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daffodil-mania · 1 year

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The Itch, pt. 3

Stanford era!Sam Winchester x fem!Reader. Swearing, sexually suggestive/explicit language, mentions of drugs and alcohol

Author’s notes: Y’all we are sO CLOSE to the smut I promise. I almost ended this series with this one but (spoiler alert) I felt like I just couldn’t until some smut happens. I hope you enjoy this chapter! Lmk what you think <3

—

You’re pretty sure you’re dreaming.

Because there’s no fucking way that you, a regular, ordinary Stanford freshman, are actually standing in the living room of one of the most beautiful men you’ve ever seen. And there is definitely no way that he’s making a trip downstairs to the communal laundry room in his apartment building to wash your shirts that he accidentally spilled a drink on. And there is definitely, absolutely, no motherfucking way that he’s eye fucked you tonight. Multiple times.

You pinch yourself. Hard.

You’re not dreaming. Here you stand, in Sam’s apartment, wide awake, waiting for him to get back with your laundry. A feeling akin to getting zapped with 5,000 volts of electricity surges through you at that realization, and it sends you scrambling to find Sam’s bathroom. You stagger into it and find that, much like the rest of his apartment, it’s pristine; and for some reason, that only makes you want to fuck him more. You shudder. Your eyes land on the mirror and you stare at your reflection; you look like you’ve done approximately 20 lines of cocaine — your cheeks are a deep red, and your pupils are blown so wide your eyes almost look black. You turn on the sink and bend to splash some cold water on your face. You pat your face dry as gently as you can with a hand towel, and then press your now icy hands to your cheeks. You shut your eyes and try to take in some deep, calming breaths, and while the exercise does help tone down your arousal, it does fuck all for your nerves.

After a minute you open your eyes and gaze at yourself in the mirror, and decide a pep talk is in order. You inhale and exhale one last time, and grip the edges of Sam’s sink. “Calm. Down.” You command your reflection firmly, pressing your lips into a thin line to emphasize your point. “He’s just a guy. And if you want to fuck this guy, you have to chill out. He’ll be back in a few minutes; until then, you have got to get a grip. Fix your hair, fix your makeup, whatever. But calm. Down.” You push away from the mirror, feeling slightly calmer but also a little silly. You play with your hair, trying to muss it in a way that’ll look effortlessly sexy. When you’re satisfied, you dig into your jacket pocket for your lip gloss and mascara and touch up your makeup. After you’re finished primping you attempt to make sexy (but not too sexy) faces in the mirror, but quickly drop the act out of embarrassment.

At this rate, you’ll never get laid again.

You shake your head and leave Sam’s bathroom, turning the light off as you do. You make your way over to his couch and plop down on it, and you’re pleased to discover that it’s just as comfy as it looks. You take off your jacket and the zip-up hoodie Sam lent you, deciding to neatly fold the latter, placing it gently on the coffee table, your own jacket lying messily beside you on the couch. You smooth your hands over your denim-clad thighs and take in a shaky breath. You rack your brain for something, anything, to occupy your thoughts until Sam returns. Oh fuck, Sam is gonna come back soon. The thought makes you shiver, and you find yourself compelled to dig through your jacket pockets for something to touch up your makeup again. You once again pull out the lip gloss; it's your favorite because the sheer pink color has a flirty, girlish quality to it, which has traditionally worked very well for you, and you pray that history repeats itself tonight. You smooth another thin layer on your bottom lip and rub your lips together in a way that hopefully won’t ruin your gloss the second you start talking.

You drum your fingers nervously on your legs and let out a puff of air. Your stomach is flip flopping like crazy and you’re not sure how much more of this you can take when you hear footsteps out in the hallway. You jump, your heart beating wildly in your chest, and you feel your hands start to shake and sweat with nerves. But the footsteps recede, and you draw in a slow breath while you sink back into the cushions of the couch and curse yourself for being the stupid, turned on, nervous wreck you are.

