Work Text:
winter mornings might just be your favourite.
when sam stays over in the farm house, the air inside feels different. soft, warm like the kisses he drags out of you before he gets up. and he gets up a little earlier now, while it's still dark outside and it kind of feels like the middle of the night, when everyone's asleep, and it's only him and his notebook and pen. you know he tries to get some lyrics down before the distractions start, and your being awake might be the biggest distraction of all.
he's learning all your quirks already. since the fluffy white snowflakes started falling this year, the candles have been lit more often than not, so he gets them started when he first gets up, back cracking as he stretches with slow steps to the kitchen. today, you already had one eye slightly open to see him rub those large hands over his face and through his hair, tousling the already messy mullet he's sporting. it's your instinct to reach out and pull him by the waistband of those silly pyjama bottoms, drag him back into bed by the red guitar doodles over dark fabric, soft whenever they rub against your legs in the night. it would be so easy, too, to just let him know you're awake and watch him roll over you to press you down into the mattress, slotting himself between your thighs to start the day with an orgasm or two… or three. but this time you watch him leave, the elastic of those pyjamas loose around his hips and threatening to slide even lower. you fight back the urge to groan at the sight of his body moving to slip on the t-shirt he discarded onto the floor last night when you begged him to take off lest you have to rip it off him. with gashes and stitches all over the material, there's hardly any point in putting anything on, the flimsy, worn out fabric can't possibly provide much in terms of warmth on his scratched up back.
mmm, the scratches he's covering with the t-shirt… sam's hand absentmindedly flies up to rub over one of the latest ones, the red line poking over the collar like it's teasing you, reminding you of last night's fun just by existing. you can still feel the skin under your nails and how he groaned when you gave him those marks, biting into your neck to chase after the last high of the night before blissfully snuggling into your chest to pass out. now he's getting out of your sight again, and the darkness of the room is broken by the small light he flicks on in the bathroom before that is, too, taken from you as the door closes.
really, you give it your best try to fall back to sleep, but something in you refuses to shut down. not when sam is in the other room, probably focused on writing, that little crease between his thick eyebrows showing over the rim of his glasses… the glasses… with one smooth motion you slide from under the covers and stretch as your feet find the fuzzy slippers by the bed. there's an old cardigan hanging by the door, so you slip your hands through the thick woven sleeves before slowly, quietly moving through the house. like a ghost, dipping from one shadow to the next while the windows start getting a little lighter, the sky a cool grey colour of the cold winter morning. you stand against the door frame in the kitchen, leaning your shoulder against the wood while sam sits at the table and hums.
it's a familiar melody, one he's been humming for about a week now, a little longer each day, a little different, smoother. those early hours every morning really do pay off, the quiet house and no distractions are putting words on the papers in front of him and sometimes the hum is not just a melody, but also a dragged out phrase or two. his voice is a little scratchy, especially so quiet, but it feels warm like the cardigan covering your shoulders. familiar. comforting. so damn pretty. you can't stop yourself, making slow, quiet steps through the kitchen, you reach the back of his chair and he knows you're there, because as soon as your hands touch his shoulders, his palms already cover them, pulling you down to kiss your smiling lips.
"enjoying the show?" he murmurs against your cheek before releasing your hands to let you move about, knowing you won't be able to resist grabbing a cup of hot coffee as soon as you're in the kitchen.
"very much. got lonely in bed so i came to see what all the fuss is about." you go through the familiar motions of making your coffee, the quiet air slowing down your movements even more, the winter blanket has a way of slowing down everything in the valley.
"so what did you think?" you turn to face him as you cradle a hot ceramic mug in your hands. there's a few stubborn pieces of hair that refuse to listen whenever he pulls them back with a determined hand, instead they prefer poking into his eyes. the mop of blond hair is messy, sticking out in all directions, indicative of a good night's sleep. the glasses sit a little low on his nose, you notice… he hasn't bothered to push them up since he sat down. those eyes… they're peeling back every layer of you until there's only your soul, even if he doesn't mean to do it, you can't help but feel completely naked when he looks at you, when he sees you.
you take a step forward, then another, reaching the solid wooden table that's been in this house since you moved in, that's seen countless dinners and slow mornings while you lean on it still half asleep, large papers filled with scribbles of plans for the next season, drunken make-out sessions with sam while his jeans pooled around his ankles… your hand brushes the varnished surface before the mug sits on it with a gentle thud.
"it feels like progress. like only yesterday you ran from the bathroom to write down the beginning and then to fuck me into the mattress as a celebration of your inspiration." your palms are pressed flat against the surface as you speak, head tilted to your shoulder while your eyes catalogue every inch of sam's face. that one dimpled cheek. the slightly faded acne scars. the slit in his eyebrow you're all pretending didn't come from a skateboarding accident. every single feature on him making you weak in the knees, and that might be the real reason why you're holding on for dear life, trying so hard not to lunge at him over the table and—
"i had a beautiful muse for it." he responds, attempting a wink.
