#Monster Hunt Maps | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

elikajinnie · 11 days ago

Text

Every Move You Make, I See It - P.J

P: Dead By Daylight Killer!Jay X Survivor!Reader (recommended age 17+)

Warnings: Murder, Death, Stalking, Predator/Prey, Blood/Injury, Obsession, Suggestive Content, Feral Behaviour, Psychological Thriller, Graphic Descriptions, the endings a bit fucked up.

Synopsis: The Entity's favored killers are violent, but a new hunter has arrived—and it’s fixated on you. Man or beast, no one can tell. All you know is: you’re being hunted.

a/n: did heeseung, sooo why not jay as well? interested in heeseungs? -> heeseung

disclaimer! all the killers and survivors in this is in dbd the game. I do not own any of them. the idea of jay was a creative endeavour. for educational purposes: mori means killing and it takes two hits in the game before you are downed. And to avoid confusion: when he`s running, his weapon is on his back.

now playing: rock you like a hurricane -2011 by scorpions | daydream by enhypen | chase it by set it off

You hated the killers who weren't human or weren't human before they ended up in the Entity's realm. The Xenomorph, the Unknown, the Singularity, the Dredge, Nemesis, Pyramid Head (you weren't really sure about that one), and the Demogorgon—all of them were violent, sparing no survivors, relentless, and merciless. Anytime you found yourself in a trial and they were the killer, annoyance simmered within you because you knew the round would be painful.

Then there were the other killers who weren't human anymore, like the Hag, Freddy Krueger, the Blight, Pinhead and Chucky. You were kind of relieved when the new killer, the Houndmaster, turned out to be more humane—well, unlike her dog, but that didn’t matter.

So when the survivors of the latest trial came back and announced they had just gone up against a new killer, you didn’t think much of it. New killers weren’t exactly rare, and the Entity loved throwing curveballs your way. But then they said something that made the room pause.

“I’m not sure if it was a man or a beast. It looked… human, but it also moved like a wolf.”

Jake, sitting across the campfire with a brow quirked, asked the obvious question. “Like a werewolf?”

You groaned, dragging a hand down your face. Great. A creature killer. The worst kind.

“Are you serious?” you muttered, glaring at Nea as if this was somehow her fault. “So, what? We’re dealing with something that bites again!?”

Nea shrugged helplessly, her face still pale from the trial. “It howled. Loud. I swear I heard it from across the map, and… it was hunting me. Not chasing, hunting.”

That word made something twist in your gut—uncomfortable, sharp. You hated the killers who acted like monsters, but the ones who actually were monsters? They were a nightmare. There was no bargaining with them, no understanding their patterns, no telling yourself they were just people corrupted by the Entity. Killers like the Demogorgon didn’t stop. Didn’t waver. Didn’t quit.

Now, apparently, this new killer—a wolf, a man, something in between—was joining that list.

Jake, always too curious for his own good, looked over at you. “What do you think its power is?”

“I think I don’t care,” you shot back, sharper than you intended. “It’s probably something that’ll tear you apart limb by limb, Jake.”

They looked at you for a moment, your irritation lingering in the air, before turning to the others to explain.

“We’re calling it The Beast,” Nea said, voice low, as though speaking the name might summon it. “It manipulates the map, and it hunts with precision. I swear it knew where I was the entire time.”

A chill crept up your spine, but you crossed your arms tightly, trying not to let it show.

“It had wolf attributes,” she continued, glancing around at the rest of you. “Fangs. Claws. The whole package.” She hesitated before adding, “It’s fast, too. Faster than most killers I’ve seen. The way it moves… it doesn’t just chase. It stalks, like Myers and Ghostface. But it’s worse.”

“How can it be worse?” Lara muttered.

Cheryl swallowed. “Because it runs on all fours. One second you see it watching from a distance, and the next, it’s charging you—low to the ground, like an actual wolf.”

Your jaw clenched as you listened, the mental image piecing itself together in your mind. A hulking figure with glowing eyes, tearing through the map with unnatural speed. It wasn’t just a killer anymore; it was something primal. Something built to hunt.

“Great,” you muttered under your breath, looking away toward the shadows beyond the firelight. “Another killer that moves faster than us. Just what we needed.”

Feng, ever the optimist, tried to make light of it. “Well, maybe it’s like Huntress. You know—scary but manageable.”

“Manageable?” You shot her a look. “Did you not hear what they just said? It stalks. It runs like an animal. If it’s anything like Huntress, I’ll eat my boots.”

“I’m just saying,” she replied defensively, but you weren’t listening anymore.

Nea`s words echoed in your head: It knew where I was. That wasn’t normal. Killers had their tricks—perks, instinctual guesses—but this? This sounded like something worse. Like an instinct that couldn’t be evaded.

“So, what did you guys do?” Ada asked them. “Did you escape?”

They all looked at each other, and their expressions turned grim. “We didn’t.”

The group went quiet, everyone processing the meaning behind those words. You exhaled sharply through your nose and leaned forward, staring into the flames. Another killer to outwit, another trial that would leave you with scraped knees and shallow breaths if you were lucky.

But as much as you hated the creature killers—the ones who weren’t human anymore—you couldn’t deny the shiver of unease curling at the edge of your thoughts.

If The Beast hunted like a wolf, what did that make you? Prey.

It didn’t take long before you were face-to-face with The Beast. Three trials. Three exhausting rounds of barely escaping hooks and killers that felt almost predictable in comparison. You should’ve known your luck wouldn’t hold out forever.

The moment you entered the trial, you knew something was different. The forest was unfamiliar—not the usual suffocating realm of the Red Forest or Mother’s Dwelling. This was something worse. The trees were taller, their branches clawing at the sky like skeletal fingers. The underbrush was thick with sharp brambles, and the fog was heavier than you’d ever seen, curling around your ankles like it was alive.

You huffed quietly as you adjusted the toolbox in your hands, crouching low as you moved forward. The leaves crunched softly beneath your boots, and your eyes flickered upward every time you passed a crow perched on a twisted branch. You weren’t about to let those bastards give you away.

Stick to the shadows. Avoid open paths. Survive.

But just as you turned a corner around a massive log, you froze. A distant shout cut through the silence, sharp and panicked. Then came a sound you weren’t expecting: bells. Not the sharp, haunting toll of the Wraith—no, this was something different. Rhythmic and unnerving, like chimes carried by the wind.

Without thinking, you bolted in the direction of the noise. Branches whipped against your arms and face as you ran, your heart pounding in your ears. The toolbox rattled in your grip, but you didn’t dare stop. When you burst through a thicket of thorny bushes, you saw her—Sable.

She was on the ground, her leg caught in a snare trap. But this wasn’t a normal trap. It wasn’t the crude, rusty bear traps you’d seen with the Trapper. No—this snare trap was made of barbed wire, coiled tight around her calf, digging into the skin. Blood dripped from the cuts, staining the ground beneath her, and her face was twisted in agony.

“Sable!” you hissed, dropping to your knees beside her.

“It—it’s a trap,” she whimpered, trying to pull her leg free. The movement only made the wire dig deeper. “It came out of nowhere. I didn’t even see it.”

“Stop moving,” you snapped, fumbling with the wire as you set the toolbox down. Your fingers trembled as you worked, trying to pry the barbed loops apart without hurting her more. The sharp metal bit into your hands, and you hissed through gritted teeth as you felt blood well up along your palms.

Keep going, you told yourself. Ignore it.

The bells rang again—closer this time. You stiffened, head snapping up as your eyes darted around the clearing. The forest was too dark, the fog too thick. You couldn’t see anything, but you could feel it.

Something was watching you.

“Hurry,” Sable whispered, panic creeping into her voice. “It’s coming. I know it’s coming.”

You didn’t need to be told twice. With one last twist, the wire gave way, and you yanked it off her leg. Sable gasped, clutching her bleeding calf, but there was no time to stop and tend to it. You grabbed her arm, pulling her up as gently as you could.

“Can you run?” you asked urgently.

She nodded shakily, wincing. “Yeah. I think so.”

The bells tolled again, louder this time—low and hollow, like they were reverberating through the earth. You felt the hair on the back of your neck stand up as the sound was followed by something worse: a low, guttural growl.

You didn’t look back. You couldn’t.

“Move,” you ordered, shoving Sable forward as you both started running.

You didn’t get far before you heard it—a sound you’d only heard described before, but never experienced yourself. The heavy thud of something large hitting the ground, followed by the unmistakable sound of claws digging into soil.

It wasn’t chasing you. It was hunting you.

The Beast had found its prey.

You and Sable made the mistake of turning around as you ran—and the sight froze your blood.

The Beast stood at the edge of the clearing, partially shrouded in shadow and fog, but you could see enough.

It was a tall man—if you could even call him that anymore. His frame was draped in black, torn clothes, a cloak of thick fur resting over his shoulders, matted and dark with grime. In his right hand, he held a glaive, its curved blade coated with blood, the metal glinting faintly in the low light. But it was his body that made your stomach twist.

His left arm was no longer human. It was covered in coarse black fur, stretched unnaturally over muscle and ending in claws that could shred through bone. The same grotesque transformation had overtaken his legs, fur and sinew wrapped around animalistic joints.

But it was his face that rooted you in place.

Black hair hung wild and untamed around sharp, angular features. His yellow eyes burned like embers in the darkness, fixed unrelentingly on you and Sable. And when he parted his lips, fangs appeared. He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to.

Cause then he tilted his head back—and howled.

The sound was deafening, ripping through the trees and echoing in the fog. It wasn’t a human scream, nor was it the howl of an animal. It was something in between, guttural and monstrous, vibrating deep in your chest like a death knell.

Sable gasped sharply, stumbling against you as her hands flew to her ears. “Go! Go!” she screamed.

You didn’t need to be told twice. The Beast lowered his gaze, his lips pulling back into a feral snarl, and then he moved.

It was almost too fast to process. One moment he was standing still, his claws flexing—then he dropped to all fours and charged.

You ran harder than you ever had before, pulling Sable with you as the sound of claws and snapping branches grew louder behind you. Your lungs burned, your legs ached, but you didn’t dare slow down. Each thud of his movement felt like a countdown, and you knew if he caught you, it was over.

Don’t stop. Don’t look back.

But even as you sprinted through the forest, weaving between trees and leaping over roots, you could still hear him. The low growl, the heavy breath. He was toying with you—getting closer, letting you hear him hunt.

“Split up!” you shouted to Sable, shoving her forward as the two of you reached a fork in the path. She hesitated for a split second, fear painted across her face, but she nodded and darted left while you veered right.

It wasn’t long before you realized he had made his choice too.

The sounds of his pursuit didn’t fade into the distance. The thundering steps—furred limbs pounding against the earth—stayed close. Too close. You risked a glance over your shoulder and cursed under your breath. He was coming for you.

“Of course you’re following me!” you hissed through gritted teeth, adrenaline flooding your system. Your legs burned with effort, each step feeling heavier than the last.

Up ahead, salvation presented itself in the form of a wooden pallet propped precariously between two crates. A quick escape. You angled toward it, lungs screaming for air, and forced yourself to move faster. You could hear him gaining on you, his growl vibrating through the air like a warning.

As soon as you reached the pallet, you grabbed the edge and slammed it down with all your strength. The wood crashed onto the ground, kicking up dust, and you whipped around, a shaky smile breaking across your face as you realized you’d timed it perfectly.

You’d stunned him.

The Beast halted mid-pursuit, the heavy pallet pinning him momentarily. His claws curled against the wood, his lips pulling back in a feral snarl. You allowed yourself a triumphant exhale—until his eyes snapped up to meet yours.

Your blood ran cold.

His eyes were no longer yellow. They were crimson—deep and glowing, like freshly spilled blood. The shift was immediate, like something inside him had awakened. The low growl that rumbled from his chest sent shivers down your spine, and for the first time, you noticed something you’d missed before.

The collar.

Thick and black, it wrapped around his neck like a cruel shackle. And on the front—glinting faintly in the dim light—were small silver bells. The bells. That’s where the sound had come from. Every movement, every step, was punctuated by that unnerving chime.

Your breath hitched as realization struck. The bells weren’t just for sound. They were a warning.

“Shit,” you whispered, backing up instinctively.

He growled again, louder this time, the sound vibrating through your chest. Then, in a blur of motion, he brought his clawed arm down on the pallet with enough force to shatter it. Wood splintered and exploded outward, shards clattering against the ground as the remains of your so-called “safety” crumbled at his feet.

You didn’t wait to see what he would do next. You turned and ran.

Your heart pounded in your ears as you darted through the underbrush, branches snapping and whipping against your face. Behind you, you could hear him—close enough that you swore you could feel his breath against the back of your neck.

You didn’t make it far before you felt it.

The whoosh of air as something massive swung toward you. A sharp, burning pain exploded across your back, and you screamed as claws tore through your shirt and raked deep into your skin. The impact sent you stumbling forward, your legs nearly giving out from the shock, but you pushed through it.

Move. Don’t stop. Don’t look back.

Gritting your teeth through the pain, you spotted salvation up ahead: a small, rotting building with a open window. You sprinted toward it, ignoring the sticky warmth of blood seeping through your clothes.

As you reached the window, you grabbed the frame and vaulted over with everything you had, landing hard on the floor inside. The room was dim, filled with scattered debris, the smell of mold heavy in the air.

You turned, panting, your hand pressing instinctively against the wound on your back. Your heart sank when you saw him.

The Beast was already leaping after you.

His massive form vaulted the window with terrifying ease, the bells on his collar jingling faintly as he landed. His crimson eyes—still glowing like coals—locked onto you and didn’t waver. He wasn’t looking around. He wasn’t searching. He was focused, utterly and completely.

“Oh, come on,” you groaned, stumbling backward. “That’s gotta be a perk.”

It had to be. You’d seen this kind of precision before—Killers who always seemed to know where you were, whether it was through a heartbeat, scratch marks, or some cruel Entity-given power. But this? Those eyes were more than just for show. They were locked onto you like a heat-seeking missile.

There was no time to think.

You bolted for the door on the far side of the room, practically throwing yourself through it. You could hear him behind you, his footsteps heavy but fast, the sound of claws scraping against the wood.

As soon as you were outside, you didn’t stop—you started looping the building. It was a classic move, one every survivor knew by instinct. Buildings meant walls, walls meant obstacles, and obstacles meant a chance to survive.

You rounded the first corner, adrenaline surging through your veins. The pounding of his pursuit was right behind you, relentless. You glanced back just in time to see him skid around the corner, his glaive dragging through the dirt with a metallic scrape.

Keep moving.

The building’s loop wasn’t perfect, but it was enough to give you a sliver of breathing room. Every time you turned a corner or ducked through an opening, you’d gain a precious half-second before the sound of claws and bells filled the air again, signaling that he was still there. Still chasing.

You risked a quick glance behind you, just once, and instantly regretted it.

His red eyes were still locked onto you. Even as you looped him, even as you vaulted and sprinted, he hadn’t faltered. If anything, he looked… determined. Like the hunt was enjoyable.

“God, I hate creature Killers,” you growled under your breath as you rounded the building again, already trying to think of your next move.

You couldn’t loop forever. He was too fast, too precise. And worse, the burn of the slashes on your back was starting to slow you down. You needed a plan—and fast.

It wasn’t hard for him to catch up.

You’d pushed your body to the brink, but it wasn’t enough. Before you could make another desperate turn around the building, you felt the glaive swipe across your legs with brutal precision. Pain shot through you as your knees buckled, and you collapsed onto the ground with a groan.

Dust and dirt kicked up around you as you hit the earth hard. For a moment, you just lay there, dazed, trying to breathe through the pain. Your ears rang, your body felt heavy, but instinct kicked in—you had to move.

With trembling arms, you started crawling. You didn’t know where you were going, but anywhere was better than staying there.

Don’t stop, you thought, dragging yourself forward inch by inch. Your blood left a streak in the dirt as you moved, but it didn’t matter. You had to—

A shadow loomed over you.

You froze, your head snapping to the side as you caught sight of it—a massive, bloodied paw. It dug into the earth by your face, the claws curling into the dirt with a sickening scrape. They were long, black, and sharp enough to skewer you where you lay.

You turned onto your back with a shaky gasp, dread settling deep in your chest as you looked up—and up.

The Beast stood over you, towering and monstrous, his hulking form casting you in shadow. Up close, the details were even worse. Sharp jaw. Unnaturally long fangs, his nose perfectly straight but twitching faintly, as if he was smelling you. The red glow of his eyes had narrowed into thin slits, like a predator zeroing in on its prey. Drool hung from his parted mouth, dripping down to the dirt next to you.

You couldn’t move. You couldn’t breathe.

Your gasp caught in your throat when he leaned down.

Closer.

The world seemed to slow as he brought his face near yours, so close you could feel the heat of his breath. It fanned across your skin, hot and heavy, as though he was tasting the air around you. Then he inhaled—a long, deliberate breath that sent a shiver down your spine.

Somewhere deep in his chest, you heard it. A rumble. Low and resonant, like a growl—but there was something else in it. Something almost… pleased.

Your heart hammered in your chest as you stared up at him, wide-eyed, unable to look away.

Finally, he pulled back, just far enough for you to see the edges of his sharp grin. His lips curled as his gaze remained locked onto yours, and when he spoke, his voice rolled out in a deep, guttural tone—one that sounded as though it hadn’t been used in years.

“You… run well.”

The words hit you like a physical blow, your mind reeling. His voice was gravelly, rough around the edges, yet disturbingly clear. There was something undeniably human in the way he spoke—twisted and broken, but human all the same.

You blinked up at him, your throat dry, unable to form a response.

The Beast tilted his head slightly, his crimson eyes narrowing. “But you’re slow now.”

The way he said it—it wasn’t mocking. It was observational, like he was analyzing you, trying to figure you out. He crouched lower, his furred claws pressing deeper into the dirt, his bells jingling faintly with the movement.

You flinched as his glaive scraped against the ground beside you, the noise grating against your ears.

“What are you?” you croaked, your voice barely audible, trembling as the question left your lips.