No sooner do you start actually relaxing than the door to Sam’s apartment swings open and you shoot to your feet, whipping around to face the entryway. Sam closes and locks the door behind him in a very deliberate manner, and you swallow the knot that’s forming in your throat, clenching and unclenching your hands at your sides. He looks as wound up as you feel, which is a small comfort. He draws a shaky breath as he turns, his eyes raking up and down your frame swiftly, triggering another wave of uncomfortable horniness. The pair of you lock eyes and you need his clothes off now, right now, and you’re about to tell him as much when he speaks.

“Your, uh, clothes should be done washing in about thirty minutes,” he shifts his weight from one foot to the other and continues, “a-and I figured I’d put them in the dryer after that. Wouldn’t want to get you soaked more than once tonight.” Your face feels like it’s on fire, and Sam’s eyes widen so much that it would be comical if your nerves weren’t making you feel as if you’re about to throw up. His face turns scarlet as he realizes the implication of his words. “Jesus, fuck, I-I meant your shirts, I wouldn’t want your shirts to be soaked, n-not—”

You can’t fucking take it anymore. You don’t even need your itch to drive you at this point; you’re acting of your own volition. You cross the room with a determination that stops Sam’s stuttering apology dead in its tracks, and once you’re in front of him you grab his collar and pull his mouth down to yours. Sam groans and the sound almost makes you cum on the spot, but then he spins you so you’re pinned against his door and kisses you back with a ferocity that makes your head spin. Your hands fly to the back of his head and root in his hair while his arms wrap around your waist, pressing you against the solid wall of muscle that is his chest, and a moan bubbles out of you before you can stop it.

Somehow, Sam manages to pull you even closer and laves his tongue across your bottom lip. You part your lips, allowing him access to the inside of your mouth, and Sam slots his tongue against yours. Your tongues dance together, fighting for dominance until Sam runs out of air and has to pull away panting. You start to plant sloppy kisses down his neck, leaving a trail down to his collarbone, and Sam laughs breathlessly. “Y-you’re insatiable,” he gasps, turning his head to face you. One of his sinfully large hands comes up to the back of your head and pulls you off of him and you bite your lip in order to suppress a whine. His hand smooths your hair away from your face and comes to rest against your cheekbone as the other moves to cradle your jawline. You are completely malleable at this point; you are his to do with however he pleases, and he knows it. Sam gives you a syrupy sweet smile and a traitorously blissful smile spreads over your face before you can even try to stop it.

“Hey.” He sighs as his eyes take in every inch of your face, his thumbs now caressing your jaw and cheek. “Hey,” you breathe back, your hands snaking up to loosely grip his wrists, and he clears his throat, bracing himself for whatever it is he’s about to say. “I really like you—” he states gently, and you can feel the but coming from miles away and suddenly the incredible weight of your stupidity is crashing down on you, breaking your euphoric trance, “—but I want to do this right.”

You blink.

Oh. Well. That’s not what you had expected.

“I wanna take you out on a date, i-if that’s okay. You know, get to know you. I don’t want this to be just a hookup; I mean, you seem like a really cool girl, and I—” you stop his rambling in its tracks by placing a finger against his plush lips. An intoxicating tidal wave of relief and giddiness floods your gut, and you feel like you’re about to be swept away with happiness. His mouth makes an adorable “o” shape in surprise, and you give him another smile, barely containing your excitement. “That sounds more than okay. I’d really like to get to know you, too, Sam, and I certainly don’t want this to be a one-time thing.” Sam grins, really grins, and one of his eyebrows twitches upwards as he does. “Yeah?” You nod, your flimsy facade quickly giving way to your dorky elation. “Yeah.”

