Confessions ˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆
sam monroe x reader | word count: 1.3k
Sam Monroe | One Shots | Masterlist
Summary: bsf!sam and you are sitting in his room when you ask a very improbable, highly inappropriate question that he would rather answer with evidence...(for believability)
“Do you jerk off with that on?”
Sam looks at you, the shadows around his eyes darker than the small ring of blue around his dilated pupils. He looks down at the thick band of leather wrapped around his wrist. The corner of his lip lifts.
“I mean, does it, like, slide up and down?”
“That’s usually the point,” Sam says, watching you from his bed. He’s leaning up on his elbow.
“So you do?”
He lets his head fall back a little, the barely there, rare little huff of laughter tumbling out of his lips. “I, yeah, I guess so. Why?”
You shrug, picking at a loose thread in the blanket on his bed. “I’ve just never seen it. I don’t know what it looks like.”
Sam’s brows tug in the center and he looks away. His bottom lip is puffy, he’s been pulling at it with his teeth. You’ve been watching. “Like, in general?”
You nod. “I don’t know. Just seems like a distraction, moving around your wrist, no?”
Sam eyes you, his gaze suddenly heavy, suddenly serious. “Do you go around thinking about other guys jackin’ off?”
A blush tinges your cheeks, you look away, embarrassed, a little ashamed. You shake your head, tongue fuzzy. It’s only him, when he calls you late at night, his voice a little different. When you call him while he’s in the shower but he picks up anyway, leaving a trail of water droplets from his arm over the tile floor. His voice is always a little deeper, a little concentrated, a little on edge.
Something different in it but he answers you anyways.
“Just me, yeah?” He asks you, sitting up a little further on his elbows. You nod. He smiles.
His black hair is ruffled from running his hand through it, the silver in his ear shiny. Clean. You think about what it would feel like on your tongue.
You glance at the bedroom door, the deadbolt at the top, both sealed shut. He does it every time you come over, standing just beside you when he lets you in, his eyes down at you, dark and secretive. You stand close to him while he does it, if for nothing else than to feel his hand on your lower back as he brushes by. He walks over to his bed and falls down, watches you from the center of it, rolls over on his side until you cave and come, too.
“You jerk off with that?” You ask him, lifting your finger to the chain around his neck. Long and heavy where the pendant falls against the center of his chest, fitting in the dip there.
In the shower, the water dropping from the head at the top, sliding from his jaw to his lips, falling straight down on him. He probably watches the water slide down himself, blending into the water pooled between him and his hand. Moving up and down.
“Yes,” he tells you, his voice low, honest. You think about how bizarre it is to ask him, staring at him on the same bed, knowing both of you are imagining the same thing. His heavy breathing, his thin fingers, long enough to wrap all the way around. The veins in his arms.
It’s hard not to look but you can’t stop yourself. They’re dark against his skin, crawling up the white sleeve pulled to his elbow, the black waffle shirt overtop. He knows you’re watching. He likes it, he smiles. Then he laughs again, pressing the side of his index fingers into his eyes, holding them there until you’re sure he’s seeing fuzzy images. He breathes deep.
His Adam’s apple bobs, his neck is bare, soft, you think about it against your lips. It’s only happened once, in his car, you were in his lap. He drove you home and you didn’t want to leave. It was dark and you were tired but not to go to sleep, just enough that everything was sort of funny, hazy, pulsing around you.
His hands grabbed your waist and he dragged you over, first over the gear shift, then over him, the bulge neither of you acknowledged. You settled there, eyelids heavy, not with tiredness. Something else, swirling in your stomach, a ball in your throat. He had black smudges under his eye, just barely, you only noticed because they were trained down on your lips.
He moved beneath you, holding you in place, it wasn’t a big lift, just enough for his zipper to slide between your legs. You moaned. It built, the moment, the feeling. He did it again and you moved closer, off balance, world tilted. Sweat on your forehead that you pressed against his jaw, his lips parted.
Neither of you cold help it, the little movements you made.
You face lifted, you tried to tell him something, whispered it, It hurts.
He breathed out hard, one hand on your thigh and your hip, the other wrapped around you and pressing you down. Your lips found neck, bottom one stuck to his skin as you were moved up and down in little jostles.
Sam moves on the bed, sitting up straight.
Your face is red. He knows.
You can see the strain, ignore it, smile at him with admirable embarrassment but he doesn’t care, and neither should you. His jaw grinds, the way he does when he’s angry, when he wants to hit something or yell about something. It should worry you, but he’s not burning with anger.
You can’t help the words you say next. “Do you jerk off here?”
The bed beneath them, the dip where he’s sitting, the static pause in the air as his eyes gaze across your face. His bottom lip lowers a hair wider. His eyelids are half closed, but he always looked like that, so you don’t really think about it, the way they get even darker.
“Do you think about me jerking off here?” He asks you instead.
You wait.
Nodding, you bite your lip.
“Yeah?” His leg moves. “You think about me in the shower?”
“You, or me?”
His lip twitches, hooks, moves his body. “Either, both, together.”
Your lips part. “All three.”
He makes a noise in his throat, his face inching closer. “Am I wearing this?” He asks, lifting the hand with the band around his wrist.
You nod.
He brings it down his chest, slowly inching closer to the waistband of his black jeans. His fingers play with the band of his boxers sticking out just above.
You reach forward, meeting him where he’s nearing you, pushing your hands on his chest, both unbuttoning the short sleeve button down and pushing him back as you do. His free hand wraps around your neck, pulling you with him.
Working on his buttons, Sam drags his fingers under the waistband of his boxers. You raise your legs and move them over him. Your other hand covers his, your fingers holding his. He lowers them, forgetting the waist band and dragging them down the button, the zipper, ghosting over the bulge in his jeans before moving them just a bit further down to where you’re meeting him.
You forget about his shirt, eyes falling shut. You can’t help but lean forward, a little hum slipping out of your lips.
“Do you think about me?” Sam asks you, his lips barely touching as he whispers it, helping you push his shirt off.
You nod.
“Just me, yeah?” He whispers.
Nodding, you let out another soft noise.
He drops your hand, guiding your hips over his, gripping you tight and moving you back and forth. His head drives back into his pillow, the ball in his throat bouncing as he swallows, mumbles something to you, his eyes staying open to watch.
You lean forward, forehead to his jaw again, letting him move your hips over him.