The Beast’s grin widened, and the crimson glow in his eyes seemed to burn brighter.

“Hunter.”

And with that one word, he reached down. The moment his clawed hand wrapped around you, you knew what was coming.

“No, no!” you gasped, but it didn’t matter. With an unsettling ease, the Beast picked you up as though you weighed nothing and slung you over his shoulder. His grip was firm—too firm—and you felt the sharp edges of his claws pressing into your side, a silent warning not to squirm too much.

Like hell that was going to stop you.

You immediately started wiggling in his hold, kicking your legs and twisting your upper body, desperate to break free. You’d done this before—countless times. It was second nature to fight, to struggle, to buy yourself just a few more precious seconds. But this time, it was different.

Your movements barely fazed him.

The Beast huffed out a low growl, annoyed more than anything, like you were nothing more than a mild inconvenience. His bells chimed softly with every heavy step, each sound growing closer and closer to dread.

“Let go, you bastard!” you hissed, pounding a fist against his back. It was like hitting solid stone beneath that cloak of fur.

Before you could muster another attempt, you felt him stop. Your stomach dropped. You turned your head just enough to see it—the hook, rusty and towering.

“No—wait, wait—!”

You screamed as the sharp, unforgiving metal pierced into your shoulder, the pain blinding. Your body arched involuntarily as you were hoisted upward, the hook locking you in place like a gruesome marionette. Tears pricked at your eyes as you gasped for breath, the white-hot sting radiating through your arm and chest.

You forced yourself to look down through blurry vision, trying to center yourself despite the pain. That’s when you noticed it.

The Beast had turned away from you, his posture rigid. His yellow eyes—no longer the deep red from before—snapped toward something unseen, a faint snarl escaping his lips. It was subtle at first, just the twitch of his ear and a low growl that rattled through the air. Then, without warning, he took off.

Fast.

You barely had time to process it. One second, he was standing still, and the next, he was gone, his speed a blur that rivaled the Nurse when she blinked through the map. His bells jingled sharply, fading into the distance like some terrible alarm.

“Shit,” you muttered, panting as you hung from the hook. You had seen Killers leave quickly before—Michael Myers, Ghostface, even Wraith when they heard someone nearby—but this? This was different. His speed was unnatural, like he wasn’t just hunting—he was responding.

Someone had grabbed his attention.

Clenching your teeth, you scanned the area. The thick fog made it impossible to see much, but you knew better than to waste time. With shaky hands, you reached up and gripped the hook, biting back a scream as the movement sent pain jolting through your shoulder. You had to get down.

With one sharp tug, you gasped as you unhooked yourself. The motion sent you tumbling to the ground, your knees hitting the dirt hard as the metallic sting in your shoulder flared hot.

For a second, you didn’t move, staring at the ground in disbelief. You did it.

You turned your head, breathing heavily as you glanced upward, seeing the Entity’s claws frozen—hanging mid-air, its barbed talon twitching as though struggling against something unseen.

You scrambled to your feet, clutching your injured shoulder as you stumbled away from the hook. Pain pulsed with every step, but you pushed through it, dragging yourself behind two massive boulders just far enough from where you’d been hooked.

The moment you were hidden, you sagged to the ground, leaning against the cold stone. Your fingers shook as you fumbled for your med-kit, flipping it open and pulling out a roll of bandages. “C’mon, c’mon,” you muttered, forcing yourself to focus.

You could hear the forest around you, the eerie quiet broken only by the occasional whisper of wind and the faint creak of trees swaying in the fog. But just as you started wrapping your shoulder, the peace shattered.

A distant, loud howl cut through the silence.

You froze, the sound rumbling across the map like thunder. It was long and drawn-out, echoing ominously through the thick fog, sending chills racing down your spine.

Somewhere far off, a generator powered up with a loud hum. You flinched at the noise, your heart racing. The sound was like a signal, bright and sharp against the quiet, a neon sign for the killer to follow.

Then, almost immediately after, you heard it: two survivors screaming.

“Shit,” you whispered, yanking the bandages tight around your shoulder with a hiss. You ignored the sting, forcing yourself to finish patching up as quickly as possible. You couldn’t afford to waste time, not when the Beast was on the prowl.

Sliding the med-kit back into your belt, you pressed your back against the boulder and carefully peered around its edge.

He’s fast, you thought, replaying everything in your mind. Faster than most killers you’d faced. And those howls… they weren’t just for show. He was tracking you, tracking everyone.

And if he had heard those screams—if he was responding like he had with you—then two survivors were about to have a very bad time.

You crouched by the generator, your fingers working quickly to untangle wires and tighten bolts as the machine clunked and whirred under your touch. The hum of progress filled the tense silence, but your eyes never stopped darting to the treeline. You scanned the fog for any sign of movement—any flash of red eyes, any sound of bells.

It was quiet. Too quiet.

There were no growls. No howls. No heavy, animalistic breathing. For a brief moment, you let yourself believe you were safe.

Then, a distant scream pierced the stillness, sharp and panicked.

You froze, your hands hovering above the generator as you closed your eyes with a sigh. “Again?” you muttered under your breath. He was relentless—hunting like a wolf with no intention of letting up.

You shook your head and got back to work, forcing your hands to steady. There wasn’t much else you could do. The generator needed to be fixed, and the only way anyone was escaping this hellhole was through powered gates.

The next time you glanced up, you nearly jumped out of your skin.

Sable limped toward you, her form emerging from the fog like a ghost. She looked like she’d barely escaped—her clothes were torn, and fresh blood streaked down her leg from a deep gash. Her face was pale and damp with sweat, but she still managed to flash you a weak grin as she knelt beside the generator.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Sable muttered, already reaching for the wires to help. Her voice wavered, but her hands moved with practiced precision. “I don’t wanna hear it.”

“I wasn’t gonna say anything,” you shot back, though your brow furrowed as you spared her a quick glance. “But you look bad. Did he—”

“Caught me near the edge of the map. The bastard’s too fast, but…” She paused to take a sharp breath, wincing as she shifted her weight. “I got away. Barely.”

You swallowed hard, nodding. “He hooked you?”

“No, but it was close.” Sable’s voice dropped to a whisper. “I think he wanted me to get away.”

That made you pause. “What?”

She didn’t answer immediately, her hands fumbling with a stubborn wire. “I don’t know how to explain it. He had me. He could’ve downed me completely. But he just… watched me. Like he was testing me.”

You frowned, unsettled by the idea. “You sure he didn’t just screw up?”

Sable let out a dry, humorless laugh. “Not a chance. He’s too precise. The way he hunts, the way he moves—he knows exactly what he’s doing. It’s like…” She trailed off, biting her lip as the generator sparked briefly to life. “It’s like he’s playing with us.”

You tightened your grip on the wrench, trying to ignore the chill that crawled up your spine. You didn’t want to think about that. The Beast was already terrifying enough without the idea that he was toying with you.

“Let’s just get this gen done,” you muttered, shaking your head. “We can freak out later.”

Sable gave a small nod, both of you falling silent as you focused back on the task at hand. The generator rattled and sparked, the noise jarring in the quiet forest. You worked faster, both of you aware of how loud it was, how easy it would be for him to find you here.

Minutes stretched on, and you let yourself hope. Maybe you’d finish it. Maybe you’d—

A low, distant howl echoed through the fog.

You both froze.

“Shit,” Sable whispered, her face going pale.

The howl was closer this time, vibrating in your chest like the low growl of an engine. You heard the faint jingle of bells somewhere in the distance, growing louder—closer.

Your stomach dropped. He was coming.

The generator sparked again, and you and Sable flinched at the noise. Your hands were a blur, working faster now as dread crept up your spine. Every second counted. Every wire fixed, every bolt turned brought you closer to escape.

But then—

“That’s twice now,” a voice rumbled behind you. Low. Deep. Familiar. “You really ought to pay more attention to what’s around you.”

Your blood ran cold.

You and Sable froze mid-action, your breaths hitching in unison. Slowly—so slowly—you turned around, dread bubbling up like bile.

He was there.

Crouched in the shadows of the fog just a few meters away, half-hidden behind the curve of a tree. His yellow eyes were locked on the two of you, unblinking and unrelenting.

From this angle, you could see him clearer than before. His long glaive rested lazily in his normal hand, its blade still slick with fresh blood. His furred legs were bent as though ready to pounce at any second, his sharp claws digging into the dirt beneath him. And yet… he wasn’t rushing forward. Not yet.

Sable’s breath hitched beside you, her fingers curling tightly around a wrench as if it would do her any good. “You’ve gotta be kidding me…” she whispered.

The Beast tilted his head slightly, his yellow eyes narrowing as a low rumble vibrated in his chest. His gaze slid between the two of you like he was deciding which one to strike first.

“Run,” you whispered to Sable, not daring to break eye contact with him. “On three.”

“He’s too close,” she hissed back, her voice shaking.

“I don’t care—three!”

Before she could argue, you grabbed Sable’s wrist and yanked her with you as you bolted to the side, darting between the thick trees. A sharp, guttural growl erupted behind you, and you didn’t need to look back to know he was coming.

The bells. You heard the bells.

They rang in quick, chaotic bursts, each chime louder than the last as he pursued you. Leaves crunched and twigs snapped under his heavy, relentless strides, the sound too fast—too close.

“He’s on us!” Sable cried out, stumbling as she tried to keep pace.

You pushed her forward, urging her on. “Move!”

The forest blurred as you ran, your heartbeat roaring in your ears. You risked a quick glance over your shoulder, and your stomach dropped.

He was right there.

Running on all fours, his glaive held low, his yellow eyes locked directly on you, his movements unnervingly fluid—unnervingly natural.

He’s toying with us.

“Split up!” you shouted, veering sharply to the right.

Sable cursed but didn’t hesitate, darting left as you broke off in the opposite direction. You weaved through the dense trees, ducking under low-hanging branches and leaping over exposed roots. Your lungs burned, but you didn’t dare slow down.

The bells stopped.

You skidded to a halt behind a thick tree, pressing your back against its rough bark as you tried to catch your breath. Your chest rose and fell sharply, your shoulder aching where the hook had pierced you earlier.

Silence.

Where is he?

You froze when you heard Sable’s scream cut through the forest, sharp and gut-wrenching. You exhaled shakily, your fingers tightening around the edge of the tree as you processed what had just happened. He went after Sable. A pang of guilt flared in your chest, but it didn’t linger long—survival didn’t allow for much remorse. Sable knew the rules of the game as well as you did.

Without wasting another second, you turned back the way you came, darting quietly through the trees until you reached the half-finished generator. It sat there waiting, wires exposed and sparking faintly.

You crouched down and got back to work, your hands moving with a practiced urgency. Your ears were still on high alert, listening for the telltale jingling of bells or the rustle of something heavy moving through the fog.

Above you, the sky let out a deep, thunderous rumble, and the faint hum of the Entity’s claws slicing through the air echoed through the forest. Your stomach sank as you realized what that meant—Sable had been sacrificed.

Hooked twice already, you thought grimly, your expression tightening. I didn’t even realize.

You pushed the thought aside and focused on the task in front of you. There was no time to dwell.

"Sorry, Sable," you muttered under your breath, twisting a stubborn wire until it clicked into place. "Guess you’re out."

The generator sputtered, the sound growing louder as it inched closer to completion.

When the generator let out a loud, jolting clunk as the last bolt clicked into place. Sparks flew, and its lights blared to life, piercing through the thick fog.

You didn’t wait.

The second the generator roared to life, you took off running, your feet pounding against the forest floor. You knew better than to linger.

Two more. Just two more.

The thought became your mantra as you ducked low, weaving through the dense trees and tall grass. Your heartbeat pounded in your ears, drowning out the sound of the forest around you.

You needed a new plan. The others were still out there somewhere, working—hopefully—on the last remaining generators. If you could find one, or them, you’d have a chance.

You slid into a crouch behind a massive log, taking a second to catch your breath and survey your surroundings.

Then you heard it.

A faint jingling.

Shit.

You stayed low, your pulse spiking as the sound of bells grew louder, each chime like nails scraping across your nerves. You scanned the trees, your eyes darting wildly, trying to catch any sign of movement.

A shadow.

You flinched when you saw it—a dark silhouette moving through the fog, slow and deliberate. He was hunting again, his glaive dragging faintly against the dirt as he moved.

You held your breath and stayed perfectly still, your body coiled tight like a spring. He hadn’t seen you yet. You could wait him out—let him pass.

The jingling slowed. Stopped.

You frowned.

Why did he stop?

Before you could react, a low growl rumbled behind you.

No. No, no, no—

You spun around just in time to see him emerging from the fog towards you, his yellow eyes locked directly on you. His glaive gleamed in the pale light, slick and ready, his sharp claws flexing at his side.

You didn’t think—you ran.

He was on you immediately, the bells ringing out in chaotic bursts as he gave chase. You zigzagged through the trees, vaulting over fallen logs and ducking under branches. Your lungs burned, but you didn’t stop—couldn’t stop.

In the distance, you spotted something—a structure. Another shack.

You darted toward it, adrenaline pushing you forward as the growls and bells got closer, louder. You risked a glance over your shoulder, and your stomach dropped.

He was gaining on you.

With a desperate burst of speed, you vaulted through the window of the shack, landing hard on the other side. You stumbled but kept moving, running for the exit on the far end.

A loud crash echoed behind you as the Beast vaulted through the same window, his crimson eyes locked on you once again.

“You’re fast,” he growled, his deep, unused voice vibrating through the air, “but not fast enough.”

You ignored him, barreling out of the shack and looping back around, trying to buy yourself time. You knew he was faster but you had experience. Loops. Pallets. Technique.

You screamed as the Beast’s claws suddenly sliced across your back, sharp and unrelenting. Pain exploded through you, white-hot and disorienting, but you didn’t stop. You couldn’t. Gritting your teeth, you pushed through the agony and darted around the corner of some cages—rusted metal stacked haphazardly.

Your heart hammered as you sprinted, the sound of his heavy steps pounding behind you. You ran around as you desperately tried to put distance between you and him. Each turn felt like an eternity, every breath burning in your chest.

Finally, after what felt like forever, you skidded to a halt on one side of the cages, gasping for air.

The Beast stopped too.

You froze, your body tense as you watched him through the gaps in the rusted bars. He stood on the opposite side, unmoving. His yellow eyes, glowing faintly in the dark fog, stared directly into yours—sharp, unblinking, predatory.

And then, to your horror, he straightened up.

His hand reached over his shoulder, and you watched as he pulled his glaive from his back with a deliberate, almost casual motion. The blade gleamed darkly in the faint light as he spun it around his hand once—twice—with an unsettling ease.

The growl that followed was deep, rumbling from somewhere deep in his chest, but there was something else there. Amusement.

“Done running, little bunny?” His voice was low and rough, the words dripping with condescension.

Your blood ran cold. Little bunny.

“Shut up,” you spat, though your voice wavered.

He chuckled—he actually chuckled. The sound was dark, guttural, but far too human. It made your skin crawl.

“You’re a scrappy one, I’ll give you that,” he continued, tilting his head slightly as he dragged the glaive along the ground. “But you’ve been running for nothing.”

You frowned, your breath still coming in shallow gasps. “What?”

His eyes seemed to gleam as his lips pulled back into something halfway between a smirk and a snarl. “You haven’t noticed yet, have you?”

A sinking feeling settled in your stomach. “Noticed what?”

“You’re alone,” he said simply.

The words hit you like a punch to the gut.

“What—?”

He stepped closer to the cage wall, his gaze never leaving you. “You’re the last one left, little bunny. All your friends? Gone.”

You felt the ground shift beneath you, your pulse pounding in your ears. “You’re lying.”

Another rumbling chuckle. “Am I?”

The weight of his words crashed over you. The distant screams, the sound of the Entity rumbling in the sky—it all clicked into place. You hadn’t seen or heard anyone since Sable was taken. You thought someone else must still be working on the last generators, that maybe you had a chance.

But there was no one.

You were alone.

The Beast twirled his glaive again, the movement smooth and practiced. “You’ve fought well, but there’s nowhere left to run now.”

You tightened your grip on your side, wiping the sweat from your forehead as you met his predatory stare head-on. “Yeah?” you shot back, forcing your voice not to waver. “We’ll see about that.”

His grin widened, showing those gleaming fangs. “That’s the spirit.”

And then he moved.

You bolted the moment he lunged, the sharp whistle of his glaive cutting through the air as it missed you by mere inches. Your legs burned, your lungs screamed, but you pushed through, adrenaline surging through your veins. Run. Run. Run.

The Beast’s snarls echoed behind you, low and feral, punctuated by the pounding of his paws against the dirt. Every sound he made—growls, the snapping of his jaws, the guttural rumble of his breaths—sent chills racing down your spine.

You vaulted through a broken window of an old cabin, landing hard and stumbling but managing to stay upright. Without hesitation, you sprinted to the door on the other side, pushing it open and darting back out into the fog.

He’s still coming.

A heavy crash followed as he smashed through the window, unwilling to waste time following your path.

“Run faster, little bunny,” he growled from behind you, voice vibrating with dark amusement.

You hit a pallet, slamming it down just as he reached for you. The pallet struck his claws and chest with a loud crack, stopping him for a brief moment.

His red eyes snapped to you through the wooden slats, glowing with a furious intensity. Saliva dripped from his open jaws, long strings of it trailing to the ground as his chest heaved. With one clawed hand, he punched the pallet and crushed it into splinters.

You didn’t wait to see more—you ran.

Vaulting another window, you kept going, looping around the same structures, buying yourself time. He didn’t stop. No matter how many pallets you threw down, no matter how many windows you vaulted, the Beast was relentless.

You could hear him—feel him—close behind. The slap of his claws on the ground mixed with heavy breaths and the eerie jingling of the bells around his collar.

You passed through what looked like a slaughtered campsite—shredded tents, broken traps scattered across the dirt. A bloodied deer carcass laid limply on the ground, stomach ripped open. Nearby, a hunting lodge sat in decay, its walls splattered with claw marks. You didn’t slow, vaulting through the shattered lodge window.

