he knows you’re ticklish.

You flinch, then giggle, reach back to grab the hair tie and then sit yourself up. You mean to hover over Sam’s face but he wraps his hands around your waist, pulls you down. You’re just gathering up your hair when his lips meet you again and he sucks your clit into his mouth.

You can’t help the moan that escapes you, and neither can you help the way you grind yourself down against Sam’s face to seek out more of him. His hands on you tighten, one wandering up to your breast, uncoordinated , searching, before he finds your nipple, twists it. You moan again, louder this time, and with your hair finally up, you drop forward again.

You take Sam’s cock in your hand, collect some spit in your mouth and let it drop onto its head, the wetness letting you stroke him easier. With your hair out of the way, you dip down, lick along him again, and again, and again. Sam wraps one arm tightly around you, pressing you down against him, while his other wanders over your back, caressing the skin there. All the while he’s still going to town on your pussy.

There’s just something about this, you think as you take Sam back into your mouth, begin sucking him off with long and deep bobs, another groan of his going straight to your core. About having Sam pleasure you in that perfect, pussy-drunk way only he can, and getting to taste and feel him at the same time. You take him deeper, spurred on both by the feeling and your slight intoxication, your throat opening up for him effortlessly.

Sam drops his head back at that. The licking and sucking at you ceases and you hear his head meet the pillow, feel the slight way he rocks up into your mouth. Both his hands go to your ass, and he squeezes the skin, hard.

“Oh God, oh God,” he mutters, and one hand wanders to your pussy again, his thumb finding your clit as he draws lazy circles. But overall what you’re doing seems to be too distracting for him to focus on anything else.

Soon you need to pull back, breathing hard, a strand of saliva still connecting you to Sam’s cock. It disappears when Sam pulls you back, strong hands manipulating you, as he presses you so hard down on him it must hurt. One hand wanders to your entrance and the second he presses his tongue against your clit again, he pushes two fingers into you.

Your head drops down, forehead meeting Sam’s thigh, his cock still in your hand. Sam’s fingers are thick and long and curve absolutely perfectly, stroking at your inner walls in a way that is almost too much. You feel your eyebrows draw together when the intense stimulation starts turning, like a wave about to break, into white, hot pleasure, and you press your nose against the skin of Sam’s thigh, moan and pant against him.

“Yes,” you gasp, your body beginning to tense. “Yes, Sam, baby, please.” Sam keeps going, his fingertips running over that perfect spot within you, his tongue still desperately lapping at you and you need to let go of his cock, your fingers trying to find something to hold on to, clawing at him.

Your back arches as your orgasm breaks over you, your entire body tensing, high, uncontrolled sounds leaving you. Sam keeps finger-fucking you, his lips still latched over your bundle of nerves, until you need to pull away, the feeling becoming too much. Your body slumps down, your head somewhere close to his knees, panting like you just sprinted a mile.

Sam continues running his hands over your back, sides and ass, his fingertips like gentle kisses. You groan in exhaustion, and when you open your eyes, the world is spinning a little. It’s only the temptation of seeing Sam’s face that gets you to push up on shaky arms, turn yourself around. Your pussy drags over Sam’s chest, and you proudly see the glistening, wet spot you leave on him.

You drop down next to him and Sam grabs your face, kisses you before you can even look at him. You hum into his mouth, your own taste greeting you, Sam’s fingers tacky where they fucked you. Sam pulls back, just a few inches, then dives back in, like he changed his mind. You giggle, run your hand over his chest and then down to between his legs.

He stops kissing you, eyes squeezed shut and lip pulled up when you find him, begin stroking him again. You just watch him for a moment. Sam in pleasure has to be the greatest sight of all times. His cheeks are bright pink, in that flushed way he gets. He’s nearly trembling and one of his hands finds your breast, his thumb circling your nipple. You bring your mouth close to his ear.

“Do you want me to keep going?” you ask, voice low. “Or do you want to be inside me?”

Sam swallows, and the next second he’s pushing you back, down on your back. You squeal and then Sam’s over you, straightened arms holding him up as he looks down at you. You run your hands up his arms, over the lean muscle and then to his face, brushing his hair on both sides behind his ears while he looks down at you with lust-blown eyes.

“Fucking love you so much,” you say and Sam leans down, kisses you again and you pull him close, the post-come buzz making you emotional as you repeat the words against his lips.

“Love you,” he’s saying before he kisses your neck and you sigh at the feeling. “You’re so b’tful.” You chuckle at that and Sam presses himself against you, the length of his cock running along your pussy and you drop your head back, moan wantonly, everything just feeling so bright and good. Sam’s hand wanders between your bodies and you can feel his head against your entrance, when your eyes fly open.

