title says it all. I am no longer taking requests, sorry! enjoy!!
**these are very old and totally suck forgive me for the really cliché ones this was my first book alright
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I've been crunched for time, and sadly even this is a short (but sweet!) one. I'm working on getting something longer to you guys soon, but for now, enjoy!
"Sam, what am I gonna do? I can't do this. I'm not cut out for this. Why can't you be the one to dress fancy? You're actually attractive and actually have nice clothes. Why me?" You pouted in front of the mirror, fiddling with your uncooperative hair and squirming in your only dress. It wasn't particularly scandalous, just black, frill free and plain, fitted in the top and waist with the skirt (which was all to voluminous - who had time for this bounce getting in the way of your arms at your sides?) hitting towards your knee in a conservative fashion. But still, you felt exposed and yet overdressed. The look was particularly smashing with the rough scars bedazzling your arms, hands, and shoulders being shown off, not to mention the simply wonderful accessories known as your disgusting purple under-eye bags.
"Aw, cmon, don't say that. You are beyond attractive, and that dress is much better than just 'nice.' And you know they already threw us out for not being classy enough. Even my suit can't take away their distaste for us, for which I still totally blame Dean, by the way," he wraps his arms around you from behind, your laugh making his head wobble as his chin rested on your shaking shoulder.
"I don't know, Sammy, I've seen you in that suit. I can't say I've ever had any distaste for it." Sam chuckles, gazing down away from the mirror as he runs his hands over your stomach and hips.
"What kind of artists are these people, anyways, Sam? If they don't look at your hair and see art, I'm not sure they're worth all this hype. They don't deserve to see me dressed up," Sam shakes his head and buries his face deeper in your neck, still rubbing his fingers up and down with a light blush barely discernible from what you can still see of his face.
"If you don't stop complimenting me, (y/n), I'm not sure the sight of how stunning you look dressed up will ever leave this motel room," he doesn't growl the words and his hands don't grab at you in dominance like usual, and it's a surprise to you. You love getting rough with Sam, always have and always will, but it's almost refreshing to feel the softer sensation of his gentleness.
"Hm, is that right?" You coax him, still mostly expecting his dominating side to emerge and trade the current swish of his hands over your dress for clawing at your skin. But the moment of gasping and frantic electricity doesn't come, instead, Sam mumbles something you're sure even he can't understand into your shoulder. He applies more pressure to his palms, but slows down more and more over your sides, his head completely lost in the spot where your shoulder met your neck.
You start to feel a different kind of heat rise under your skin - one of arousal, certainty, but one of bashfulness at how affectionate his fingers felt tracing your skin. You had no idea what brought the onslaught of adoration, but you couldn't complain. It was a language you didn't know you understood, but listening to Sam fluently deliver messages of his love with fabric still between you two was the easiest translating you'd ever done.
"I love you, (y/n). I love you wearing dresses and I love you smiling at me and I love the scent of you. I love your overworked hair and I love how I can see your beautiful but tired eyes light up at my touch, at my words. I love you, and I want to show you," he continues pressing down with more passion, palms sliding over your stomach, hip bones, everywhere. He was right about your eyes lighting up, but he forgot to mention the way your face completely flushed with a pounding flustered feeling.
"I love you, Sam, so much," it slips out of your lips naturally, but all you can really focus on is the need to kiss Sam. His own mouth is now pressing kisses to your skin, feeling your warmth beneath him.
Your breath escapes you as he keeps on consuming all of your being, and you let him do so. You let him take over your every sense. You let him take his constantly moving hands under your dress. You let his fingers graze across your skin. You let him kiss your neck again and again. You let him love you, and you let him show you.
But more than that, beyond letting him do what he wants, you do what you want. You give. You give him goosebumps with your own hands, you give him similar skin on skin bliss. And somewhere, the giving and the letting get blurred until it's just loving and loving and loving.