As you looped through, your eyes darted across the environment.

A ruined jeep, long abandoned and covered in deep gashes. A pile of deer antlers stacked near an overturned trailer. Rusted cages lined with old bones—animal and human.

Everywhere you looked, the theme was clear. Hunting.

This was his map.

Everything—every structure, every grim detail—centered on the hunt. It was like you’d been dropped into his personal territory, a domain built to trap prey.

And right now, you were the prey.

You dashed between two more carcasses, your breathing ragged as you tried to keep moving. You could hear him still—too close, too fast.

“Run, little bunny.”

The words echoed in your head as you hit another pallet. You slammed it down just in time, hearing him growl as the wood cracked under his claws.

But this couldn’t last forever.

Your lungs were on fire, legs trembling as you stumbled around the thick trunk of a massive tree. His claws whistled through the air behind you, grazing your back just enough to tear the fabric of your shirt but leaving your skin intact.

And then you saw it.

The hatch.

It was nestled behind a massive fallen tree, partially hidden in the fog and decay, but there it was—your way out.

Your heart leapt in your chest as adrenaline surged through you. This was it.

You veered sharply to the right, pushing yourself faster than you thought possible. The fallen tree was a jagged mess of roots and splintered wood, but it didn’t matter. You scrambled up and over it, your hands scraping bark and dirt as you propelled yourself forward.

A deafening snarl erupted from behind you, so close it sent shivers crawling across your skin.

He’s right there.

But it didn’t matter—because you jumped.

You threw yourself toward the hatch, gravity pulling you down into its dark void. For a split second, you heard him—his enraged growl echoing through the trees, his claws slamming into the ground just inches too late.

And then you fell.

Everything went black for a heartbeat.

When you opened your eyes, you were back at the campfire.

The soft crackling of flames greeted you, warm and soothing compared to the oppressive silence of the fog. You landed on the damp ground in a heap, your chest heaving as you tried to catch your breath.

You were okay.

You glanced around, the familiar sights of the survivor camp slowly coming into focus. The fire flickered, its glow dancing across the empty logs and scattered supplies.

Your hands shook as you pressed them to the ground beneath you, grounding yourself, your heart still racing.

You did it.

You survived.

The realization hit you like a wave, leaving you breathless all over again. You were the first to survive the Beast.

The first.

A bitter laugh escaped your lips as you sat back, wiping the sweat and dirt from your face.

After that trial, when you managed to crawl into one of the ramshackle tents at the survivor camp, exhaustion dragged you under almost instantly. Your body was drained, and the adrenaline crash left you hollow and heavy. Sleep overtook you like a wave pulling you down into the deep.

But rest didn’t come easily.

The dream came swiftly, vivid and all too real.

You were back in the forest—his forest. The trees loomed tall, twisted and unkind, the ground littered with sharp branches and the glimmer of moonlight cutting through the fog. You could hear him in the distance: the soft jingle of the bells, the heavy thump of his claws on the ground.

You ran.

Your lungs burned as you tore through the darkness, stumbling over roots and ducking beneath low branches. But no matter how fast you moved, he was always there—just behind you. You could feel his presence, the weight of his stare pressing into your back.

“Run, little bunny,” his voice rumbled, dark and teasing, drifting through the fog like smoke.

You glanced back—and there he was. The Beast.

His crimson eyes glowed in the darkness, locked on you with unwavering focus. He chased you on all fours, his sharp claws tearing into the earth as he moved with an unnatural grace. His glaive was gone, leaving him raw and feral, his fangs gleaming in the dim light.

You screamed, pushing yourself faster, your body aching with every step.

And then—he caught you.

It happened so suddenly, you barely had time to process it. A sharp weight hit you from behind, sending you tumbling to the ground. Before you could scramble away, his body pinned you down, trapping you beneath him.

You froze, chest heaving as you stared up at him. Up close, he looked even more terrifying—wild and untamed, his mouth parted just enough to reveal sharp fangs, his breath hot and heavy against your skin.

But then, something shifted.

He didn’t harm you.

Instead, he scooped you up effortlessly, cradling you in his clawed arms as though you weighed nothing. You tried to struggle, but it was no use—his grip was firm, unrelenting, and yet… gentle.

He carried you deeper into the forest, further into the unknown, until you reached a cave nestled within the hills. It was dark and cool inside, the air heavy with the smell of earth and stone. He set you down carefully on a soft pile of fur—furs like his cloak.

You pressed yourself against the cave wall, unsure whether to scream or cry, but he only crouched before you, his red eyes staring into yours.

“Mine,” he growled, the word rumbling deep in his chest like a purr. His voice was dark and heavy, yet strangely… soft.

You blinked up at him, trembling. “W-what?”

“Mine,” he repeated, his hand brushed your cheek with shocking gentleness. The way he touched you sent shivers down your spine.

He leaned closer, his face mere inches from yours, his breath warm as it ghosted over your skin. “My bunny. Mine to keep.”

The growls in his voice softened into something sweet, almost melodic, as though he were coaxing you to stay calm. It should have terrified you—it did terrify you—but there was something unsettlingly comforting about the way he spoke.

You couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t speak.

And then you woke up.

You shot up in your makeshift bedroll, a strangled gasp escaping your throat as your heart pounded violently in your chest. Your hands gripped the thin blanket, sweat cooling on your skin.

You looked around frantically, the familiar interior of the cabin grounding you. It was just a dream. Just a dream.

But it felt so real.

You pressed a shaky hand to your forehead, trying to calm your racing heart.

It was just a dream…

A dream.

Sleep was out of the question after that. Every time you closed your eyes, you could see him—his crimson gaze, his claws brushing against your skin, his voice growling.

With a frustrated sigh, you kicked off the thin blanket and stood up, walking out of the cabin. Your thoughts were too loud, your body still tingling with the residual terror—and something else you didn’t want to name.

I need to clear my head.

You started walking, keeping close to the edges of the survivor camp but wandering far enough to feel alone. You let the quiet of the place settle around you, your boots crunching softly against the dirt.

Eventually, you found yourself near the invisible barrier that separated the survivors from them—the killers. You weren’t even sure why you wandered so close. Curiosity? Stupidity? Maybe you just needed to remind yourself where the line was drawn.

But then you froze.

Two figures stood just beyond the thin veil of fog.

The Trickster and Ghostface.

Their presence sent a cold shock through your chest, and you instinctively took a step back. But it was too late—they’d seen you. Trickster tilted his head, a grin already curling across his lips, and Ghostface’s mask turned to you.

“Well, well, well,” Trickster drawled, his voice dripping with wicked amusement. He leaned casually against a tree, his golden eyes practically glowing as he looked you over. “If it isn’t the Beast’s bunny.”

Your stomach dropped. “What?”

Ghostface let out a low, chuckling hum, his gloved hand tracing the edge of his knife as he stepped closer. “Oh, don’t play dumb. We know. You gave him quite the wild ride, sweetheart.”

You felt your face flush hot with anger and embarrassment. “Shut up,” you snapped. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Trickster cackled, his laughter loud and sharp, the sound echoing eerily in the fog. “Oh, come on. He came back furious after your little escape. Threw a fit like I’ve never seen. It was delicious.”

Ghostface chimed in, his tone teasing but low. “You’re all he could talk about, too. It’s like you’re his personal obsession now.” He mimicked the Beast’s deep growl mockingly: ‘Bunny.’

Your heart hammered in your chest, and you clenched your fists at your sides. “I don’t care what he said.”

“Mm, but you do care, don’t you?” Trickster purred, his smile widening as he leaned closer to the invisible line that separated you. “I bet you’re wondering why you’re so special. Why he didn’t mori you when he had the chance.”

“Leave me alone,” you hissed, taking a step back.

Ghostface tilted his head, the white of his mask gleaming through the fog. “What’s the matter? Didn’t you like his attention? After all, he went easy on you. That doesn’t happen often, you know.”

Trickster tapped a clawed finger against his temple. “You should feel honored, little bunny. Not every survivor gets a pet name.”

You glared at them, your skin crawling under their relentless teasing. You wanted to scream at them, to tell them to go back to their side of the fog and leave you alone, but you knew better. Picking a fight with killers—even ones that couldn’t touch you here—was asking for trouble.

Instead, you turned on your heel and stalked away, their laughter following you like a shadow.

“Sweet dreams, bunny!” Trickster called out behind you, voice dripping with mockery.

You didn’t look back.

Your head spun as you walked further into the camp, their words replaying in your mind. The Beast’s bunny. His obsession. Why didn’t he mori you when he had the chance?

You pressed a shaky hand to your forehead, frustration and unease settling deep in your chest. Why didn’t he?

The drop into the trial was as dizzying as always—the world around you materializing in a disorienting rush of fog and cold air. You hit the ground with a stumble, steadying yourself with a sharp breath. But as soon as you looked up, your heart sank.

No.

No, no, no.

Tall, twisted trees loomed in every direction, their jagged silhouettes clawing at the sickly sky. Bushes dense enough to hide anything rustled faintly in the breeze, and the unmistakable scent of damp earth and decay filled your nose. Ahead, you spotted the broken remains of a hunting lodge, its rotting wood and shattered windows familiar. Then, a flash of metal caught your eye—the glint of a rusted, blood-streaked hunting trap half-buried in the dirt.

Your blood ran cold.

You were on his map.

“Damn it,” you muttered, your voice barely a whisper, but the words echoed loud in your head.

Your stomach twisted as you remembered the last trial, his relentless pursuit, the flash of red in his eyes, the scrape of his claws.

“Get a grip,” you whispered to yourself. You couldn’t afford to freeze up now—not here, not on his turf.

Taking a deep breath, you gripped your flashlight and started moving, staying low as you weaved between the trees. Every step you took felt heavier than the last, like the map itself knew you were here—like he knew.

The broken-down jeep came into view, its rusting shell half-buried in leaves. You recognized it instantly—another landmark of his hunting ground. Just past it, you spotted the faint silhouette of a generator.

Focus, you told yourself. Find the gens. Fix them. Get out.

You crept closer, crouched low and trying not to make a sound. As you reached the generator, you knelt down and set your flashlight beside you.

You swallowed and started to work, your hands shaking slightly as you connected wires and tightened bolts. The hum of the generator grew louder with every adjustment, breaking the oppressive silence just a little.

But then you heard it.

A low, deep rumble carried through the trees.

Your hands froze. You didn’t even breathe as you strained to listen. At first, it sounded distant—almost like thunder rolling in—but then it grew closer. A soft, rhythmic growl, paired with the faint jingle of…

Bells.

Your heart plummeted.

Slowly, you turned your head, your blood running ice-cold. Through the thin veil of fog, you saw him—The Beast.

He stood just at the edge of the clearing, partially obscured by the shadows of the trees. His black cloak swayed faintly in the breeze, the fur draping over his broad shoulders as if it were part of him.

But it was his eyes—those glowing crimson eyes—that locked onto you like a predator spotting prey.

You couldn’t move. For a moment, it was as if the entire world held its breath.

Then he tilted his head, and his lips curled into something too sharp to be called a smile.

“Found you, little bunny.”

The sound of his voice—deep, rough, and unnervingly calm—snapped you out of your frozen state.

Run.

You shot up to your feet, abandoning the half-finished generator. Sprinting through the trees, you heard the pounding of footsteps behind you—heavy and impossibly fast. The bells on his collar rang softly with each movement, a haunting counterpoint to the blood rushing in your ears.

You weaved around trees and over logs, your lungs burning as you pushed yourself to move faster. But no matter how hard you ran, the growls grew louder, closer.

He’s toying with you.

The thought made your chest tighten with panic. You darted past a deer carcass, its lifeless eyes staring blankly, and nearly tripped over a hunting trap concealed in the leaves. A quick glance over your shoulder made your blood freeze.

He was right there.

Running on all fours, his claws dug into the dirt with every step, his cloak billowing behind him like a shadow. Drool dripped from his snarling mouth, and those red eyes—those damn eyes—never left you.

You turned sharply, sprinting toward a cluster of old crates and barrels. The familiar sight of a pallet gave you hope, and you grabbed hold of it, shoving it down just as he lunged forward. The pallet crashed to the ground, momentarily blocking his path.

You didn’t wait to see what he’d do next.

Vaulting over a window in a broken shack, you stumbled inside, gasping for air. Your heart thundered in your chest, but you seized the moment. The shack was small and dark, its rotting walls barely holding together, but the row of lockers against one wall caught your eye. Hiding was risky, you knew that, but running blindly wouldn’t get you far—not against him.

Quickly, you slipped into one of the lockers, squeezing yourself into the cramped space. The door creaked softly as you pulled it shut, and you winced, holding your breath as you pressed your body back as far as it would go.

You put a trembling hand over your mouth, forcing yourself to stay silent. Through the thin gaps in the locker, you could see into the room—shadows cast from the broken windows danced across the splintered floor. For a few agonizing seconds, there was nothing but silence.

Then you heard it.

The faint clink of bells.

Your stomach dropped.

The door to the shack creaked as it swung open, and the sound of heavy footsteps echoed through the room. Slow, deliberate steps—he wasn’t in a hurry. He knew you were here.

Through the locker’s slats, you caught glimpses of him. He prowled into view, hunched slightly forward as he sniffed the air, his claws scraping the wood with every step.

Then he stopped.

Right in the middle of the room.

You bit down on your hand, trying to control your ragged breathing as your chest rose and fell in frantic rhythm. His head tilted slightly, his crimson eyes sweeping the shack as though he could see through the walls. He growled—a low, vibrating sound that rattled in his chest.

“Little bunny,” he called softly, his voice rough and cruelly sweet.

You squeezed your eyes shut, praying he wouldn’t hear the pounding of your heart.

“I can smell you,” he continued, dragging out the words. “You ran so far… fought so hard… yet here you are. Hiding.”

His footsteps began again, the sound of bells chiming with each movement. You peeked through the slats and saw him move toward the lockers. Your blood turned to ice.

He stopped at the first locker.

The metal hinges creaked loudly as he tore the door open. Empty.

A low rumble escaped him—disappointed but patient.

Don’t open this one… don’t open this one, you thought frantically.

You watched as he moved to the second locker.

Your heart was in your throat, your entire body shaking as you clamped your hand harder over your mouth. He gripped the handle of the second locker door, then yanked it open with a growl.

Empty again.

He chuckled darkly, the sound making your skin crawl.

Then he turned to your locker.

You froze, every muscle in your body tensed as you stared through the gaps. His red eyes locked onto the locker door—onto you. You felt it.

He stepped forward, slow and deliberate, the glaive scraping against the floor as he moved. He was toying with you, savoring the fear that radiated off you in waves.

His clawed hand reached out, wrapping around the handle.

No, no, no—

Suddenly, the faint sound of a generator powering up echoed in the distance.

The Beast paused. His head snapped up, and his growl turned into a snarl. He hesitated for only a moment, then released the locker handle.

You didn’t move. You didn’t breathe.

With one last glare toward your hiding spot, he turned and stalked out of the shack, his bells jingling softly as he disappeared into the fog.

It wasn’t until you couldn’t hear his footsteps anymore that you dared to move.

Your hand fell away from your mouth as you gasped, air rushing into your lungs. You were shaking so badly you nearly fell out of the locker when you pushed the door open.

Slumping against the wall of the shack, you wiped sweat off your forehead and tried to steady your breathing.

That was too close.

“Get it together,” you whispered to yourself, standing up on wobbly legs.

You slipped out of the shack, your steps light as you crept toward the edge of the clearing. The cool air hit your face, but it did nothing to soothe the burn of exhaustion in your chest. Just as you were about to get your bearings, a blood-curdling scream cut through the silence.

Your stomach twisted at the sound of another survivor being hooked. You could almost feel their pain.

Shaking your head, you adjusted your grip on your flashlight and made your way back to the generator you’d started earlier.

The map was eerily quiet now, save for the faint hum of the Entity’s realm and the crunch of leaves beneath your feet.

You eventually spotted the generator up ahead, the same one you’d been working on before everything went sideways. It was tucked between two thick trees, its rusted frame bathed in the faint glow of moonlight.

Crouching down, you wasted no time. Your hands moved quickly, twisting bolts, reconnecting wires, and steadying sparking circuits. The generator let out small electric whines as you worked, and you winced every time it sounded too loud.

Your pulse quickened when you saw the progress bar fill just a little more. You were close—so close. The distant sounds of the map felt muffled as you zoned in on your work. Don’t mess up. Don’t mess up.

Then you heard it.

A growl.

Your hands froze mid-movement. You didn’t dare look up.

The sound was distant at first—like an echo carried by the fog—but it was unmistakable. Him.

“No,” you whispered to yourself, forcing your shaking hands to continue fixing the generator. If you stopped now, it’d all be for nothing.

You twisted one final bolt, and the generator sputtered before roaring to life. Its floodlights lit up the area, and the familiar blaring noise followed, announcing your progress to anyone listening.

Your breath hitched.

And that included him.

Somewhere close by, a howl ripped through the forest. Loud, guttural, and far too close for comfort.

Your eyes snapped up.

The fog shifted unnaturally ahead of you, parting like something monstrous had disturbed it. Through the haze, yellow eyes burned bright as they locked onto you.

Your heart dropped.

“Of course,” you muttered bitterly, turning on your heel and sprinting into the forest without a second thought.

The Beast roared in response, and you could hear the pounding of his claws against the dirt as he gave chase. The bells chimed in time with his steps, their sound twisted and distorted as they echoed behind you.

Trees blurred past you as you ran, leaping over roots and dodging branches that reached out like skeletal hands. You dared a glance over your shoulder and immediately regretted it—he was there, close enough for you to see the gleam of his fangs in the moonlight.

“Move, move, move!” you hissed to yourself, adrenaline pushing you forward as fast as your legs would carry you.

You felt it before you saw it—the sharp, searing pain of claws slicing across your back. The force of the blow sent you stumbling forward, your scream ripping through the fog as blood soaked into your shirt. The Beast snarled behind you, the sound a dark promise that he wasn’t done yet.

Move. Don’t stop.