You barely get the word out when Sam dives back in for another kiss. You let out a squeak in surprise, which in turn prompts a laugh from Sam. Soon the two of you are giggling so hard it’s hard to stay upright, much less kiss. But the two of you give it a valiant effort, connecting your kiss-swollen lips over and over, passing breathless laughs between each other. Eventually the two of you manage to stumble over to Sam’s couch, and while at first you’re kissing whilst sitting side by side, things quickly take a turn for the horizontal. Sam’s hovering above you, pressing against you in all the right places — well. Except for one place, but you figure that that will come soon enough — no pun intended.

You resist the urge to rub your thighs together for some friction and gently push Sam away from you. Sam’s brow knits together in concern, his eyes sweeping your face, searching for any sign of discomfort. “Everything okay?” He inquires, his voice soft and genuine. You nod, pursing your lips. You feel hot and itchy and your core fucking aches with want. You take a deep breath to steel yourself. “Yeah, it’s just…” You wet your lips and manage to rush out, “I’m just really turned on right now and I know you said you wanted to do things right, and I do too, but I’m afraid that if you don’t get off of me right now I’m gonna fuck you stupid.” The words escape you in a rush and you squeeze your eyes shut, bracing yourself for Sam’s inevitable awkward shuffle off of you and the even more awkward solitary walk you’ll shortly be making out Sam’s front door. But Sam doesn’t get off of you, and you never leave the couch. Instead, after it feels like hours have gone by, you slowly open one of your eyes to look up at Sam. His face is crimson and he blinks down at you slowly, his eyes glazed and unseeing. His head drops down to your shoulder, and you can’t be sure, but you’re almost positive a small whimpered “fuck” leaves him as he does.

“Are.. you… okay?” You tentatively inquire, afraid that you’ve somehow broken this beautiful boy’s brain. You feel him shake his head slowly, and with a deep breath, Sam pushes himself off of you, raising up so that he’s sitting beside you on the couch. You awkwardly scooch over to make room for him, and assume a sitting position yourself, not entirely sure what’s about to happen. Sam swallows, and you raise an eyebrow expectantly, pulling your knees to your chest.

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine. I’m just…” he trails off as he sinks back into the couch cushions, his gaze fixed on the ceiling. You shift slightly closer to him. “Yeah? You’re just what?” You murmur, resting your chin on your knees. Sam squeezes his eyes shut. “I’m just… promise you won’t laugh?” He winces. You nod. “I promise. What’s up?”

Sam takes in another shaky breath and opens his eyes, turning to look at you. “What you said. I really, really want that. You… have no idea how much. A-and I’m having a hard time… controlling… myself.” He says, his words coming out in a slow, deliberate manner. Your face flushes scarlet, and you feel very warm. “O-oh. I see.” Sam nods. “Yeah. It’s dorky, I know. It feels like I’m a freshman in highschool all over again.” He laughs awkwardly, and you’re quick to jump to his defense. “I don’t think it’s dorky. It’s… nice.” Sam cocks an eyebrow. “Nice?”

“Yeah, nice. Kind of… hot, even. It’s… well, it’s nice. To be wanted like that. Especially by a guy like you.” Sam looks extremely puzzled by that, and shifts closer to you. “A guy like me? What do you mean?”

If you felt warm before you are burning now. “W-well, I mean, you’re um, you’re funny. And smart. And you’re really… sweet. Most guys aren’t like that. Especially n-not really, uh…” you clear your throat. “…Especially not really hot guys.” You avert your gaze, suddenly fascinated with the wood grain on Sam’s apartment floor.

You feel Sam’s fingers gently slide under your chin and move your head to face him. You don’t know what you expect to see when your eyes meet his; but what you’re definitely not expecting is how soft and tender his gaze is. Your lips part, and Sam swoops in for a kiss. This kiss isn’t like the others; it’s not fueled by wanton need, and there’s no rushing. It’s undoubtedly passionate, but in a pleasantly understated way. It feels like someone has stirred up the embers of your arousal in your gut, and when Sam pulls away, your lips chase after his. He tucks your hair behind your ear with a grin. “What was that for?” You whisper.