“Sam, condom,” you gasp out. Sam freezes and then his and your eyes meet, both in shock.

“Oh, shit,” he says, pushing himself higher until he’s resting on his knees again, briefly swaying. He leans over towards the bedside table, opens the top drawer and takes out a foil pack. He brings it close to his face, starts working on it with both hands.

You’re still lying under him and you roll your shoulders, one hand traveling up Sam’s thigh, over his stomach. He’s got the best belly button you’ve ever seen, you think. So yeah, maybe you’re still a little drunk, with a thought like that. Your hand wanders further down to his erection as you gently begin stroking him again.

Your eyes wander back up to Sam’s face, still in deep concentration but then a grin breaks out over his face.

“Y’re making it really hard to focus,” he says as he squints and you tug at him a little harder, the movement of your hand not stopping.

“Oops,” you say. You see Sam’s eyelids trying to drop as he rocks himself into your hand, and you’re half sure he’s about to give up on opening the condom, when he rips the foil.

“Ha!” he goes and it makes you giggle. He takes the condom out, brings it to his dick. You surrender it to him, watch as he rolls it onto himself, covers his beautiful penis.

“Ready for the dance,” you say and Sam grins again, drops the foil somewhere and leans over you again. He kisses you deeply.

“Where were we?” he says and you bite at his bottom lip. You wiggle, getting impatient.

“Come on, Sam, please,” you whine. “Wanna feel you.” Sam kisses you again, gentle, teasing.

“Yeah?” he says, voice deep. You nod quickly. Luckily he doesn’t make you ask again.

He brings his hand between your bodies once more and this time you wrap your legs around him, while at the same time splaying your arms out over your head. You watch the renewed concentration on Sam’s face as he guides himself, and then feel the press of him against your entrance. You tilt your hips up with the hold of your legs around him and then he’s pushing into you.

Sam grabs your hips as he slowly rocks himself into you and when he comes flush with you, he leans over you, his hands going to yours where they are over your head, his fingers interlocking with yours. He stops, kisses you again, your lips, then your jaw, your neck as you lie there with your eyes closed, just enjoying the way he opens you up, the way he makes you so full, so complete..

“You’re so perfect,” Sam half breathes, half mutters, before sucking his lips against the skin just below your chin. The suction feels amazing and Sam keeps going. He’s probably leaving you with a hickey and usually you might tell him to cut it out, but right then you don’t care. It feels too fantastic.

“Sam,” you moan and without letting up, he begins rolling his hips.

You gasp, the twin feelings of pleasure too perfect, too all encompassing. Sam moves his lips lower, his breath fanning over your skin as he moans too. You press the side of your face against him, searching more of him out.

“You feel so good,” you mumble, lost in the slow rhythm of Sam’s thrusts. You use the hold of your legs to meet him halfway, which in turn makes your head drop back. “Oh, so good, Sam.”

Sam raises his head, kisses your lips again. You manage to open your eyes, see him looking at you, his opened mouth against yours. He holds your gaze, then quickens his thrusts.

A high whine leaves you and then another. Sam groans again, the hold of his hands tightening.

“Fucking soft,” he mumbles, then presses his nose against your cheek, a low, long grunt escaping him, going straight from your ear into your pussy. You whimper at that, and it makes Sam go faster, quick thrusts with not much of him leaving you before he plunges back in. The stimulation of his cock is like a wire being drawn taut inside you, perfect, and pleasurable but almost painful and a volley of high moans leaves you before you cry out, and Sam slows, switches to deep, long and slow strokes that keep you perfectly on edge.

You raised your head and now drop it back, your legs dropping off Sam and wide open instead. You can hear the squelch of where he’s entering you and you move your head to catch his lips again. Sam kisses you, gently, then begins fucking you hard and fast again. A desperate sound leaves you.

“Yes, yes, fuck, yes,” you cry out and your entire body twitches before Sam slows again. You let out a long breath. “Oh God.”

Sam presses his lips against yours again, breathing hard through his nose.

“You’re so sexy,” he mumbles. You kiss him back, once, twice, your body so full of lust and love you’re sure it’s about to come out of your pores. “Love you, love you.”

You manage to get your lips on Sam’s neck. You need to crane your neck for it to work, but you nibble and lick against the spot you know he likes, and he moans loudly, his voice cracking on the sound as he picks up speed again, panting desperately.

“You feel so good,” he grunts. “So good, can’t–”

He pulls out of you so suddenly that you gasp and then he’s grabbing your thighs, pushing them up and the next second, he presses his face against your pussy, eating you out like his life depends on it.