Gritting your teeth through the pain, you spotted salvation up ahead: a pallet resting between two large trees. You pushed your legs to move faster, ignoring the burning sensation in your muscles as his heavy footsteps closed the distance.

With one final burst of speed, you reached the pallet, and in one fluid motion, you grabbed it and slammed it down with all the strength you had left.

The wood hit the ground with a satisfying thud just as he lunged, the pallet catching him mid-swing. He staggered for a moment, a low growl vibrating through the air as his red eyes locked onto you in fury.

But you weren’t done yet.

With shaky fingers, you flicked your flashlight on and aimed the beam directly at his face. The bright light pierced through the dark fog and hit him square in the eyes.

The Beast recoiled, a guttural snarl ripping from his throat as he jerked his head to the side, blinking furiously against the glare.

It worked.

You let out a shaky breath, a triumphant smile tugging at your lips despite the pain. The flashlight always works. He was blinded, even if just for a moment.

“Sorry, big guy,” you muttered under your breath, already turning on your heel and bolting away.

You didn’t have time to celebrate as you sprinted deeper into the forest, weaving between trees and broken fences.

The pounding of your footsteps against the dirt slowed as you spotted a faint glow through the trees—a generator, partially lit but still sputtering with effort. Relief rushed through you when you recognized three familiar figures huddled around it: Haddie, Ada, and Steve.

You stumbled toward them, blood still trickling from the slash on your back, your breath coming in ragged gasps.

“Hey!” Haddie called, her sharp gaze snapping to you. “Oh!”

“Jesus,” Steve muttered, already pulling out a med-kit and kneeling beside you. “Sit. You’re not gonna last like this.”

You hesitated for only a moment before sinking to the ground, letting Steve’s steady hands work on patching you up. The sting of antiseptic burned through the haze of adrenaline, but you bit your tongue, trying to focus on Ada and Haddie, who were whispering urgently to each other as they worked on the generator.

You opened your mouth to say something, but the words froze in your throat.

The sound came first. Faint, but clear.

Bells.

The soft, eerie jingle carried through the trees, distant at first… but quickly growing louder.

Steve stopped his hands mid-wrap, while Haddie’s and Ada’s both paused.

Slowly, all four of you turned to look behind you.

There, standing just at the edge of the clearing, was him.

His red eyes were glowing in the shadows, piercing through the fog like twin beacons. The glaive in his hand stained with blood, and his massive clawed arm twitched as though eager to tear into flesh again. He tilted his head, his stare locking onto all of you at once.

And then he spoke, his voice a deep, guttural rumble that made something in your stomach tickle.

“I can see you… all of you,” he drawled, his lips pulling back into a sharp grin that revealed rows of teeth. “When you’re together.”

Your heart stopped for a second.

“Oh, shit,” Haddie whispered.

Before anyone could move, the Beast lunged forward, his speed blinding.

“RUN!” Steve shouted, shoving you forward as he scrambled to his feet.

The air erupted in chaos.

You turned just in time to see the Beast barrel into the group, his glaive slashing outward. Haddie screamed as she was hit by the blade. Ada dove for cover behind the generator, her flashlight slipping from her grip.

Steve grabbed your arm, dragging you up as you stumbled.

“Go, go, go!” he yelled.

You bolted into the trees, your legs screaming in protest as pain flared through your back. From behind you, you could hear the heavy thud of the Beast’s footsteps and the ragged sound of his growls.

A scream echoed through the clearing—Haddie’s voice.

You glanced back for a split second and saw him standing over her, his claws raised, his red eyes flicking up to meet yours.

He’s looking at me.

Your stomach twisted, but you forced yourself to keep running, Steve at your side as the two of you crashed through the brush. Branches whipped against your face, the fog curling thicker the deeper you went.

The sound of Haddie's scream suddenly cut through the fog like a blade, sending a shiver of dread through your body. You could barely register the sound of Ada's scream following shortly after.

Tears stung your eyes as the wind howled through the trees, but you blinked them away.

But then you heard it—snap.

The world tilted as a sharp, searing pain shot through your leg, and you collapsed to the ground with a scream.

"Shit!" you gasped, clutching your thigh.

Your hands trembled as you looked down, the panic rising in your chest. You’d stepped into a snare trap. The sharp sting was immediate, its barbed wire coiled tightly around your upper thigh, the more you moves, the more the wire tightened, digging deeper into your skin with every movement, the barbed edges cutting into you like they were meant to hold you there—forever.

“No, no, no,” you panted, struggling to pull yourself free, blood began to trickle down your leg, warm and sticky, as you gasped, the pain making your vision blur.

“Help,” you cried out hoarsely, your voice breaking.

Steve, who had been ahead of you, didn’t hesitate to come back after hearing your scream. He rushed back to your side, his face pale as he looked down at the trap.

“Shit, shit, shit,” he cursed under his breath, kneeling beside you. His hands were frantic as he assessed the trap. “It’s too tight.”

You bit back a groan, trying to hold yourself still, but every small movement made the pain shoot deeper.

“Hold on, just… just hold on, alright?” Steve's voice was steady, despite the panic in his eyes as he worked at the wire. His hands were shaking, but he didn’t stop, trying to loosen it around your leg.

His movements were careful, slow, and you could feel every second ticking by like a countdown. The Beast could be right on top of you, you didn’t know.

“Steve, hurry!” you begged, the tears you had been blinking away now threatening to fall freely.

“I’m trying,” Steve muttered, his teeth clenched as he twisted the snare, trying to get it loose. “You’ve got to stay still, alright? You’re making it worse moving.”

You nodded, fighting against the urge to scream, biting down on your lip as you did your best to remain still.

“I’ve got it,” Steve said finally, relief flooding his voice as the wire loosened just enough for him to work his hands under it and pull your leg free.

You gritted your teeth, ignoring the throbbing pain in your leg as Steve pulled you to your feet. Your muscles screamed in protest, but you couldn’t afford to stop now.

“We need to go—now!” Steve urged, his voice tight with urgency. He glanced over his shoulder, scanning the fog, clearly sensing the Beast’s presence growing closer.

You nodded, swallowing the panic rising in your chest. The last thing you needed right now was to get caught. You limped, your leg barely holding up as you tried to keep pace with Steve, but every step sent a jolt of pain through you.

He kept his pace faster, glancing at you every few seconds to make sure you were still moving. “Just a bit further. We’ve got to make it to the generator—then we can heal, okay?”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. You were focused entirely on the uneven ground beneath your feet.

And then, just as the rustle of movement caught your ear, Steve spun around, blocking your path. His face was tight with fear.

“He’s close,” he said breathlessly.

You nodded, trying to steady yourself against the pain in your leg, but it was getting harder to move. Every step felt like an eternity.

“Steve…” you whispered, voice cracking. “I don’t know how much longer I can…”

Before you could finish, a blood-curdling howl echoed through the air, the sound unmistakable. The Beast had caught your scent.

"Go! Run!" Steve shouted, urgency in his voice.

You stumbled, torn between the need to run and the instinct to stay with him. "What about you?" you asked, voice strained as the Beast’s growl grew louder.

Steve shot you a look, his expression grim. He didn’t have time to argue. “You heard what he said,” he panted, pulling away slightly. “He can see us when we’re together. We’re better off apart.”

You wanted to protest, to grab his arm and drag him with you, but his eyes were already scanning the fog, watching for any movement. His resolve was set.

He gave you a slight push, his voice soft but firm. “Go.”

Without another word, Steve turned and bolted in the opposite direction, breaking away from you. His footsteps disappeared into the thick fog.

You hesitated for only a moment before you took off running, forcing your legs to move despite the pain.

You were alone now.

You found a quiet place to heal, between two thick trees. The tension in your shoulders was unbearable as you worked, each slow, painful motion making the process feel like it took a lifetime.

But then, a scream.

Steve’s scream.

The sound tore through the fog, sharp and raw. Your heart clenched. The scream was cut short, but it was enough to stop you dead in your tracks.

Steve was on the hook.

Without wasting another second, you groaned as you pushed yourself to your feet, your leg screaming in protest. You couldn’t afford to leave Steve behind. You couldn’t. Not when he was still alive and needed you.

You looked around nervously, trying to get your bearings, but the dense fog made it almost impossible to see anything clearly. You limped toward the source of Steve’s scream, heart pounding, knowing you had to be quick.

You passed by broken trees and fallen branches, your breath quick and shallow. Each step was more painful than the last, but you pushed through it.

The sound of Steve’s struggles echoed faintly ahead, his voice barely audible but enough to urge you forward.

Hang on, Steve. Please hang on, you thought desperately.

When you reached the clearing where the scream had come from, you saw Steve struggling, dangling from a hook.

Your stomach twisted. You didn’t know where Haddie was—if she was even still alive—but Ada? You weren’t sure.

All you knew was that you didn’t see him close by, and so you took the chance. You rushed forward, limping toward Steve, your heart pounding in your chest as you neared the hook.

But then, you heard his voice—a strained shout.

“Stop!” Steve yelled, his voice tight with fear.

You froze, mid-step. Your eyes locked with his, confusion rushing through you. He was staring at you with wide, frantic eyes, almost as if warning you.

You didn’t understand at first, but then you heard it—the subtle scrape of claws on the ground.

From behind the hook, he emerged, his body low to the ground, his yellow eyes fixed on you. His mouth was twisted in something between a snarl and... a smirk? It was unsettling. He wasn’t even trying to hide his hunger now. He knew exactly what he was doing.

Your heart skipped a beat as he crawled closer, his sharp claws scraping against the dirt. The bells jingled softly, but it felt like they were ringing in your ears, louder with every passing second.

Your eyes darted between Steve and the Beast. The decision was clear.

Without another thought, you spun on your heel and ran.

Every muscle screamed in protest, but adrenaline was the only thing fueling you now. Branches whipped past you, the fog pressing in around you, blurring your vision. The sound of heavy footsteps echoed behind you, each thundering step closer than the last.

You heard him, the low growl vibrating in the air, and then the unmistakable sound of his bells—ting-ting-ting. You thought you could feel the ground beneath your feet trembling, his pace quickening as he closed the distance. You tried to cut left, darting around trees in an attempt to break his line of sight, but he was still behind you.

In that moment, you realized the truth: he wasn’t chasing you to catch you. He was chasing you because he enjoyed it. He was savoring this. The thrill, the fear that radiated off you, the helplessness that grew with every passing second. You were his prey. And he was playing with you like a wolf with its catch—only, you weren’t meant to escape.

You felt the slash against your back, a sudden, agonizing pain raking across your side. The scream tore itself from your throat as you stumbled, falling to the ground in a heap. Blood welled up from the wound, pooling around you, but you barely noticed it, your mind too frantic to focus on anything but the Beast who loomed over you.

You turned your head, gasping for air, your vision swimming as you fought to stay conscious. The Beast stepped over you, his massive, clawed feet brushing the dirt, and for a moment, everything went still. He stood there, towering over you, his presence suffocating, making it feel like the world had closed in. His red eyes locked onto yours, glowing.

He didn’t move, just watched you, his expression unreadable. A low growl rumbled from deep in his chest, the sound vibrating through the ground beneath you. Your heart pounded, your breath shallow and ragged, but you couldn’t look away. His eyes were mesmerizing, wild and filled with hunger.

For a moment, it was as if time stood still, the forest around you fading away into nothing. There was no escape. No hope.

A slow, almost sinister smile spread across his face as he leaned down, his claws brushing against your cheek in a slow, deliberate motion. His breath was hot and heavy, and you could feel the weight of his gaze as if he were searching for something in you—something he wanted to claim. You shuddered under his touch, your body unable to move, paralyzed by fear.

"You're mine now," he murmured, his voice a guttural growl that sent shivers down your spine. His fangs gleamed in the low light, sharp and ready.

You couldn’t fight him. You were too weak, too broken, and all you could do was stare up at him, eyes wide with terror. The Beast crouched lower, his form blocking out the sky above you, and you could feel the weight of his gaze on your soul.

Then, without warning, he licked your cheek, his rough, warm tongue brushing against your skin like a dog's. It sent a shiver down your spine, and you instinctively recoiled, but there was nowhere to go. His hot breath fanned across your face as he sniffed at you, inhaling deeply as if savoring your scent, his gaze lingering on your every move.

You felt an uncomfortable twinge of vulnerability, but you couldn’t move fast enough to get away. His eyes darted downward, now focused on your leg, the one still bleeding from the snare trap. You hadn’t even noticed until now how much blood had soaked through your pants.

Before you could react, he suddenly ripped open the fabric of your pants, exposing the wound. The rough sound of tearing fabric filled the air as his claws made quick work of the material, revealing the injury beneath.

Your breath hitched in your throat as you watched him, confusion and fear flooding your mind. What was he doing?

You gasped when the Beast's rough tongue suddenly brushed against the open wound on your thigh, the sensation shocking you. It felt strange—like something was pulling at you from within, and you instinctively flinched.

"Stop..." you gasped, though the words came out weak, as you tried to crawl away, desperate to get some distance between you and him.

But before you could get far, his sharp claws sank into the soft flesh of your thigh, gripping and pulling you back to him. The pressure was intense, and you couldn’t move. He held you there, unyielding, as his tongue continued to lick at your wound, collecting the blood.

You whimpered, trying to push against his hold, but his grip was like iron, and no matter how hard you struggled, you couldn’t escape.

As the Beast continued, the warmth of his tongue against your skin became oddly less weird. The fear remained, but you couldn’t deny the strange sensation of being so completely under his control. His actions were relentless, but they were also slow, as though savoring something delicate.

Then, suddenly, he pulled back. You heard soft whines escape from him, and it sent a cold chill down your spine. You met his eyes again, and you could see the remnants of your blood, mixed with his saliva, dripping from the corners of his mouth. The sight made your stomach twist.

He slowly licked the blood from around his lips, his gaze never leaving you. His breathing was deep, his chest rising and falling with each inhale. He crawled closer again, his eyes intense, and for a moment, all you could hear was his heavy breathing.

Then, with a low growl, he spoke. “You smell so... good,” he murmured, his voice deep and gravelly. “You taste so sweet...”

The words sent a shiver down your spine. He seemed to be savoring them as much as he had savored the blood from your wound. His voice dropped even lower, his words tinged with something darker.

“You’ve had me going crazy ever since I first caught a scent of you. I can’t get you out of my mind.” His eyes gleamed, hungry and wanting.

He leaned closer, his breath hot against your mouth. “I crave you,” he repeated, his tone possessive, as though the very thought of you was driving him wild.

Fear mingled with something else in the pit of your stomach. You weren’t sure what it was, but his words were like a trap, a pull that made it hard to think clearly, harder to remember why you needed to escape.

His breath was hot against your skin, his presence overwhelming, and before you could react, the Beast leaned in, his face inches from yours. Your heart raced in your chest, fear and confusion coursing through you. Then, without warning, his lips pressed against yours.

The kiss was rough, urgent, as if he were trying to claim you. You froze, unable to process what was happening. His mouth was warm, and for a moment, everything seemed to disappear around you, your thoughts clouded by the shock of the moment.

You felt his hands, still strong and unyielding, keeping you in place as his lips moved against yours. It was unlike anything you had ever experienced, and the unexpectedness of it left you breathless, your mind unable to fully comprehend his actions.

For a long second, time seemed to slow. He pulled away just enough to gaze at you, his red eyes intense, searching for something in your expression. The kiss had left you disoriented, unsure of how to feel, and you could see the hunger in his eyes.

Before you could gather your thoughts, he whispered low, “My little bunny.”

His grip tightened for a moment, and you could feel the intensity of his words as they settled in your chest. "I'm sorry," he murmured, his voice low, but there was an unsettling tenderness to it. "But I have to kill you now."

Before you could react, he flipped you over with ease, pinning you beneath him. His paw pressed down on your back, the weight of it overwhelming as his gaze locked onto you.

You squirmed beneath him, trying to push against his hold, but it was useless. His strength was far beyond yours, and every attempt to free yourself only seemed to make his grip tighten.

"Please," you gasped, voice trembling as you struggled.

But he didn’t stop. His eyes were locked on yours with an intensity that sent a chill through you, and his body felt like a heavy weight, pressing you into the cold ground.

"Can you at least tell me your name?" you asked, your voice desperate. It was all you could think of to try to connect with him, to find some way to understand him.

He stopped for a moment, his eyes narrowing as he considered your words. There was a flicker of something—something almost human—in his gaze before he growled, a low rumble vibrating through his chest.

"Jay," he said simply, the sound of it rough but clear.

You repeated it softly to yourself, tasting the name on your lips. "Jay."

He paused again, almost as if surprised- "You're the first one to know it." A flicker of something—maybe amusement, flashed in his eyes.

But then, without warning, he threw his head back, releasing a haunting howl that echoed through the night. The sound seemed to reverberate through the very air, a chilling symphony of raw power and unbridled emotion.

As the echo faded, Jay lowered himself, his jaws parting slightly as he moved closer to you. There was no mercy in his eyes, no hesitation. With a swift motion, he sank his teeth into your neck. The pain was sharp and intense, but before you could even process it fully, darkness claimed you, and everything around you vanished.

You gasped as you fell back into the survivor camp, unharmed, alive, as if nothing had happened at all.

The others were going about their business, completely unaware of the nightmare you had just experienced. The tension in your body remained, though, a tight knot in your chest that wouldn't loosen.

You knew you couldn't tell anyone what had happened. No one would understand. They would think you had lost your mind.

Shaking the lingering thoughts from your head, you stood up, your legs a bit unsteady. The sharp, eerie silence that had enveloped the camp was suddenly pierced by the unmistakable howl from the direction of the killers' area. It echoed through the foggy air, loud and clear, that it made the other survivors nearby glance up in alarm.

The howl was different from the usual ones. It was the triumphant cry of a successful hunt—an announcement to the realm that the beast had claimed his prize.