“Well, I just got a string of compliments from a really, really pretty girl, and I really, really wanted to kiss her.” Sam murmurs, his face inches from yours. “Do you think she minded?” You shake your head. “Not at all. You should probably give her another kiss, though.”

“Oh yeah? Why?”

“Well, something tells me she’ll give you another compliment if you do.”

Sam nods slowly. “Ah, I see. So a kiss equals a compliment, then?” Now it’s your turn to nod. “Uh-huh. And Sam?” You husk, trailing your hand up Sam’s chest to fist in the front of his shirt.

“Y-yeah?”

“I wanna compliment you all night.”

—

Tag list: @startterfly

#sam winchester x reader #sam winchester #supernatural #slow burn #fluff #daffodil-mania #the itch

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daffodil-mania · 1 year

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The Itch

Stanford era!Sam Winchester x fem!Reader. Swearing, sexually suggestive/explicit language, mentions of drugs and alcohol. No smut (yet); this one’s a good ole fashioned slow burn. Takes place around 2002-ish

Author’s notes: Helloooo! I said I had something longer, and here it is. I intend on turning this into a multi-part fic, so keep your peepers peeled! I didn’t post sooner because while I had ideas for this fic, nothing was really clicking for me. However, @uncouth-the-fifth recently shared some Sam AI chatbots she’d made (which I highly recommend you use btw) and after using one of them my creative juices started flowing again, and out popped this fic. Enjoy!

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The air is thick with the competing smells of booze, weed, and sweat. Some fratbro’s shitty spin on house music is booming at a deafening volume throughout the house, and all around you people are drinking, grinding; generally having the kind of time you’d expect at a frat party. It’s Valentine’s Day, so the amount of couples making out in corners has increased drastically, much to your chagrin. Your friends had dragged you here under the pretense that you all needed to blow off some steam after another grueling week of tests and homework. You have to admit, the idea had been tempting; you don’t consider yourself a party person, but you’d had this itch to do something outside of your normal routine. The itch had developed suddenly a week ago while you were standing in line at your favorite coffee place, debating on ordering your regular cup of joe or really spicing it up and asking for a shot of espresso when you saw him.

He was good-looking, sure; tall, despite his seated position at one of the tables, broad-shouldered and well-built with these soft hazel eyes that just screamed “kicked puppy in need of someone to take care of me”. But none of that is what kept your gaze on him. No, as ridiculous as it sounds, it was his hands. Huge, muscular hands that made your mouth water just thinking about them. Ten long, thick fingers that dexterously flew across his keyboard as he typed. You were hit with a barrage of hand-related fantasies ranging from dirty to holy fuck that’s dirty when the barista cleared her throat and brutally snapped you back to reality, causing you to stammer out an apology and place your drink order with haste.

Ever since then, you’d been haunted by the memory of those hands and felt “the itch”, as you called it. It was an aching want that existed deep in your gut, and it demanded satisfaction. It clawed at you, showing you images of those ginormous hands pawing you, squeezing your neck, your tits, anything they could reach. You’d done your best to resist, throwing yourself into your coursework, hoping desperately that if you ignored the itch it would go away. But it didn’t. So here you are, at a frat party, trying to find a way to scratch your itch so that the ghost of those hands could be put to rest and stop tormenting you.

You take a sip of the drink you’ve been nursing all night in a secluded corner of the living room and make a face. It tastes like piss and vodka’s evil offspring. You look around for a place to abandon your solo cup, but decide that you should properly dispose of it so no one knocks it over, or worse, drinks it. You crane your neck over the sea of sweaty, horny college students and map a path to the kitchen. Your friends had abandoned you long ago in favor of going onto the floor to dance, so your trip to the kitchen will have to be a solo mission. You take a deep breath, mustering up your courage and preparing yourself for the bumpy journey ahead, and plunge into the crowd. Things are going smoothly enough and it looks like you’ll actually make it to the kitchen unscathed when someone suddenly slams into you. Thankfully, you’re pushed into a sorority girl, so you manage to not eat shit or get trampled to death. Unfortunately, this crushes your drink against your chest, drenching the entire front of your top. Miraculously, the sorority sister is spared, and she doesn’t even seem to register the fact that she’s been bumped into.