You moan again, then bring your hands down to your breasts, play with your nipples, all while Sam takes you high with his purposeful licking. You grind yourself down against him and he digs his fingers into your skin where he’s holding you.

“Fucking love you,” he mutters against you, the only break he gives himself before he attaches himself to you again. You run one hand down your body into Sam’s hair, scratch at his scalp. Run your foot over his muscular back.

“Sam, baby,” you say as the tension rises in you again. You reach for one of his hands, squeeze it. Sam detaches himself from you, dark eyes looking up at you. You giggle when you see your wetness around his mouth and Sam gives you a lopsided grin back.

“Come up here,” you say and you think he’s not gonna, is gonna continue eating you out, but instead he lands a kiss on your stomach. He lets go of your legs and then begins kissing his way up your body.

When he reaches your face, you run your hands into his hair, kiss him again, and then reach down, find him.

“Baby, want you,” you mutter against him and Sam moves forward, lets you move him back into you. He’s still hard at steel, even though you haven’t touched him in a good minute. All just from spending time between your legs. You grin against his mouth.

Sam enters you again, slides in so easy and he cups your face, kisses you as he starts fucking you in earnest. You pant into his mouth and soon he is too, his brows twisting.

“Oh God, Sam,” you whine. The stimulation of his cock is nearly too intense, but Sam understands, brings one hand to his mouth, wets it, then brings it between the two of you, begins rubbing your clit. You throw your head back, bite down hard at your bottom lip in an attempt to counteract the tension building all over you.

When you come, Sam presses his mouth against your jaw, right along with his tongue. You whine and whimper, your head feeling like it’s been put into a centrifuge.

Sam brings his hand up from between your bodies, grabs for the hair at the side of your head as his groans grow louder, his thrusts sloppier.

“Shit, you’re so perfect, I’m gonna, oh God,” he presses out and then he moans loudly, his shoulders shaking as he comes too.

Sam’s head slumps down on the pillow next to you. Both of you are panting, catching your breath, your body so perfectly covered by his. You run your hands over his back, a content sound leaving you.

“That was…” you say, then turn your head to the side so you can look at him. His eyes are closed but there’s a soft smile on his lips. But just then, his eyebrows go together, his lips suddenly pressed tight.

“Sam?” you say as he raises his head, opens his eyes. His hand goes to your hip and he pushes himself up, slips out of you and then he’s half falling, half diving off the bed before he books it towards the bathroom.

You sit up, not sure if you should laugh at his long, naked limbs flailing, but then you hear a thud, the sound of porcelain on porcelain and then Sam pukes his guts up.

You clamber off the bed, grab for Sam’s t-shirt on the floor, not completely balanced on your own feet. You pull it over your head as you rush into the bathroom.

Sam’s kneeling in front of the toilet, one arm slung across it, forehead resting on it, his back rising and falling in slow, measured breaths. You drop down on your knees next to him, bring your hand up to his forehead and move his hair out of the way.

“Oh, my poor baby,” you coo, and Sam makes a pained noise. You push yourself up again, hand landing on the wall to steady yourself, and then you walk around him, grab a towel, wet it, and then sit down next to him again.

You cup his cheek, turn his face towards you and run the towel over his mouth. Sam leans into your hand, sighs, his expression pained. You throw the towel somewhere behind him, then drag his face closer. Sam leans against you, slumps against your shoulder.

“I’m gonna try not to take that personally,” you say in a teasing tone and he gives a half-hearted chuckle, his hand blindly fumbling for you before he finds yours, squeezes it.

“Too much shaking,” he mumbles and you kiss the top of his head.

“I got you, sweetie,” you say into his hair.

Fifteen minutes later, Sam is de-condomed, you’ve both brushed your teeth and drunk some water. He’s wearing his sweats and an old worn-out t-shirt. He’s tucked tight against you under the covers, slowly dozing off.

You take the chance to look at him. His eyelashes resting on his skin, the curve of his nose. That one strand of hair that keeps falling over his forehead. You raise your hand and brush it away gently, only for it to end up exactly where it was. Your movement doesn’t wake Sam - he’s out cold.

You move your head closer to him, so close you can smell his toothpaste. You reach down, take his arm resting on the bed next to you, and drape it over yourself.

With a smile, you close your eyes. There’s water and painkillers on the bedside table and a birthday baby giraffe in your bed. Life is good.

#sorry's fics #sam winchester #sam winchester x reader #sam winchester x you #sam winchester's birthday #spn #supernatural #sammybb2025

389 notes · View notes