══════⊹⊱≼≽⊰⊹══════

Perm taglist: @ilyunjina @nshmrarki @laylasbunbunny

@wensurr @immelissaaa @simj4k3 @vegahrid @03sunoos

@hollxe1 @moonpri @cherriesfine @badtzsan @anushkaaaiaiiaiaia

@heeseungbabydoll @wondash @renjiishot @demigodmahash

@strawberrieswithchocolateo3o @honeybunnee @jjongstar111

@enhaprettystars @zorange13 @jiminie-08 @enhaprettystars

@enhamonsterghoul @mrsjjongstby @lunaritex @kiripimaspillow

@sumsumtingz @norucking @tunafishyfishylike @txnwvc

Bold ones are untaggable* Wanna be in the perm taglist? Lmk <3

249 notes · View notes

uncouth-the-fifth · 2 years ago

Text

click - Sam Winchester/Reader

read it on ao3.

Pairing: Sam Winchester/Reader (circa season 1) Tags/Warnings: cabin-in-the-woods moment, fluffy bestie banter, virgin reader, first time sex, vaginal sex, vaginal fingering, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, and of course, Sam is a pussy god, as per usual. Word Count: ~20k (shhhh don't talk about it i have a problem) Notes: that's right, i make moodboards now bitches. these photos were collaged by my wonderful commissionee @daffodil-mania, who asked for: ""a reverse (you are a) natural, baby? where sam is the reader’s first time + a smutty cabin in the woods-type situation." Ask to be added to my taglists for future posts!

“Okay, okay,” you thought out loud, thinking hard, “my turn—if you could have anyone as a dinner guest, alive or dead, who’d you pick?”

A few paces ahead of you, Sam hummed in thought. His puffy winter coat made the outline of him against the swirling snow thicker, and if it was possible, taller, a menacing wall of deep blue between you and the woods. Something hiding out here and spying could even mistake Sam for something scary. Luckily, you weren’t that stupid.

Sam, for the millionth time in the last minute, checked that you were where you were supposed to be. (Two immediate steps behind him. Or he’d die). Looking back at you made the wind mess up his hair every time, and every time Sam tucked the same two strands behind his ears again. Like the shy girls in rom-coms did. Truly, monsters trembled at the sight of him.

He geeked at your question, but managed to play it cool: “Gandhi. Feel like he could teach me something. We’d probably like the same food, too, so it’d make for a good dinner.”

“Oh yeah, he was a vegetarian, right? You two could have a nerdy little salad together.”

Under the soft swell of the wind, you thought you heard Sam laugh, but it picked up in loud gusts at times that swirled skirts of untethered snow around your ankles. Well, your knees. The snow was tall enough here to seep into your boots. You’d given up totally on finding your own footing and started walking in Sam’s tracks, which were wider than yours almost all the way around. You told yourself that this was to confuse anyone tracking your prints in the snow, but really it was just fun to compare your shoe size to Sam’s. This set the walk back to the cabin at a snail’s pace. But with the way this conversation was going, you didn’t exactly mind freezing your ass off.

John had left his boys yet another unfinished hunt to distract them. Sam and Dean, tired of being distracted, changed tactics and split up. Dean was following a lead in Montana that could actually take him to John, and you and Sam were tying up John’s loose ends in upper Washington. The two of you had spent the last three days researching bloody disappearances in the area. An area in the thick of its snowiest, blurriest season, mind you, miles from anything but one of the Winchesters’ off-the-grid apocalypse shelters. This wasn’t how you and your mother had operated when you’d hunted together, but. Things changed. Parents disappeared.

Sam seemed to be shoving himself through John’s absence as best he could. You got smiles out of him here and there, but especially today, playing question games to pass the time mapping the woods and putting down traps.

“Gandhi was a fruitarian,” Sam clarified. He shielded his face from the snow by hiding in his collar, so you may have misheard when he added, “So, yeah. Him or my mom.”

Months ago, a mention of Sam’s mom would’ve shocked you into a full-on coma. He kept her memory even closer to his chest than Dean did, in some ways, and either brother even sneezing in the direction of their storied past had been a once-in-a-lifetime event. Before this hunt, that is. Now you couldn’t get Sam to shut up. Either the isolation had made him lonely or something else had pushed him to trust you, because the last two days had been spent this way—trudging through snow and spilling your guts about everything under the sun together. Sam loved to read and watch documentaries, he was fascinated by astronomy and meteorology and organized crime history and Native American folklore, and, hey, big surprise, reading. You’d never heard him talk about anything with so much passion. You hadn’t heard that passion in your own voice since before you’d lost your mom.

Still. As comfortable as you suddenly felt with Sam, you were sure to tread lightly. You risked a glimpse at his broad, snow-dusted back. “Mary would be nice too. Maybe you’d get to try some family recipe she’d make or something.”

“I think I remember my dad tellin’ me once that she hated cooking, actually, but m’ not sure,” Sam said, a bit of humor in his voice.

You thought of the soup Sam had turned to lava over the wood stove that morning, and grinned, “Yeah, I think you got that from her.”

Keeping casual eyes on your feet, you tried to see how fast you could get your boot through each foothold in the snow. Sam would make deep gouges in the powder with his longer strides. Crunch-crunch, crunch-crunch. You’d clear them three in a row, sometimes four, then stop short a step behind Sam and wait for him to make more tracks. Like hopscotch, almost. Every once in a while a huge gust of wind would force Sam to stop, and without a word he’d form a wall between you and the blast. You’d learned pretty much everything there was to know about Sam these last few days, but out of all his best dorky qualities his chivalry was your favorite.

“S’ not that I hate cookin’, I just suck attit.”

And the accent. The accent was gold, when the pretty drawl of it crept through with Sam’s boredom.

A little further and the spindly, snow-heavy trees parted for the lake you and Sam had been using to navigate. On your first day scouting you’d noticed how the icy surface had frozen like a misshapen heart, and since then Sam followed the point of it back to your cabin every night. Southeast of it was the abandoned mining facility that’d swallowed three people whole, and to its far right was where three more had disappeared. Your guess was a couple of territorial tree nymphs or werewolves, and Sam was betting on a Winter Hunger. The loser would take the first shift driving down to Montana.

Seeing the lake, Sam starts to arc your march around the edge, his sharp eyes on the treeline across the ice. The wind was stronger with room to run over the lake, but you reminded yourself that being a little cold was the gentlest way to die out here and forged ahead. Besides, most of your body had gone stark numb miles back. When you remembered how bad your cheeks were stinging, you’d bring your scarf tighter around your face and watch Sam, his long legs cutting easily through the snow.

The wind cooled down to a whisper. You reminded him, “Your turn.”

You’d reached a point where coming up with good questions had become harder than answering them, so Sam took a bit to stew on something good. There’d been a silent agreement on who was responsible for which kinds of asks. You would probe Sam with the deepest, most personal shit you could come up with, and after he explained what his life’s accomplishment was and what friendship means to him, Sam would go, uhhhh, what’s your favorite color? He was definitely the smartest shovel in the Winchester shed.

“How about this,” Sam cleared his throat. “Would you ever wanna be famous?”

You must’ve made a noise that gave away your surprise at the quality of his question, because he made a snooty sound back that had you seriously considering shoving him in the snow. You put your hands on his shoulders and everything, but where there should’ve been normal guy shoulders there were buff guy shoulders, which wouldn’t budge an inch. Sigh. What a lousy, muscly jackass.

Sam planted his feet, whining your name. “C’mon. Answer.”

“I’m thinking!” You laughed, and pushed with your legs until Sam tilted forward into his next step. It took a moment for you to keep your hands to yourself. “Okay. In this hypothetical world, what am I famous for?”

“Supermodel,” Sam answered right away.

You splashed a little snow at his jeans, deciding to save your funny feelings about his answer for later self-reflection. “Dude. Be realistic.”

At this, Sam snickered, and even with him facing forward you could imagine the dry sloping smile pressing into his dimples. “Okay—across the whole entire world, you’re famous for cooking the perfect soup in a can. Like, in ways no one can even imagine, that’s how good. You make millions of dollars off it and become a household name. Would you want that?”

“God, no,” you wuffed out, immediately sending Sam into a fit of giggles. “Are you kidding me? All those strangers knowing me, not giving me any privacy? And don’t even get me started on all those soup-hounds throwing themselves at me for my soup-money.”

“I guess that’s true. You could never marry for love, 'cause everybody would just want your soup,” Sam mourned. Another great Sam quality: he was excellent at going along with a bit. “You’d just have to live with brief soup-flings for the rest of your life.”

You thought about what a soup-fling could entail for all of one second, then burst out laughing, warm clouds of it spiraling into the air through your breath. The shoulders of Sam’s coat shook with glee. It was funny for a few more beats until it warmed into something that was light and airy, something you hadn’t heard from Sam since you’d met him. He had the sweetest laugh. It made your damn teeth rot.

“Y’know, speaking of flings,” you hollered over the hissing wind, “I have no idea how your brother does that shit.”

Dean was safe and familiar territory; he was the centerpiece of everything you had in common with Sam, so your conversation circled back to him plenty. Every conversation you’d had with Dean orbited around Sam some way, too, so you’d come to expect it. You’d never seen two brothers care about each other as much as they did. Which was hilarious, since the moment one of them got you alone all they did was bitch. Dean’s been driving me up the damn wall. Sam keeps stickin’ his nose in my business. Neither of them had ever had a trusted third set of eyes before, or at least one who understood that their complaints were overshadowed with love. John had been someone to look up to, to emulate and impress, but you were a fresh outlet available for family baggage. The boys were your outlet for bitching too, since it was understood that your bitching also came from the heart.

“A girl in every port sounds fun in theory, but I feel like I’d get sick of it fast,” you confessed.

The snow underfoot began to crunch harder with each step, packed down into a firm sheet. Soon Sam’s prints were so shallow that you could see the tips of your boots again. Taking the chance while you had it, you fought against the snow to walk side-by-side with him, then fought again to match him stride-for-stride. Sam’s poor face had been pounded with so much snow that his bangs were soaking wet, but he still managed a half-frozen smile seeing you next to him.

“And, I dunno. I think I care about hurting people’s feelings too much to just…” you gestured stiffly, “head to the next town after sharing a night with someone.”

“Same here,” Sam sighed, then gave a very subtle cough as a sign to shift gears: “But, uh, I think it’s kinda a stress relief thing for him.”

You probably should’ve guessed that Sam wasn’t the fling type, since you’d been there every time he’d shied away from Dean’s plans to pick up girls, but the idea… sat there. Staring at you. It’d be stupid-easy for Sam to live that lifestyle. Dean had his own notions about what girls were most into (bad boys, leather jackets, you know), but you happened to be certified in what girls were into, and you had it on good authority that Sam was a total dreamboat.

You nudged Sam with your shoulder, coaxing him open with a well-placed smile. This was unearthed territory. “Not your thing, huh?”

The snow had pinkened Sam’s face enough as it was, so what he was capable of on his own was downright impressive. Even his ears went red. “Uhh,” he chuckled, too skittish to look you in the eye. “No, not really. I’m. I, uh, I’d rather get to know her first, y’know. Before we’re intimate. And hopping towns doesn’t exactly give you the time to do that.”

Yup. Total dreamboat.

“Oh, so that’s your plan, asking me all these personal questions.”

Sam controlled his sputtering by pressing his lips into a firm, flat line, which refused to indulge your silly flirting. “You’re a jackass,” he said, and the growing smile in his voice betrayed just how little he thought that was true.

When you were done laughing at your own joke, Sam guessed, “So that’s not your thing, either? One night stands?”

You were having fun—pulling Sam’s leg, for one, but also talking to him in general, so the truth glides right out of your mouth.

“Wouldn’t know. I’ve never had sex.”

Sam had left his filter two states behind on the drive up, so he doesn’t even think to cap his disbelief. He scoffs. “Yeah, right.”

His mortification with himself makes contact two beats later, and while you’re smirking and floating unbothered across the snow, Sam nearly goes belly-up falling over himself to apologize.

You soak up his groveling until Sam’s embarrassment hits a breaking point, then, in your humblest and kindest princess voice, you say, “It’s cool, Sam. No worries. I’m not at all offended you think it’s weird I’m a virgin.”

“I don—I-I don’t think it’s weird,” Sam stressed, going a little wild in the eyes. “It’s great! …I mean, not like, great, I just mean. It’s not a bad thing or anything.”

You meet his awkward silence with a smug, pleased one of your own. Sam’s smart enough to realize he’s stumbled into your trap, but not quick enough to find an escape, so he sputters for a long time and falls back on his third option.

“I’m just wondering,” he winces, knowing his question is stupid, “why are you still a virgin?” You’re about to laugh in his face, but the earnestness in Sam’s voice makes you hesitate. His question is a genuine one. “...That sounds awful, m’ sorry. But, c’mon. You’re smart enough to know how pretty you are. Charmin’ enough to use it, too. I mean, I’d…”

He caught himself. “—Anyone, would, uh…”

Sam didn’t finish his thought. He changed his grip on the shotgun swinging from his hand, self-conscious, and cleared his throat.

Well. That wasn’t obvious at all. No way in hell you were leaving that alone.

“You’d what?”

Sam didn’t say anything. He just tucked his hair behind his ears again, too shy to say what he was thinking but bold enough to let it be spoken in his silence instead. And it was a very, very telling silence.

Your brain scrambled to cram as much as possible into the blank Sam had left. There was so much potential in that one little word. I’d…

I’d understand if someone wanted to have sex with you.

I’d have found someone by now, if I were you.

I’d have sex with you.

I’d take that opportunity, ______, if I could.

Hm. Okay. Okay, huh. There weren’t a lot of people in the world capable of making you question your life decisions so quickly, but of course, this was Sam. His silence persevered. Your train of thought became an internal trainwreck.

A few opportunities had cropped up over the course of your life—third dates with guys that hadn’t totally sucked, a few handsome barflies—but nothing had… clicked. Because there was supposed to be a click, right? Before sex? Some compass in your body, moving you in a certain direction? You hoped to drift toward something that fit better than a stranger, but like Sam had said, that level of commitment wouldn’t be waiting for you out on the road. You could hook up with civilians or hunters as you pleased, but just the thought made your chest ache. Real connection wouldn’t be waiting for you in the back of a truck or a sleazy motel. Hunters lived short lives, sure, but that didn’t mean you couldn’t be a hopeless romantic.

You’d held onto that notion for a long time. Someday, something would click, and it’d be worth the damn wait.

Now, Sam was here, blinking coyly at you through his bangs, keeping you close to him, listening when you spoke. Click, goes your brain. Like a gear notching into place. He has those mossy, sensitive eyes that pry right open just for you and the prettiest rasp to his voice. Click click.

“C’mon,” Sam coughs. “Cabin’s just ahead.”

I’d… Sam had said, and left you to fill in the blanks.

The next day, both of you were proven wrong. You found out the hard way that the disappearances weren’t caused by cannibalistic spirits or werewolves. After getting mauled by living hills of snow and almost swallowed by an avalanche, you and Sam got the very subtle and not-at-all-lethal impression that you were dealing with an insane case of cursed ground. (Cur-sed, Sam had said, because he was fancy.) It took some on-the-spot ritual work and a day’s worth of walking to bury hex bags in the right spots, but by dusk you were alive and comfortable back in the cabin.

“I say we stick around for one more night—make sure this place is clean,” Sam suggested, shaking himself out on the welcome mat. When he shucked his coat off, the silky interior and the back of his shirt were dark with melted snow.

You glanced between Sam, who was blue at the edges, and the shifting tides of flakes on the wind outside. If you stared long enough the whole mountainside seemed to come alive in the dark.

“Uh,” you told him, “are you sure? If we got even one of those spells wrong, what’s stopping this thing from burying the whole cabin?”

But Sam had already thought of that, like he’d already thought of everything else. He rose from where he’d been kicking off his boots to give your icy hands a quick, warming squeeze. “I got it covered. Go—get a fire started, and fast.”

Since you were still riding the wave of adrenaline that’d kept you alive against moving, living forces of nature, you were already following Sam’s orders before he’d finished saying them. He didn’t act hardly as hurried. Being soaked and half-frozen was apparently second nature to him, since he navigated uninhibited through the duffle of ingredients you’d unloaded on the cabin’s floor. Your fingers were so numb that it took three tries to scrape some fire out of your matches, and by then Sam was already tying off his millionth hexbag of the day.

You didn’t regain your senses until a few minutes later, which passed as slow as hours did. Somehow in that sliver of time you’d hauled more firewood inside, hurried it into the fireplace, lit it, helped Sam bury the protection spells around the yard, raced back inside, and laid all your wet clothes out in front of the hearth. The second the doors were locked, your high started to tank. Sam was talking.

“—will last us through til’ tomorrow. Then, in the morning, we can use the spell to see if the land is purified. It might even be a good idea to check with the dowsing rods, too. If this ground is as cursed as we think, the hexbags will be just fine, though, so you don’t have to worry. You listenin’?”

Sam was a big, fuzzy-edged shape sitting criss-cross on the ratty rug a few paces from the fire. His silhouette was outlined by it in handsome shades of gold and honey-white, ‘cause of course he was the kind of movie beautiful that suited romantic fire lighting. Like, really romantic. Your brain had been baking in the panicked sludge of fleeing and hunting all day, but even it was capable of looking at that image of Sam and going, Uh, yeah. There’s something going on here.

For the last few days, the two of you had purified the ground of the cabin, too. It was the most telling relic of Sam and Dean’s life with John Winchester: rationed, unglamorous, and harsh. John was usually an out-of-bounds subject for the boys, but Sam had spent the last few days describing him at length. He was paranoid and obsessive—hence the cabin’s military rations, hidden weapons, traps, metric fucktons of salt, and next to nothing else. John hated any music and technology post-1980—hence the cabin’s record player. It was the only source of entertainment on hand, and the same three records only lasted so long. Even as hunter’s hovels went, this one was impressively oppressive.

Sam, plagued by abysmal hunter-kid memories of being stuck out here, had warned you about it ahead of time. You’ll get bored and miserable. He’d said that and you’d thought to yourself how hard it would be to get bored and miserable around Sam, who mystified you just sitting there. Still, you splurged on some big fluffy blankets, the shittiest and cheapest chess set you could find, pillows, and s’mores. Not exactly the John Winchester essentials, but. Just in case.