You turn around to glare at whoever just ruined your favorite shirt and come face-to-face with a solid wall of muscle. You have to look up to get a good look at your assailant, and you see it’s him. The guy from the coffee shop. All of your anger is quickly replaced by an interesting cocktail of shock, embarrassment, and need. You thought he was big in the coffee shop, but standing before him now makes it clear just how fucking massive this guy is. He clears six feet easily, and you can tell he’s got miles of muscle underneath the henley he’s layered under a faded tee shirt.

You manage to drag your eyes away from his chest and see that all of the color has drained from his face, puppy-dog eyes apologetic and wide with shock. He’s speaking to you, but with your height difference and the ear-splitting music you can’t hear him. You pull a confused expression and have to shout “what?” a few times over the music before it gets through to him that you can’t hear a fucking word he’s said. He looks around quickly, then gestures for you to follow him. You do, confusion and nerves swirling around sickly in your stomach. Eventually he leads the two of you to a quieter corner of the room, and resumes his rapid-fire apologizing. “Jesus, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to bump into you, I swear, I was just trying to get away from my friend who kept trying to introduce me to this girl and I—“

You hold up a hand to silence him and force yourself to smile. “It’s okay, shit happens, I get it.” He shakes his head, unsatisfied with your response. “No, no, seriously. I feel awful about your shirt—“ you don’t miss the way his eyes dart down to look at your front, and you realize with a blush that he could probably see down your v-neck if he wanted to, “—and I really want to make it up to you. I have an extra shirt in my car if you want to change, and I’ll get you a new drink, I promise.”

The poor guy looks like he’s about to have an anxiety attack, so you wave your hand again before laying it on his arm. His eyes snap to where your hand has curled around his forearm and you jerk it away, uncertain of what possessed you to touch him. Great, now he thinks I’m some kind of perv. You clear your throat before you start talking again. “Um, yeah, a-a new shirt would be cool. Oh, but don’t worry about the drink though; it uh, it sucked. I was actually on my way to get rid of it when you bumped into me, so maybe spilling it was a blessing in disguise.” Jesus Christ, you’re rambling and stuttering like a kid asking out their high school crush. You nervously tuck some loose hair behind your ear and try to inhale some calming breaths, cringing at your social ineptitude, and look up at him. He’s smiling kindly, revealing two adorable dimples that make you want to melt into a warm gooey puddle on the floor.

“Yeah, I tried one of the drinks earlier; I don’t know what was in it but it was not good.” He scrunches up his face and pretends to gag, which pulls some genuine laughter out of you. His grin gets wider and it makes his eyes crinkle, and this has your stomach doing somersaults and your pussy clenching around nothing. The song changes and after a smiley beat passes he leans in a little closer and tells you his name. “My name’s Sam,” he practically shouts into your ear, “Sam Winchester.” You turn your head ever so slightly so you can give him your name in return. “Y/N L/N. Nice to meet you.” Sam straightens up and you extend a hand for him to shake. He accepts, enveloping your hand in one of his gigantic palms. You fight to keep a blush off of your cheeks. Your hands fall, but he doesn’t release you. Instead, he gives your hand a small tug, and nods over his shoulder. “C’mon. I’ll take you to my car.”