"it was one hell of a night."
his lips curl into a smile as he reaches for his own cup, steam fogging up his glasses as he takes a long sip, but when he puts it back, you're no longer standing in front of him. his gaze lowers to the words he put on the paper last, brows furrowing once more as he squints through the fogged up lenses, but then… he feels a hand on his knee.
looking down, he sees you kneeling between his thighs while one of his legs bounces in the rhythm he has in his head. you're looking up at him with those eyes again, telling him your intentions louder than your voice ever could. that signature crooked smile looks down at you again, and sam sits back in the chair, still twirling a pen between his long fingers. your hands slowly glide up his thighs, grabbing the waistband of the pyjama bottoms that give in so easily. so stretchy, loose elastic coming wherever you pull it, uncovering his hips and a quickly hardening cock that rests between his legs. leaning in, you press a kiss to each of his hips, feeling the cold jewellery that pokes out from either side. yoba fucking bless his half-sober decision to get them pierced, they've made every descent down his body twice as long with how much you worship him.
so easily flustered, his face reddens as soon as your lips travel down his happy trail and start kissing along the length of his shaft, little smooching sounds breaking up his heavy breaths. your lips wrap around his tip hungrily, your eyes meeting his again just in time to catch the curse leaving like a breath from his mouth.
"fuuuuuck, that's it."
one hand on his bare thigh, the other wrapped around his thick shaft, you salivate on his cock, coating the tip in the drool that mixes with his beading precum, making for the most delicious noises. the glasses slightly slip down his nose, blond hair sways as his head bobs in the rhythm of your movements, his lips sputter whimpers while you glide your tongue along the underside of his length. what a tasty breakfast you have, served to you wrapped in silly old pyjamas, on the plate of temptation, with a side of the sweetest raspy moans that the world ever did hear. he's already struggling, gripping the edge of the table so tightly that his knuckles turn even paler than before, trying not to buck his hips into your mouth, but you keep looking at him with those eyes, the ones that say you won't stop him even if he does.
so he lifts up off the chair and rolls his hips upward, nearly giving up once you moan around his cock, sending shocks and vibrations up his spine. those eyes of yours… they're stuck on him and no matter how much he tries not to look, it's impossible. you watch him as he bites his bottom lip, eyes focused on the way his cock slots into your pretty mouth, the way you hold the base that you can't fit in, determined to show him how much you worship him with your mouth full. tongue swirling around his pretty length, you drive him insane, to the point of no return with how you stroke the girth in front of your lips. sam watches with stars in his eyes, half over his glasses frames, but he dares not take them off, not when he could miss a single moment of your perfect mouth sucking him in. slowly, he thrusts forward, like lack of movement on his end is an offence against nature itself. slowly, like he's trying to drag out the sensation of the warmth of your mouth engulfing his length, humming around him, noise after fucking noise making it clear that you're there to make him feel good. just because you can.
so when he starts panting harder, when his glasses slide a little lower, dangerously close to falling off his face, when his cheeks redden dangerously, you know he's got maybe a few more flicks of your tongue on his tip until he's done. sloppily, you push yourself a little further, nearly gagging on him but you can't give a fuck when the sound he makes, something between a whimper and a groan, is utterly sinful. sam's hand reaches down to brush against your cheek once, twice, and then—
and then with one more thrust he exhales deeply, watching as you swallow his warm release, your eyes never leaving him as you take it all. he slumps in the chair, finally closing his eyes and taking the glasses off, dropping them on the table to rub his hands over his eyes, dragging his fingers through that messy blond hair. with one last tender kiss to his sensitive tip, you crawl out from under the table, settling yourself on his lap to lean in and nuzzle your nose against his.
you're already pressing little kisses on his face— nose, cheek, jaw, corner of his lips, and it takes him about a minute to gather himself enough to respond, returning a kiss of yours with an even deeper one, paired with one hand on the back of your head to keep you close. your fingers tangle in his messy hair, longer down his neck than on the sides, but so soft under your touch. sam hums softly as you tug on his hair a little, separating your lips only to bite the bottom one before he can protest.
"come back to bed…" you purr as your lips gently trace the shell of his ear.
"my coffee's gonna go cold, though."
"womp womp, i bet it's too sweet to drink anyway." you snicker into his ear before pulling away, looking at his flushed cheeks, at the dusting of sun freckles across his nose that don't go away even in the winter, at the silver piercings on his eyebrow and nostril, at the slight bump on his nose, where those rounded glasses usually sit when he writes. perfection, even if he refuses to drink normally sweetened coffee.
"rude, it's how i like it." he smirks as you reach to grab his cup, gone a little colder than you'd like, but you still taste it. and wince. and frown. "no?"
you shake your head. "no. but it's okay, i can still taste you on my tongue."
with a cheeky smile, you get off his lap and drag him after you, down the hallway and back into the bedroom, not even bothering to let him pull up the pyjama bottoms.