Stuffing the footwell of Sam’s stolen truck with cozy bullshit had been worth it in the end, purely because you wouldn’t wish the sleeping situation in the cabin on your worst enemy. There was a single, boxspring-less bed crammed in the bedroom’s corner, with a blanket too pitiful to put into words. It only had one pillow. This pillow also happened to be of unknown origin and age, and you were only brave enough to touch it because you’d worn your big girl pants that day. Sam had banked on the two sleeping bags he and Dean had left there as kids, but they were unfortunately still kid-sized. The two of you would’ve been forced to share body heat under one petal-thin blanket. Now, loaded up with massive, fuzzy comforters and heavy quilts, the two of you were happily sharing body heat under enough blankets to drown in.

Sam had insisted on making a bed for himself on the floor the first night. You’d let him, purely because he was pouring on the chivalry by the truckload and you were too grateful to know what to say. Any plans to argue were pinned down by that stern, unguarded stare. S’okay, I’ve been sleepin’ like this since I was little. Just a few minutes sinking into your snug nest made you rot with guilt. Being on the road with the boys put you in a bed with Sam plenty of times, and though the quarters were a bit tighter in the cabin, the cold was sharper too. You confessed your guilt to Sam the next day, and after the usual research marathon that night you felt his weight fill the untouched side of the bed.

Okay, Sam had caved. But—you’re sleeping on the inside, by the wall. I’m a lighter sleeper. That way if somethin’ comes in, I can protect you.

Hearing that, you’d grabbed his wrist and pulled it over your side. You’d kept one hand fisted around the knife under your pillow and the other folded over Sam’s hand, as if to say, I can protect you, too. Sam must’ve understood, because he’d pressed his cheek against your shoulder blade and succumbed to sleep. The rest of the week was spent like that, Sam herding you against one side of the slim bed with his legs and his arms and his sleepy-soft breaths. Though the bed was toasty and the contact was a one-stop sleeping pill, you stayed up with your knife for company. Sam deserved to feel safe while he slept.

You didn’t get that often as a hunter. Especially the touching part. Touching of any kind only really happened when you trusted someone, and trust was earned on the road with all the ease and painlessness of pulling teeth. In Sam’s case, he was an untapped well for little doses of affection. The moment that line was crossed, the second you’d taken a hit in his place for the first time, the second you’d torn your own clothes to wrap his wounds, Sam was open to you. He would never reach for your hand first (not if he was still Sam, who thought he didn’t deserve it), but you could reach for his and he would take it without question. You could pull his arm around you and Sam would wrap it tight, pressing his nose into your back. There was an exchange that occurred. He trusted you to give him something he was too proud to ask for and you trusted him to let you in, the two of you careful not to break the magic.

While he poked at the fire and lit candles, you flitted to the other room to scoop up a blanket to wrap yourself up in. The constant back-and-forth insanity of the day had made you too nauseous to eat, but you knew your stomach needed something. Preferably something sweet to trick you into feeling rewarded. Military rations really weren’t your thing, so you opted for the pomegranate Sam had avoided to keep his research papers clean.

He’d been going through your plan for tomorrow, right. “I’m listening, Sammy.”

When you circled back to join him on the rug, you opened up an arm of your blanket-cape for him. Sam, without comment, ducked under it, and you shuffled around for a minute to give his broader shoulders some fabric to work with. “All we can do for now is wait,” he told you, “so… whaddya wanna do?”

You put a bowl down in front of you and started splitting the pomegranate with your knife. “Chess again?”

Sam’s lip slanted in a frown. All his energy for smart stuff had been spent on the hunt today, so you weren’t all that surprised at his reluctance.

“Cards, then?” You guessed. Beads of rich red fruit started to fill your bowl, which Sam didn’t hesitate to sneak a hand into.

“There’s only so many rounds of Go Fish a guy can handle losing, _____,” Sam teased.

It was true. You’d obliterated him every round so far, the poor bastard.

Sam leaned into your side, filling your peripherals with his know-it-all smirk. “Unless you—”

“We’re done playing poker,” you said, having suffered your fair share playing against him. The emptiness of your wallet must’ve reflected in your voice, since Sam started snickering into his lap—and yeah, maybe the whole cute-shy-guy routine had worked on you, but knowing Sam he’d find a way to sneak the money he’d won out of you back into your bag. He was sweet that way. Evil, but sweet.

“Okay,” Sam wet his lips and wracked his brain. “...I could read my book to you. It’s the one I was telling you about—”

“—with the corrupt cops in L.A,” you filled in. Separating the pomegranate seeds from their core was bloody work with your knife, so when the natural halves of it were happily in the bowl you picked the rest apart with purple-stained fingers.

“Uh-huh. And we’re at a part I think you’d find pretty interesting, all the crazy trial stuff.” Sam shrunk into his shoulders a little bit, then added in a quiet voice, “If you, y’know. If you want.”

Hmm. You swiped the book from Sam’s other hand, the planes of his fingers making brief, electric contact with yours. A sharp flash of heat whipped through your belly, sizzling through your nerves. It took a bit for you to refocus, but the pause made you look like you were some deep scholarly person really inspecting the back cover, which Sam seemed to appreciate. You took care not to get any fruit stains on the pages. When you turned to pass it back to him, Sam was rubbing his bruised knuckles into his sleepier eyes. How he could keep reading after staring at nothing but old newspapers all week, you had no clue.

You reeled the book back toward you. “...How about I read it to you?”

Sam froze, considering this. He considered it so long that you could watch his cheeks color in real-time, the same red they’d been in the snow, until he broke out of his trance and managed a warm, surprised sort of smile.

“Okay,” Sam melted.

“C’mere, lawboy,” you decided on a whim, and pat the top of your thigh. True to form, Sam took his permission and ran with it, twisting shyly to lay on his side and prop his cheek on your leg. “Lemme impress you with all the big words I know how to say.”

Sam chuckled, and it was the kind of laugh that told you just how many weird law words were about to trip you up. It was also the kind of laugh you could feel, rumbly and real through your leg, which was. It was. It was something. He got comfortable, curling a lazy arm around your knee and using you as a proper pillow.

You really should’ve put more thought into having Sam this close. Like, really should’ve, since he’s so big and warm that it has you running on nothing but instinct, and your first impulse having Sam in your lap is to go straight for that gorgeous hair.

You take the lock Sam’s been messing with all day and tuck it behind his ear, just because his head is there and you need a damn place for your hand to rest. Right. A deep and draining sigh airs out of Sam’s nose being touched like that, and you start to wonder if this was something he’d masterminded. He seeps into your lap like he’d been chasing this all day, all week, and something about it makes you feel special in ways no one else could manage.

You open to the page Sam left off on and start to read. Sam doesn’t move an inch, laying statue-still in your lap. He only moves to sneak pinches of pomegranate seeds. Stiff as he is, he’s there, the furnace you’ve relied on for the last few days to keep warm. You get through a few chapters this way, Sam pausing you every ten seconds to explain something or hum or snootily translate some lawyer-speak for you. The whole time you do an excellent job of keeping your hands to yourself. Ever since Sam’s comment from yesterday, the little pieces you’ve gotten of him have made you greedy. Click.

The fire and the candlelight create a perfect bubble of heat on the otherwise icy floor, so it doesn’t take long for Sam to go from resting in your lap to downright oozing across it. From your point of view he’s nothing but a mop of shining hair and a big hand curled around your knee. His presence seeps into you as much as his warmth does, and after so long it’s almost overwhelming to taste someone else’s vulnerability this way. Click click. You’re reminded of how much you care about Sam, and how long it’s been since you’ve been allowed that. There was something about him that would always be worth protecting. Maybe it was how fucking good he smelled.

“Doctor Janen’s contributions to the investigation, especially her knowledge of luminol, were,” you trailed off, “were…”

Sam’s breathing had evened out in your lap. Or, you thought it had, until his posture shifted under the sweater he was wearing. He rolled out of your lap and onto his hands with a reluctant groan. Tired as he was, Sam was always capable of being a smartass. “D’you know what luminol is?”

“Yes, detective,” you scoffed, maybe a teensy bit disappointed that he’d left your lap. The outline of his touch on your thigh burned like a heat beacon. “Should I go back and read the last few paragraphs, or was that you just pretending to sleep?”

Sam rubbed at his face, like it was possible to physically scrub the sleep from it. He sat up next to you, blinking slowly to get his bearings, and for no logical reason your heartbeat built to an ear-ringing throb in your chest. You were completely alone with him. For once, you had Sam all to yourself. Soft shadows kissed his arms and hands and neck. He was made up of nothing but full endless sloping lines, a charcoal sketch come to life.

“I was restin’ my eyes,” he sassed. “We should stay sharp through tonight, though. Stay up. I can take the first shift, since you’ve taken the last three.”

You didn’t miss the little nod to your sleeping habits. Which meant Sam had also laid awake long enough to know you hadn’t fallen asleep until late, which meant he’d laid awake next to you. In bed. Thinking with that big brain of his. It made your own big brain run around in crazy circles, chasing whatever conclusions he might come to.

You stole a glance at the nearest window. The salt lines were laid neatly on its sil, on the off chance boarding up the glass turned out to be useless. “That’s okay. I’m not exactly tired yet.”

Sam popped a few pomegranate seeds into his mouth, humming in thought. “Then it’d probably be smartest to keep each other up.”

“Samuel!” You gasped. He froze mid-chew, confused, and remained confused until you started poking him and laughing. “I’d expect a line like that from your brother, but never from you.”

You were a tease-first-ask-questions-later kind of person, so you understood Sam’s particular brand of banter and how he liked to respond to yours. Typically, you’d annoy him with a playful little taunt and Sam would let you know you were funny by calling you a jackass. You waited for Sam to hear your line and brush you off as an idiot. Instead, he did something much more interesting: he got defensive.

“I meant stay up like, like talking,” he sputtered. “I would never—y’know. I wouldn’t. Do, uh. Do that. Why don’t we keep up our question game from before? It’s, it’s your turn, right?”

“Okay. What was your first time like?”

Well. Shit.

This was the fastest question that either one of you had managed to whip out all week, and that fact hung so obviously in the air that you could feel it between you and Sam on the floor. It dropped so hard in the middle of the conversation that it shut you both up, silencing Sam’s sputtering and veering your train of thought to a shrieking, sparking halt. Sam was smart. His big brain would put together—had probably already put together—that you’d thought about asking him this. He might even be smart enough to intuit why you’d been itching to bring this subject back up, and for the first time in your life you prayed that Sam was the dumbest, most thick-headed man to ever hunt with you.

He did a great impression of someone less clever than himself. “Like. The first time I…?”

You chewed a few pomegranate seeds. “Uh-huh.”

“...Right.” Sam registered. He conveniently decided to fixate on the fire instead of you, which should’ve helped your sanity, if that was even possible anymore. The bulb of his nose and the swell of his lip curved just perfectly in profile, made even prettier by the firelight. God.

You panicked. “If that makes you uncomfortable—”

Sam swallowed. “No, no. You’re okay. Just thinking.”

You bit down on your tongue. Oh, awesome. Thinking! Exactly what I want you to be doing right now!

Sam swiped two sweaty, corded hands down each of his thighs. Tucked his hair behind his ears. Made your belly flutter and twist like a huge gust of wind going through a spring-fresh tree.

“I was seventeen,” Sam cleared his throat. “We were in Utah—well, I was in Utah, Dad and Dean were… Whatever. But I was sort of, um, on this rebellious streak at the time.”

You lazed back on your hands. “So, in hunter-kid terms, counting the days til’ you’re eighteen and packing your rucksack?”

An abrupt laugh barked out of Sam. His gaze loitered on your face with renewed comfort, remembering, again, that you’d both hidden your acceptance letters where no parent could see them. This was another Sam-move you knew the steps to.

“Yeah,” his eyes glittered. “Exactly.”

(The day you met Sam, the one reference you’d made to your associate’s degree had him crossing his legs under the table. He’d asked in a husky, tight voice what you’d gone to school for. Just hearing the words folklore and mythology had the guy close to pitching a tent.)

Sam managed to take his eyes off you. “But, uhm. There was this girl at school my Dad had ordered me not to hang around, so… I hung around. After a school dance. In her car.”

You were a very mature adult who was not at all jealous of a teenage Utahn, and thus sculpted your face into something playful. “Dirty,” you snickered. Sam’s light smile was encouraging, so you said as an afterthought, “Sounds like a squeeze, though. Don’t know if I’d want my first time to be in a car.”

“Especially in a tiny, cramped Nissan,” he agreed, chuckling. The smidgen of regret in his voice shouldn’t have made you feel like you’d earned a point against Random Utah Girl, but it did. You scolded yourself for it (your imaginary point gripped in one fist).

It was now Sam’s turn to ask a question, and he asked it fast. Impressively fast. “Okay, so. No car. Where would you want your first time to happen, then?”

Though you were an absolute animal when it came to Go Fish, your empty wallet was proof enough that you were a lousy poker player—due to an even lousier poker face. Hearing Sam’s question, it did you no favors. Even before you’d formed any thoughts about… everything, your body knew its answer, pointing every delicate nerve in your body toward the open doorway to the cabin’s bedroom.

You flicked a glance at the warm, intimate darkness waiting for you there.

It was only a second. But that one look was enough. Your hand was exposed, and Sam, by comparison, was an excellent poker player.

In a rush, you scrambled to put some distance between yourself and your obviousness. You winced. No way out. “Uhh, anywhere cozy. For the first time, I dunno if I’d wanna be cramped in a closet or something, no matter how sexy it may be. Is it lame to say… a bed?”

Sam hummed. As you’d talked, he’d become more and more relaxed in front of the fire, lounging on a propped-up arm and picking out of the fruit bowl. There was a long silence from him that could’ve been the weighted silence before a judge’s verdict.

…You’d never seen a judge draw his hand up to his mouth, suck pomegranate juice from the pads of his fingers, then pull off them with a noisy pop, but. But maybe they took a different approach at Stanford.

“It’s the standard for a reason, right?” Sam shrugged, amused.

He pushed the bowl across the floor with his wrist instead of his spit-slick fingers. It made a hollow scraping sound that brought your head back to the conversation, thank god, since the last seconds of your life post-fingers-to-mouth action had been spent elsewhere. The specific “elsewhere” that entailed Sam’s thick-knuckled fingers and Sam’s pretty pink mouth. You’d had the occasional intrusive thought about men creep up on you before, but the tricky part was that those thoughts pushed their way in. They jolted into your life then jolted back out.

Single-handed, Sam had hooked you, reeled you in, and pulled you “elsewhere.” Keyword: pulled. Not pushed.

…Then… maybe… pulled you again. And pushed you back. And again. Pulled out, then pushed in. Pulllled out slow, only to ssssink back in, deeper than before. Pulling and pushing with rhythm. Pulling, pushing, faster, deeper. Making you gasp and yelp his name, his fingers—Sam’s fingers—digging into your waist, your belly—

Click. Click click click click click click.

“_____?”

You’re so self-conscious you think you could feel the individual atoms of your body clanging against each other. “...Uh-huh?”

It’s your turn to ask a question next. But Sam breaks the rules and speaks first, since he knows exactly what he wants to ask you. He glides up onto one hand, his whole body a twenty-page study of lanky coyness, and tilts in close to you.

“If you could lay it all out—the timing, the place, the person…” Sam’s face glittered with a poker player’s curiosity. “What would your perfect first time be like?”

Or: Give me the manual, and I’ll follow it.

Your mouth was watering. It was one of a million things making it impossible for you to speak right now, including the sudden, nigh-unbearable heat of the room under your collar, and, oh right, the metric fuckton of slick soaking your underwear. The speed at which your arousal hits you is enough to make you dizzy, and in the haze you swear you start to hear something. Click. Click. Click click click click click click click—

Fuck. Sam is waiting for an answer. Fuck.

“I guess I’ve never thought about it before.”

Which was a blatant lie, since you’d spent the last ten minutes thinking of nothing else. Sam either sensed you weren’t telling the truth or was looking for something more, because he let you linger in your own answer, prying the rest out of you with his hanging silence.

Really, you should’ve been tougher, but the first long breath without anything from him shredded your strength. You caved and filled the quiet.

“I mean,” you toyed with your hands in your lap. “No matter what, I’d want it to be special. Bein’ out on the road, marching around, that’s not really a luxury we’re allowed to have. It’s like you said yesterday. I wanna be with someone I’m connected to, and I don’t think that’s gonna be in the back of a bar or—”

“—in a stranger’s bed,” Sam softened with understanding. “Yeah.”

“Yeah.” You echoed. The fire crackled and popped, loud enough that you could use the sound as an excuse to look elsewhere. “And if I happened to find that person, they’d have to be in the life. We can only trust other hunters, nowadays.”

Sam snorted. “If we’re lucky, maybe.”

It disappointed you how much you had to agree with him. There used to be a sense of mutual understanding among the hunters you’d met, but something had shifted since you were little. The world was a much scarier place, and the hunters that’d survived to see it had darkened to meet it. You’d dodged all shades of skeevy, selfish people before you’d landed in the Impala’s backseat. Even Dean and Sam had colored the list of hunters you’d been warned to avoid. Of course, every inch of it had turned out to be triple-hand gossip. Maybe you were quick to judge or the boys were just good seeds in a shitty crop, either way, ending up with them was the kind of good luck that beat the devil.

You’d never had the chance to tell Sam that before.

“I dunno. Not to go all mushy on you, but I do feel pretty lucky.”

Sam indulged you with an inviting tilt of his head, impressed that either one of you had a sliver of luck between you. “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. This last year, before I joined up with you n’ Dean, there wasn’t a single living soul out there I thought was worth putting my faith in,” you said, easing your mushy confession onto him under the guise of fact. Sam couldn’t digest it any other way. “I’m really grateful you changed that for me. It feels—it feels good to trust people. To feel like somebody knows you.”