You dutifully trail behind him, your hand still wrapped up in his. If you weren’t appreciative of Sam’s height before, you are now; he effortlessly parts the throng of people around you, allowing the two of you to walk to the door with ease. And it’s only when the two of you step out into the chill of the February night air that he lets go of your hand, which you try not to read into. You cross your arms over your chest to trap some of the warmth that is rapidly escaping your body, your still-wet top clinging coldly to your frame. There are a few wasted stragglers on the lawn, and the music starts to fade as Sam leads you to his car. You’re mildly surprised when you see what it is; a black Honda Civic sedan. It’s a newer model, but it’s nothing fancy. You get the sense that while Sam isn’t very materialistic, he takes pride in his possessions and their upkeep. He pops open the trunk as you rub your arms, wishing that you had opted for more layers than just your v-neck long sleeve and a lacy camisole. You glance back at the house, wondering what your friends are doing as Sam goes through the trunk. After a minute he produces a black Metallica tee. You accept it gratefully and smile at him, cocking an eyebrow. “Metallica? You’ve got good taste.”

Sam clears his throat and awkwardly looks at his feet, his expression a bit pained. “Actually, it is… was… my brother’s.” He says, looking up at you through his bangs. You nod, and decide against probing for more information. He’s a stranger doing you a kindness; you don’t need to know about whatever family history that is capable of eliciting such a reaction from him. You glance at the road and then back at the house before looking at Sam. Your cheeks feel warm. “Um, do you mind covering me? Sorry, I know that—“

Sam cuts you off, flustered. “No, god yeah, of course. I’m so sorry, I didn’t even think.” He admits sheepishly, redness creeping up his cheeks as he rubs the back of his neck. You shake your head. “It’s okay, really. Um, and thank you, for the shirt, I mean. You really didn’t have to.” His expression softens and he gives a small shrug of his shoulders. “‘Course I did. I’m the one who bumped into you like a total jerk. This is the least I can do.” His response only serves to intensify your burgeoning crush on him.

You both stand there for a minute, just looking into each other’s eyes, something similar to tension but too clumsy and new to be called that building between you. A fierce shiver courses through you, and Sam apparently remembers that you asked him to cover you. He maneuvers the two of you so that the car is blocking you from any prying eyes lurking on the street, and he places himself in front of you to shield you from the people in the house. He turns his back to you, giving you some more privacy, and you murmur a quick thank you as a burst of heat goes straight to your core.

You quickly shed yourself of both your camisole and your top, thankful to be in a dry shirt that doesn’t reek of alcohol any more. You tap his arm to let him know when you’re done, and he turns to face you. He sees that you’re still shivering and wordlessly goes back to his trunk, leaving you a bit perplexed and holding your sopping bundle of shirts in your hands. He pulls out a gray zip-up hoodie and stands before you again. “You look cold,” he says, obviously. It’s a sweet gesture, and it makes your heart flutter in your chest. Sam holds his hand out for your shirts so that you can pull on his hoodie, and you swap your bundles. As you pull on the hoodie, you tell him, “I really do appreciate what you’re doing for me. Most people would’ve just let me freeze.” You chuckle quietly, racking your brain for some other way to express your gratitude without sounding like a broken record.

Sam shakes his head, and another sweet, sympathetic smile graces his face. “Y/N, again, it was the least I could do, believe me.” You nod, and then gesture vaguely for your shirts. “Oh, right,” he says with a small laugh, adorably absentminded, and hands them over. As you go to take them, your fingertips brush against his, and you feel like you’ve been electrocuted. Deliciously, wonderfully electrocuted. The contact causes you to jerk your hand away, dropping the shirts. “Shit, sorry—“ you curse, and the two of you drop to your knees simultaneously to retrieve them. Your hands meet again, but this time the contact lingers. You lift your head to find Sam’s eyes boring into yours, his lips slightly parted, his cheeks flushed. And that’s when you feel it again.

The itch.

—

Author’s notes: I know this wasn’t a *super* long fic but I’m slowly pushing myself to write longer stuff. One of these days I’ll write something longer than 2,000 words, I promise. Anyways, thanks for reading!

#sam winchester x reader #supernatural #sam winchester #spn #fluff #slow burn #daffodil-mania #the itch

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