#yummy!

⟡ dean teases sam about your hair-tie on his wrist, saying how "high-school" it was for sam to keep a part of you with him like that.

⟡ sam fidgets with it when you're not with him. it keeps him grounded.

⟡ he ties your hair back for you when you're nauseous after a night of drinking.

⟡ sometimes you steal it from his wrist and play with his hair, putting it in a tiny ponytail on top of his head. he hates this but can't deny how good your hands feel in his hair.

⟡ when you drop to your knees in front of him, he gathers your hair into a messy ponytail so you can suck him off.

⟡ on nights when he's feeling a little rougher, he brings your hands above your head and pins them together with the hair-tie.

⟡ sometimes he'll snap the hair-tie against his wrist while making eye-contact with you; a little signal of what might happen later that night.

⟡ on late research nights, sam will tie your hair back for you as you're fixated on an article.

⟡ when he notices you picking at your fingernails or twirling your hair, he'll offer you the hair-tie to fidget with instead.

⟡ when kissing you, he threads his fingers through your hair and he'll take out your hair-tie himself and put it right back on his wrist. then he massages out the sore part of your head.

It wasn't necessarily a new thing. You'd always found his hands to be quite lovely, his fingers so long and elegant in your eyes. Even the way his knuckles bent was mesmerizing to you. Slowly, and without your notice, it had become a thing for you. You seemed to watch his hands every time he did something that involved them, just out of conditioning. He'd noticed, of course he had, and had done what he could to satisfy you. But it was hard, when neither of you had any clue how to satisfy such a niche kink.

The sun was setting on a Sunday afternoon, your clothes shed and tossed somewhere to each side of the bed, his head sandwiched between your thighs as he sucked lazily at your clit. He'd already made you cum once – this was all just for fun, now. At least until he couldn't wait any longer to fuck you. But when he pulled back, sitting up on his knees and running the back of his hand across his mouth, the smirk that appeared on his glistening lips made your stomach flip.

He leaned back down, dodging the kiss you tried to plant on his lips to instead suck a gentle bruise into the skin of your collarbone. "What do you think you deserve, darling?" The question spilled slow and sweet from his lips, moving up to press against your neck.

It was a trick question, and you knew it was. You'd been bitchy all day, in a foul mood for no apparent reason other than your upcoming period. At every given opportunity, you'd bickered with him, about anything you could conjure up. It wasn't fair, and you knew it, but you'd felt an overwhelming need to take it out on somebody. And he was just your unlucky victim.

You felt his lips curve into a smile against your neck before he spoke. "So much to say, all fuckin' day long, and now you're suddenly all quiet." He pulled away again, even as you tried feebly to pull him back to you. "I've got an idea."

You didn't like the sound of that.

He pointed to the foot of the bed, rolling sideways off of you to give you just enough room to move. "On your knees. On the floor." Despite the harsh words, he still sounded so kind, as soft spoken as ever.

You didn't move for a moment, your eyes flitting between his face and his outstretched finger, trying to process it, trying to imagine what he was about to make you do. If he was just going to have you suck him off, that wasn't much of a punishment at all. In fact, you'd been dying to have him properly fuck your face for some time now.

When you didn't move, he snapped his fingers, making you jump. "Now, love."

You scrambled out from under him, giggling as you pranced your way around the bed to kneel at his feet. He was already sitting on the edge of the bed when you got there, leaning forward on his forearms. Settling down into a position that worked, you set your hands flat on your thighs, palms down, an image of obedience.

"Good," he smiled, leaning back a bit. He set one hand on the bed behind him, propping himself up, while the other came forward to rest on the outline of his cock, the print of it almost perfectly visible through the boxers he still had on. "Let me ask again. What do you think you deserve?"

Carefully, you picked through your words, searching for the ones that would please him the most. In all honesty, you deserved nothing, at least not by his standards. But he'd worked you up just enough that the throb between your legs had turned into an ache, and the thought of all of this simply ending was enough to make your hands shake with something resembling fear. He wasn't above simply cutting it all short, and leaving you to pout. "I think," you began, choosing each word with caution. "That I deserve whatever you'd like to give me." It was a bit of a cop-out, but you didn't care. It was better than guessing wrong.

"Perfect," he smiled, with all the fake innocence you knew would soon spell disaster for you. "Because I don't want to give you anything."

He pulled himself free of his pants, the tip already slick with arousal, a sight that made your mouth water. Yet your stomach dropped at his words. If he didn't want anything, why would he–

"You're going to sit there, and watch what you can't have." As if to show you just how serious he was, he wrapped his hand around his cock, giving it a few slow strokes.

You wanted nothing more than to argue. To pout and stomp your feet and shout that this wasn't fair. And you hated how he could see it in your eyes, even when you bit your cheek and kept your mouth shut, your gaze locked onto the movements of his hand as he stroked himself. All of the complaints you wished to lodge were already loud and clear in his head, given the self-satisfied smirk on his lips.

Although you were furious, and rightfully so, you found yourself mesmerized. It occurred to you that you'd never really seen this before. Maybe little snippets here and there, in a video of the last few strokes before he came, on the rare occasion that your begging when he was away had amounted to something. Never like this, up close, your face mere inches from him. And, as always, you found your eyes drawn to his hand.

As much as you'd like to deny it, your hips rocked subtly in time with the motion of his hand. You felt hypnotized by it. Those slender fingers you'd had wrapped around your throat or buried inside of you so many times, now wrapped around his own cock, every movement precise and practiced, over half a lifetime. Every second you watched him, the frustration dissipated, and all you wanted to do was watch.

You were dizzy with lust when he leaned forward, his free hand reaching out to cup your jaw, his thumb running along your lips. You parted them, your mouth watering in anticipation, your eyes trained on his. He moved slowly, running his thumb along your bottom teeth, before gently pressing it against your tongue. There was something in the way he could make you feel so objectified that lit a fire inside of you. Your eyelids fluttered and you had to dig your fingers into your thighs when he pulled away, replacing his thumb with his first two fingers. Quietly, though not quiet enough to escape his notice, you let out a little whimper.

He studied you with satisfaction in his eyes as he ran his fingers across your teeth, felt across your tongue, pushed them far back into your mouth until you gagged. That last one was his favorite, judging by the way his other hand moved a bit faster, his rhythm falling apart. He was making little noises, ones you recognized; he was close, and you wanted it. You didn't resist at all when his fingers pried your mouth open, his thumb hooking behind your teeth to pull you closer, his body shifting.

"Tongue out," he told you, his voice nothing more than a quiet rasp.

You did as he said, and not a moment later he rested the tip of his cock on your tongue. You kept your eyes locked on his even as his slipped shut, his head tipping back. It hit your tongue before he even made a sound, the slow drip of his release that you swallowed down just as he'd taught you. Like he'd trained you to do. He was quiet, only little moans coming from his lips as he slid himself along your tongue, each pulse of his cock making your head spin.