Sigh. The side of your personal bubble filled with nothing but Sam started to seep with quiet, disbelieving fondness, and you could tell because Sam was giving you the eyes. The eyes. The ones that people brought out their wallets for and sent girls like you into romantic psychosis.

You dared to face them head-on, which was a reckless idea (probably brought on by romantic psychosis). Sure enough, his gaze was big and soulful and heart-rending. Sam was sitting so close now that you could almost soak up his body heat. The biting wind wormed its way through the thin walls and the fire was fading with it, but Sam oozed magnetic warmth by comparison. Stuff-your-face-in-his-neck kind of warmth.

“Do you feel like…” Sam rasped. He brushed the flats of his knuckles down your arm, breaking that final touch barrier. “...like I really know you?”

Your entire nervous system implodes with fluttery feelings. It’s just two fingers, brushing soft down your arm through your sweater, but. It’s confirmation. It’s Sam’s yes, I want this, and it puts into perspective how the two of you have spent the last week: alone together. Curled as one shape in bed. Talking just loud enough for only the other to hear, and never an octave higher. Never more than a few feet apart. If you reached for Sam first you knew he’d accept your hand, your boots in his bootprints, but when he coasts his palm down the swell of your shoulder it’s him reaching out for you.

You reach right back. You curl a hand up to cover his hand with yours, those big doe eyes asking that same question on repeat. Do you think I know you? Do you trust me? Do you want this?

“All I’ve got is me, you, and Dean. And it wasn’t him that I told all my deepest hopes and shittiest moments to,” you laughed. “So…”

Every other time you’ve hit this point, you’d been distracted by the logistics and the math of sex—protection, chemistry, the when and how, and the consequences of both. It’s not gonna hit you until two days after this moment, after Sam has you as many times as you want in the plush cabin bed, that there was no math with him. Just want. Just things sliding into place. Click click click.

“So…” Sam’s face tips even closer. Your head fogs with the heat and smell and presence of him, mesmerized.

He puts it all together for the two of you: “Your perfect first time would be with a hunter, somebody in the life that you trust. Somebody who could make you feel special. Somebody who really knows you.”

You smirk before you can stop yourself. “Do I need to drop any more hints, Sam?”

Damn, could that boy put a fireworks show to shame. He lit up. Sam’s shoulders did this really cute boyish swell and his lips parted, telegraphing with every piece of himself, Oh, you really want this, you really want me!

You’d never seen him wear that kind of happiness before, and it made sense why. Thank god the two of you were off the grid out here, because you didn’t doubt that Sam’s smile could pop every lightbulb in the entire country.

Sam aimed a bubbly laugh at his lap, embarrassed. “I don’t think I’m getting the full picture,” he tried to flirt, “a few more, maybe?”

So, getting less and less subtle as you went on, you explained to Sam the hypothetical author of the night of your life. He’d be sweet. Polite. Smart, too, but not the type to rub it in your face. (This made Sam laugh). He’d be gentle and considerate and frankly fucking awesome, but not so shy that he couldn’t give you a wild time.

When he was blushing so hard you stopped needing the fire for warmth, you sprinkled one last handful of flattery on him. “And, jesus,” you whistled, “this guy I’m picturing? Total dreamboat. So pretty it makes me wanna write dumb songs about him.”

Predictably, Sam got so flustered that he went back to futzing with that same strand of hair by his ear. With the touch barrier between you broken, your mind buzzed with a million different ways to reach out and feel him, to draw him in, and all those ideas coalesced seeing Sam’s hand come up to his cheek. Before you lost your resolve, you stroked the messiest portion of his bangs behind his ear for him. Sam melted. He liked to do that around you.

“Now I’d just sound arrogant if I assumed that it’s me,” Sam snorted.

You pressed the flats of your knuckles down Sam’s warm, smooth cheek. “It’s you. It’s been you for a while, actually.”

The easy, loving contact dazed him. Sam’s eyes fluttered closed, and a short, shaky breath puffed out of him in one bracing go. It was clear that he hadn’t been touched this way in a while. He sat there absorbing your touch for a long time, a cat resting his head in the full scope of your palm. You turned your body to face his and Sam’s gaze, which was layer after layer of hazels no artist could mimic, opened for you.

You thought about saying something cheesy like, wow, ain’t I lucky, having the whole world in the palm of my hand, but Sam was much faster (and much, much cheesier).

A leather-tough hand scooped around the back of your neck. The touch was fucking-christ-big and god, so was he, the line of his thumb to his wristbone as long as the length of your neck. You knew this because that’s exactly where Sam placed it, stroking your chin with his thumb. Prickling chills tickled up your legs. He scrutinized you—and you say scrutinize loosely, since the Sam-equivalent was gazing into your face like a fatal decision was held there. Your mental yes, yes, I want you was so loud that Sam could’ve psychically heard it. If he did, it was enough to make his pupils become huge pools of want.

“C’mere,” Sam grinned.

You laughed. “M’ practically nose to nose with you, Sam, I don’t have any further to—”

The rest of your teasing was lost to a louder yelp. Sam scooped his arms around your middle and. And hauled you. Into his lap.

His—lap.

There was no way to survive this landing. You were plopped right on top of his barrel-wide thighs, your every sense instantly stuffed full to bursting with every wonderful thing that made Sam himself. A steam of woody body wash and aftershave put you under his spell. Two massive hands soothing down your back glued you happily in place. Sam’s warm chuckles seeped through his chest and into your hands, because, oh yeah, you were allowed to touch him. And there was so much of him to touch now, too. The entire front of your body was cozily smushed up against his firm, longer frame, filling your hazy vision with the soft shadows on his throat and collarbones and those fucking dimples. What the fuck.

“Is this okay?” Sam asked you.

The only time you’d been permitted in another person’s space like this was to hug them. Overwhelmed with choice—you could kiss him, touch him, run your fingers through his hair this close—you defaulted to what you knew. Sam hesitated, but with a breath, the coil of his body unwound and the two of you slid together with a satisfying smush. (Or maybe a click).

Oh my god that’s good, your senses wailed, but all you could manage with your face muffled in his neck was, “Warm. Sooo warm, Sammy.”

“Is that a yes?” He hoped.

You pulled your face out of his shirt to sigh. “The biggest yes of your life.”

Sam gleamed. Being so close to the source of all happiness on earth (the toothy grin he was biting back for your benefit) should’ve instantly pulverized you and every other hot-blooded being on this side of the planet. It should’ve. But your soul was still ringing around in your feeble body, and sure enough, your calves were still snug around Sam’s thighs like they’d been before. You’d survived being inches away from Sam’s face while he smiled all shy for you, and succeeded in feeling only a teeny bit like a pile of smoking ash because of it. For a second you tricked yourself into thinking you could survive him.

That is not the case.

With impeccable timing, Sam kisses you. Just a brief, firm peck on the mouth. Testing the waters. The waters that are now a fucking ocean in your underwear, thank you very much. It’s only a two-second kiss, but the instant Sam’s lips pop off of yours an embarrassing happy squeal follows him out. Definitely not the suave reaction you were expecting from yourself. Sam just laughs, which translates as a sexy hum under your free hand.

“That was cute,” he whispers, eyes crinkling.

“Shut up, Sam.”

He hums, still brimming with that big spoiled grin. He takes you by your prickling arms and starts to pull his hands down them, again and again, squeezing the anxiety out of you in huge handsy swaths. You feel a bit better about being such a nervous wreck. His hands are trembling too.

The first kiss was good. Really good. Wetter, warmer than you were expecting, but so fucking—good. His mouth was soft and stained by the pomegranate, but, oh no, you’re already forgetting what it was like to taste him. It’s so tempting… to just… lean in…

He’s just as tempted. Sam meets you in the middle for a second kiss that he finds so satisfying, so right that this deep rumbling moan purrs right out of him. The pink swell of his lips are, of course, pressed hot to yours, filling you head to fucking toe with that single bassy note. You gasp through your nose—because nothing is worth breaking his kiss. Not a desperate breath of air, not an uttered word.

Sam kisses you with his hands as much as he dazzles you with his mouth, laying heavy touches down your back, then your waist, then your legs, inspecting and absorbing. You’re hardly as methodical. He is a wonderful beach and it’s your first time seeing the ocean. You take the biggest fistfuls of him that you can, feeling the silky sand of him slip between your greedy fingers.

Sam is apparently into being your metaphorical beach, since after he’s done melting your brain and your underwear in the most intense make-out session of your life, he pulls away to speak.

Sam rasps. “Can I take care of you?”

It takes you a moment to respond, because. Well. A, that’s the sexiest way someone has asked to have sex with you, no contest, and B, you’ve been waiting this whole time for the moment where you don’t want this anymore. With other men, your body had just never found the spark that should’ve been there. Was this time different? Had things click click clicked into place?

You take a step back to put this in perspective for your future self. As vividly as you’re able, you think about having sex with Sam. You visualize Sam’s sharp eyes, his naked back, the cut of his hips, all of it, as he fucks you straight through the shitty mattress in the cabin’s bedroom. All the sweat-twisted blankets shoved to the floor. Sam’s hips canting your thighs apart. The worn-smooth slope of his—of his fucking paws, essentially, squeezing your tits and your tummy and your waist in achy handfuls. You think about it some more. How Sam would moan, how his lashes would screw shut in ecstasy as he filled you. You keep thinking about it. When your mind starts to deviate toward the filthy, thick sound of him… o-of Sam plunging into you over and over again, smushing you under his weight… uhm. Uh.

Yeah. Yeah, this is everything you fuckin’ want.

It takes conscious effort for you to close your gaping mouth, then pry it open again to blurt: “Please, yes.”

A tiny piece of his posture relaxed in relief. Sam smushed a cute, giddy peck into your cheek, reminding your entire tingling nervous system that there was a really sweet guy underneath the deadly-efficient hunter you knew.

“Okay,” he beamed, and shyly tipped his head toward the bedroom. “Shall we?”

You feel like you should be doing more than being demure and nodding a lot, but Sam doesn’t seem to mind. After you climb out of his lap and find your footing on your jellified legs, he unfolds off the floor like bucks do, knowing on instinct how to conduct the body he has so much of. The fire’s sleepy and weak in the hearth, and with it dead, Sam is the new center of heat in the room. He takes your hand and just touching the middle of his palm spurs shivery warmth down your legs. Now, you’re all too aware of Sam’s proportions—how encompassing his hand feels, how easily his shoulders fill the doorway to the little bedroom. Feeling mature, you fill the next room with bright giggles. You see in real-time how Sam melts at the noise.

Like you have the last few nights, you each scoop up a candle and find a place for it amidst the hunter clutter. It takes a beat to find your way through the dark. The space is just big enough for the slim bed pushed snug into the corner, and already you know from experience how you and Sam fit into the nest of blankets and pillows. (Hint: extremely well).

Sam uses his candle to light a few others on the bedside table, keeping a free hand stretched toward you to reserve his spot as your only hand-holder. You drop your candle on the dresser and consider the only thing next to it while you wait for him. The Winchesters had three vinyls total for their ancient record player, and seeing it unused and wasted in front of you, you have a stroke of romantic genius.

The second you drop the needle on the first jazz record and turn back toward the cozy, honey-lit room, Sam’s there, sliding into your open arms to plant a kiss on you. And another. And another. And another, coaxing little happy sighs from you. They’re such deep kisses that you dip back with each one, until the curve of Sam’s towering body is diagonal over you and you have to clutch his shoulders to stay standing. Both of his rough-sawn hands cup the scoop of your back to support you. All your daydreaming about him had convinced you that he’d be a head-to-toe brick wall, but Sam’s teddy-bear soft instead, the gleaming skin you have access to yielding and plush. His lips most of all, puffy pink and shining.

Sam persists, pressing closer, kissing you deeper, panting under his breath. Whatever it is about the happy sounds you make wake up something dark in him. There’s a tight, delicate rhythm he likes to follow, and the more of Sam you get the less of it you see. That straight-arrow persona is there, and then—poof! Sam’s tongue is laving wet and hot and perfect across your parted lips, ruining your underwear in one fell swoop.

He tilts in to start sucking on your tongue—

“Fuck, Sam,” you choke out.

The situation in your panties graduates to unbearable levels. If you have to makeout with Sam fully clothed for even a second longer, you think your core will enter a full reactor meltdown. You try to get the words across, grabbing helplessly at his sweater and whining, but Sam interprets it as something else.

“Everything okay?” He worries.

Dazed, you nod more than you need to. With your eyes open and his face in full view, you’re hit with a spark of self-consciousness. Sam fills the bedroom with easy conviction, owning his desire in a way you’ve never really been capable of. You don’t exactly have the experience to blow his mind or anything. Why would he want this if there was so little in it for him? Sam wasn’t a selfish guy, but… To you, your eagerness starts to feel more like greediness.

You shift from foot to anxious foot, shrinking in place. “...Could you, um? Walk me through it? How we’re gonna…?” You swallowed the frog in your throat. “Sorry, that must seem stupid.”

Leave it to him to make something stupid into something ridiculously, fatally sexy.

“S’okay, don’t be embarrassed. It’d…” Sam wets his lips, looking for the words. A quiet, dirty-minded smile plays across his face. He decides, “It’d be my pleasure.”

His touch moves away from your back, and you’re about to mourn the loss of it until Sam’s hands start to play with yours, twisting them around in his own like a schoolboy. He closes the space you’ve timidly left open between you by pressing your chests together. It’s a small gesture. But this is Sam, so your face is in smolders on that alone. (…And you’d just been french kissed, to be fair).

“Okay. Uhh,” Sam fumbles. He stops to consider his approach. As in, the approach he’ll take to seducing you, as if you aren’t seduced on a level incomprehensible to humankind.

You can’t help but laugh at how much Sam-math must be happening in his head, and Sam laughs too. Sam keeps laughing, until it warms into a handsome, knowing hum, and suddenly he’s laying your hands on his belt and tickling your ear with the hot fan of his breath. You squeak, sensitive, which tempts him into breaking character.

Sam reigns it back in, then whispers.

“When you’re ready… m’ gonna get you out of these clothes.”

The deliciously big set of hands on your waist sidle up under the open strip of skin below your shirt. Just one of his fingers is brave enough to sneak up to draw circles against your tummy. It’s the slightest taste of what it’ll be like to have those hands all over you, sweat-slick skin-to-naked skin, which is just enough to make your appetite for him boil in your gut.

“And I know you’re gonna be freezin’, we both are, but I promise you’ll get real hot real soon. Cause’...”

The bulb of his nose (and the ghost of his smile) brushed your cheek, then down, and the explosive fluttery feeling already lighting up your belly pitches into a whole fireworks show.

“...The minute I see you lying all pretty on your back for me…”

Sam tips in to lay a kiss on your throat. A slow, open-mouthed kiss, suckling soft on your skin.

“...In our bed…”

Our bed, he says. That choice of words alone implies so much. If the two of you sharing it before didn’t count, then Sam was about to make it your bed.

“I’m not stopping til’ you get every single thing you want,” Sam purrs. His kisses become blatant licks, the whole of his capable tongue drawing wet lines on your throat. “Til’ you’re damn spoiled.”

What. The fuck. The universe could dissolve into mist and you would be too turned on to care, tethered to the last atoms of the earth by your hands on Sam’s belt. You gape up at him. Sam, the evil genius, smirks right back. When you’d said you wished your first time could feel special, you hadn’t exactly been planning for Sam to follow that direction to the damn letter. He makes it sound like he’s going to bend to your every whim, and knowing Sam...

You swipe at your face to check that you’re not drooling. “I’m—I-I—you’re—” while you’re sputtering, he swipes a dab of spit off the other corner of your lip. “—Suh-Sam.”

Screw it. You drop both hands on Sam’s chest and twist your fingers in his shirt, forcing the words out in choppy pieces. “I’m not as experienced as you. But I really, really… want this. To be—to be good for us. Wanna give you everything you want, too.”

Sam makes a flattered, yet sympathetic face. “Oh, baby, don’t think about me—”

“—I can’t stop thinking about you.”

Now, it’s Sam’s turn to forget how to speak. Finally.

You wind your fingers into the tuft at the back of his neck, enunciating, “How… do I make this good for you?”

“You’re already here. That’s all I need,” Sam gushes, falling back on his tender chivalrous boyfriend routine. It’s really sexy. Almost sexy enough to work. He tucks back his signature lock of unruly hair, blushing from his ears to his neck.

Well, stream-of-consciousness hasn’t failed you yet.

“Uh-uh. We’ve been alone together in this teeny cabin for a whole week. There’s no way I’m the virgin, but you’re the one without the dirty fantasies.” You take a long squinting look at him to divulge any loose secrets. Thumbing Sam’s hip through his shirt, you press, “Tell me. C’mon. You want me to blow you? Pull your hair? Or do you, I dunno—wanna bite me? Pin me down?”

You can track the second Sam starts breathing harder, but somewhere between then and now his eyes have glazed over with dangerous desire.

Sam clutched fast at his shrinking sliver of self-control. “Okay,” he squeezed his eyes shut. “We’re out in the middle of nowhere. So… if it feels right, and it’s not embarrassing, it would be… I’d, I’d love it if you…”

“Got super noisy?”

After an intensely bashful pause filled with quiet music, Sam nods, hiding behind his bangs. Knew it. He always got so squirrely when you did your oh-I’m-so-cozy moan snuggling into bed at night.

Teasing him any more would definitely be poking the bull. But is it fun to poke that bull? Absolutely. Especially when Sam starts to unbuckle his belt, his whole body crawling with the urge to throw himself at you.

“Alright, I can do that. But how noisy are we talking? Like, normal enjoying myself kind of noisy, or best-sex-of-my-life noisy?”

He gets this nasty, disbelieving smile on his face, and it’s your last warning before—

Snap. Sam’s restraint splits in two. In an instant you’re captured by the underarms and Sam, who’s honest-to-god grinning/snarling about how you need ta’ be taught a lesson on leavin’ well enough alone, flings you onto the end of the bed. You land with a shriek. Then a second, louder squeal, as Sam takes your pantlegs in his fists and whips them clean off.

The next precious moments are filled with all sorts of lessons. For one thing, it takes a lot of force to tear pants off a person. By happenstance, you’re dragged a whole foot further down the bed and right against Sam’s lap. You also learn that pants are connected to underwear, so following that math, it makes sense why your panties are now royally rearranged on your hips. These two factors are too convenient to not be planned on Sam’s part. You’re reminded, again, that Sam is a genius.

You also remember that you’ve never been pantsed before. With and without the sexy context. Keeping that in mind, you, like any other person in your delicate situation, snap your legs closed on instinct. Not because you don’t want Sam there—holy shit, do you want him there—but because he happened to tickle you in the transfer from floor to bed, and you’re not about to let him pounce on you and tickle you to death.

This really works out for you in the long run, since having your legs closed means that it’s inevitable Sam will have to open them.

You’re laughing so hard that your sides have locked up with stitches. Sam pretends he’s not just as amused by kneeling up on the bed as grouchily as possible, ripping his shirt off, and… and, uhm… scooping his huge palms under your knees, and… yeah. He doesn’t have to do any pushing past that. Your legs just fall right open for him, and Sam wiggles in between them where he belongs.

Nothing in this entire world could prepare you to have Sam this close, so the idea that you could even cope with being absolutely towered over by the indecent amount of ab he possesses is fuckin’ laughable. Who the fuck let him have abs? For the health of all people attracted to men on this planet, who taught Sam to work out?

Your giggling trails off into mesmerized, panting silence.

“How noisy?” Sam scoffs, chuckling mean and deep in his chest. “How noisy? I’ll give you a hint how noisy you’re gonna be—”

He falls forward onto his hands, effectively blanketing you in a swath of flushed-smooth, freckly skin. There’s not a thought in your mind about how cold this room is in comparison to the last. Your hands smooth over the planes of his cheeks on instinct, and Sam follows the touch into a soul-shattering, full-body, toe-curling kiss that melts both your bodies into the homey center of the quilts and comforters. His nose squishes into your cheek and a long, satisfied groan bubbles out of him. He barely pulls his lips from yours when he hisses—

“...I’m gonna fuck you til’ you’re hoarse.”

What in the ever-loving fuck.

I cannot put into words how much I want you to do that, you want to say, and it’s true, since you end up making the world’s neediest gasp of glee instead. You’re not pleading up into his face for a full second before Sam gets your message. One can only guess what he’ll do next. (Hint: Sam cannot take in a full breath without kissing you first).

All week you’ve been toiling away to earn tiny pieces of the Sam puzzle. The picture you’ve built so far is, frankly, a touch-starved animal, who will wait at the heels of the first trusted person willing to provide. You kiss Sam once and he’s so damn grateful that he’ll multiply it by five. You get adventurous with your hands, squeezing and appreciating Sam’s flushed-smooth back. Because he’s Sam, returning the favor takes precedence over his beloved activity, and your kiss is forced to break so he can sit up and touch you proper.

Well. If any of this can be considered proper, that is. And if there’s one word to describe what Sam does to you with his hands, it’s improper.

“Still ready, _____?” He asks.

You bite back your inner worries and taunt him, “Been ready.”

He splays his fingers on your belly and is so transfixed by its softness that he stoops to smudge a kiss above your belly button. You do your best to pretend it doesn’t tickle, which is the opposite of what Sam wants. He gives your sides two quick pinches that have you squirming and squeaking under him, too shy to keep your eyes open. You’re embarrassed about the girly sounds he gets out of you until you risk a look at his face—plum red, dizzy, and glazed with fond desire.

Sam wasn’t kidding. He does want you at your noisiest.

This brings your horniness to a whole new level, turning the airy fluttery feeling expanding in your belly into the opposite: an emptiness, a vacuum, and one that desperately needs to be filled. Sam seems to do nothing but fill things. The doorways he stands in, the beds he kneels on, the snuggly center of your embrace. Naturally, this makes you insane. His hands fill up the most—big swaths of your belly, your shirt—your bra.

They push the band of the hunting sportsbra you’re wearing clear over your tits and out of his way. Sam rumbles in approval.

You stop your hands from twitching up around your naked chest, now hyper-aware of how much your breasts rise with your breath. Sam breathes you in. His gaze is soft beyond imagination, which makes the whittled-down shards of fear inside you seem even sillier than before. Either he reads your mind or he’d predicted you’d be mousy (and christ do you hope it’s the latter, since that means he thought about this already), because Sam plucks up your closest hand and presses it flat to his happy trail.

“Don’t be nervous,” he soothes. “Touch me too.”

The thought alone explodes you into steam. But you’re no quitter, so you roll with the invitation, stroking the soft pads of your fingers along the line from Sam’s naval to his ill-fitting jeans. He’s not flexing for you, so you get to feel him as Sam really is: butter-smooth and blanket-soft. Without his belt there’s a precious gap hanging between his hips and his waistband. It’s just big enough for your hand to fit inside.

You’re not brave enough to take that final plunge until Sam twists down to kiss your chest. His mouth burns scorching hot on your breastbone, and as he curls over your body, his hands on your belly slide up to take two needy handfuls of your tits. In the same motion you fit your hand into Sam’s jeans and squeeze and—ohhh fuck, you wind in as one, sharing a perfect bow-taut moment of hissing pleasure.

Sam pressed his face where he was kissing, deflating on top of you with a long, seeping, “Shittt.”

Okay. On top of feeling good, sex could be a fun little puzzle to put together. Sam urging his hips into your hand was one piece, and if you put it in the right place (i.e: touched him like that again), he’d be all yours. You do. You cup him through his boxers and follow what you feel, and what you feel is. Fucking. It’s. I-is it supposed to be that big? And, and holy shit, is he hard.

Sam. Sam’s big, thick dick in your hand. You’re gonna be wet for damn weeks.

Stupified, you blurt out, “Do you always get this hard?”

Sam cracks a wry grin, his eyes lidded. “Mm. It’s definitely you. Bein’ stuck out here with you.”

He drops a kiss on the seam of your ribcage. Then lower. And lower, leaving shiny wet circles along your tummy. “Makin’ me crazy… sticking by me every second, pressing yourself into me in your sleep. Lookin’ at me like—like that.” Just thinking about it made Sam shiver. “You turn me on like nothing else. Just last night, even, right here in this bed—I must’a stopped myself from rolling you over and tasting you a hundred times.”

The urge was so vivid for him that Sam’s mouth must’ve been watering, since he sucks the spit back through his teeth before he starts to kiss your belly in earnest. Just that sound burns with lust. Sam wants it, wants you so bad he’s shaking, his hands trembling under your thighs as he slithers down to lay between them. His kisses grow fiercer, open-mouthed and sucking the closer he gets to your panties. Kitten-soft moans start to sneak into the cycle of your panting.

“Don’t think I’m gonna be able to stop myself this time,” Sam husks.

You let him know just how comfortable you are with that by curling your legs around his back. Then his shoulders. Then Sam’s ears, and at that point he’s singeing spit-damp kisses inside your thighs like the world’s most faithful servant.

Nobody but him had ever touched you there. You choke out his name on short, needy breaths. It’s like you’re filling a meter. With enough please, Sams, you hit his limit, and he stops rubbing his face into your soft under-thighs long enough to hook his fingers around your waistband.

You’re treated to the Sam Winchester specialty. He bats long lashes at you over dark, sensitive eyes, and rasps, “Am I okay to…?”

You’re so horny that you start spurring Sam closer with your heels. “Fucking yes.”

This is the A+ answer. Sam doesn’t even wait to get your underwear all the way down your legs, yanking them out from under you and ducking straight below the bridge they make. Just seeing your pussy makes him swear. You’re so swollen and slick and his mouth is so close, so close, but Sam decides to taunt you, blowing across the spit cooling on your belly instead. Heat oozes in hazy lines from his body. From his hands. By comparison, the night has leeched the warmth from the room and you’re cold enough to get goosebumps.

“Please please please, Sam,” you hiccup, “need it. Need you. Need you t’ warm me up.”

“My poor girl,” Sam coos, brows drawn with playful sympathy. He starts to rub some heat back into your freezing legs, tilting closer, closer. “I know just how to help.”

You let your head flop back as you take his cheesiness in, laughing. That’s not exactly a line you’d expect from him. Before, though, you would’ve never pinned Sam as the kind of guy to clamp your knees against your chest, drop his head between your legs and fit his mouth on you, slurping noisily on your slick like he’s eating the juiciest fruit of his life—

“—f-uuuuckkk Sammy yes yes yes—”

Indescribable pleasure pops and sizzles along your weeping core. It’s so fucking—fucking yes all at once that you clap down both hands to white-knuckle the top quilt and howl. Sam sets to work. He covers your entire pussy with his mouth, swallowing you fucking whole, apparently, since you’re the most delectable thing he’s ever tasted. You have to be, with Sam groaning and cursing all fierce and hot between licks.

“Fuck. That’s it, pretty girl,” Sam coaches. He slurps loud and obscenely on your clit, swallowing down the results with a shiver of ecstasy. “Shit, just like that. You’re so good at this already. So good at taking it, ______. Never should’a made you wait.”

But all that must not count as getting a full taste of you, since Sam deviates, splaying his tongue flat and wide to rake it against you top to bottom. His tongue almost drools with liquid heat. At first you’d been disappointed you couldn’t see him over your legs, and now, you’re grateful for the mercy. Seeing Sam like that…

Sam licks you open until there’s no breath left in him. He goes until his jaw is sore and your slick is rolling off his chin in sticky rivulets, wetting the bedspread. He goes and he keeps going, worshipping your slippery-wet cunt between huffy moans.

You make a pathetic attempt at giving as good as you’re getting, but what should be a sexy zinger actually comes out as, “Sam, I-I—oh, god—Sam—!”

After that, your ability to form words joins your other higher brain functions in the endless sparkling expanse of white in your mind. Sam stirs a single long finger through your sopping folds. The stimulation alone has your hips twisting helplessly up to his face, on top of the rapid flicks of his talented tongue, but it’s the easy pressure of Sam’s thick finger filling you to the knuckle that actually earns a scream.

Not your average horror movie scream—an honest, enthusiastic, belly-deep cry that jerks in your chest like a sob.

You can pinpoint the precise moment that Sam realizes you’re a screamer; he hum-laughs to himself where he thinks you can’t hear.

“Next time,” (oh my fucking god there’s a next time), “‘won’t make you wait a minute, baby. Gonna give you everythin’ you want. I’m real sorry, darlin’, do you forgive me? Forgive me for not fucking you the second we were alone?”

You’re too busy having actual, real tears of desire cake your cheeks to string together a better answer than a moan. Holy shit.

Sam gives your pussy two deep, loving licks, each hot enough to send you into a coma. “Say it,” he utters, teasing, “say you forgive me.”

“I forg’ve you,” you croak.

“Forgive who?” He presses.

“I forgive you, Sammy.”

“That’s my girl,” Sam husks the promise between kisses to your clit, “So good to me. So sweet.”

Somehow, this is just as life-altering for him as it is for you. Long, flowing crests of pleasure seep hot through your system, winding tighter, tighter, tighter, twitching in the muscles of your stomach and almost cramping in your curled toes. The taste of you is so rich that Sam’s back quakes with euphoric shudders, trembling deep under the skin where he’s too far gone to rein back in. Sweaty locks of his bangs flutter as he breathes. It’s the only sign he’s breathing at all, really, what with him eating you out like he’s fuckin’ starved.

Sam gives a few good twists of his finger deep in your pussy (which doesn’t even graze how deep he might be with his cock). When you’re a puddle on the mattress and used to him, Sam withdraws to studiously coach you, “Deep breaths, ______.”

It takes a moment for the words to register. Once they have, you wind down long enough to measure your crazed breathing into even strokes. The ceiling overhead swims with dancing candlelight shadows and floating cartoon stars. Sam lifts his head to see for himself that you’re following his instructions, and after he’s done falling in love with the sight of you, Sam fills you up with two digits instead of one.

“A-ah!”

Just like before, they’re thrust in to the hilt at once. The throbbing, aching, leeching core of your arousal positively explodes, the urge to be filled finally touched. Sam’s responding bassy groan vibrates all the way up your body. The length and thickness of his fingers is put to immediate use, stretching you out with long knuckling gestures. You’re so unimaginably wet that your pussy just pulls him right in.

There’s a pause where you wiggle down onto his hand and brace yourself for the next brain-melting touch, and true to form, Sam sails straight over your grandest expectations. He’s quick to find the silky heart of arousal in your core again. You only know it by reputation, not experience, so when Sam presses into it with two soft fingerpads the pitch of your wailing jumps up ten octaves. Suddenly the pleasure is hot hot hot inside-going-out.

Sam tilts his head to one side and finds the gall to ask you: “How does that feel?”

(He just wants to hear you say it.)

“So good,” you weep. “Please please please gimme more, Sam, please—”

“It’s gonna be okay, _____. I’ll make it all better…”

Only then does Sam’s tongue get back to work, and—and holy fucking shit, he swoops in to steal the gold, demolishing every other name in the pussy-eating game. Sam wins. Sam fucking wins.

If this is just how his fingers feel…

Sam’s grin takes on a confident gleam. By coincidence, it’s around then that you remember that he’s psychic.

Somewhere between licking you into the next dimension and, oh yeah, Sam licking you into the next dimension, he’s pinned your thighs to your chest with a firm hand under your knees. You squeeze that hand for all you’ve got, every feeble atom in your body scrubbed raw with perfect pulsing desire.

To think, you’d spent this whole time getting off with your hand. A fucking hand. A few fingers! Sam crooks his in a way you’d never even hoped for on your own, finding that fluttery, twitchy spot inside you and working it for all it has. You’d asked for more and he gives you more, thrusting two fingers in at a brutal, even pace—again and again and again, til’ you’re thrashing up and off the mattress, wailing, your whole body a fist cramping shut around him. You snap in so tight toward him that you shove your face into your knees and cross your ankles tight behind Sam’s neck, keening, the fire knotted in your body devouring whatever fuel he’ll give.

Sam’s skill with his hands made you feel like an amateur in your own department. But his slick velvet tongue on your slick velvet pussy, taking slow sucks on your clit that turn into big broad licks, licking you up, licking you into his mouth whole, made just the thought of masturbation fucking laughable. I mean, c’mon! What the fuck are you supposed to do after this? Pop into the bathroom to use the showerhead, when Sam and his insatiable appetite for pussy are sitting right in the next room? Why even bother fantasizing about him and dicking around with a vibrator when nothing would ever compare to the real thing, shoving his parched panting mouth between your legs in an addict’s haze?

Still lapping up your dripping core, Sam pries his free hand from your grip. You’re pretty sure you have the right to whine in protest. Without his leverage for support your weak thighs collapse straight open, and for all you know the gates of heaven had parted to reveal god’s most beautiful angel. Sam is the picture of filth. His pretty pink lips are sealed around your cunt, his nose is all cute and smushed into your pubic bone, and you watch in time with every dirty lap as his jaw rolls handsomely under his skin.

The look on his face is unfor-fucking-gettable. In fifty years, sixty years, seventy, you know this memory will still live inside you, since no man has ever looked at you that way before. You weren’t sure it was even possible. Hazy euphoria radiates in unending rays from Sam’s face. He wants you. He trusts you. He is written all over with warm, intent desire, satisfying himself on you.

“Stay still,” Sam asks, politely.

Politely, you slap back against the bed and moan out, “Mhhmm.”

A new kind of mischief flashes across his face. You would’ve never pinned Sam as the type of guy to thrive with an audience, but now that he knows you’re watching, he falls seamlessly into a performance. His act is a three-parter.

While keeping his pace with his fingers, Sam starts by sliding slow off your pussy and spitting on it even slower. Whatever hazel leftover in his eyes has been swallowed totally by glittering, black delight. The muscles is his arm bulge and cramp fucking into you so hard. Pleased with himself, Sam dips down, dark eyes disappearing under his bangs, and makes a show of pointing his tongue to flicker across the raw nerves of your clit.

There’s more after that in the finale of Sam’s act, but the constant, brutal winding toward your release has taken its final toll. You have no fucking clue how you’ve survived this long. The overpowering squeezes of arousal inside you become full-body, wracking pangs. The sweaty trembling scraps of your soul leftover from Sam’s work throb and throb until they’re a blinding star. At the center of it, your core, tight and hot and so loved by Sam’s mouth. The searing pleasure becomes explosive. Apparently, the noisy, pitchy moans waking up the mountainside are coming from you, as you claw to get Sam even a molecule closer—closer, closer, closer—s-so close—!

So…

Close…

And you’re there. In the shimmering, divine realm Sam has made just for you; the realm your meager hands could never bring you to, and the realm you’ll be chasing still for the rest of your life. It becomes blatantly obvious in the next blissful minute that you’ve never cum before. Not for real, at least. This was a real orgasm, flashing through your spirit and flowing hot and beautiful through the numb ends of your body. You wail through it like it’s real, that’s for sure.

Your pussy clamps down around Sam’s fingers in waves of slippery pressure, and he revels in every second of it. You’re fucked through it. Kissed through it. He keeps up his pace and smushes his face in close, and that’s when you realize, oh fuck, Sam is going to drink your glass empty. The soft scooping of his tongue ramps up and up and over, til’ the edges of your vision start to spot and your muscles are too tight to unknot and it’s all too much.

“Sa—Sam—”

Just that word has him off you. You think Sam draws back and away, but that’s just a guess, since the wires between you and the outside world have been fucked stupid. Even the language has been licked and lapped out of you.

“Sam…”

You feel… like soup. Wet all over and hot hot hot. Filling the shape of the bed. You make an honest attempt at communicating this to Sam as your soupy mind’s way of telling him how satisfied you are, but. Your pussy gives a delighted, distracting throb that melts you into the top quilt all over again. Wow.

Just. Wow. You marinate in the aftershocks for what feels like ages, speechless.

Down by your legs (so that’s where he went!), Sam peels his heaving chest off the bedspread. Right. If you couldn’t breathe, he definitely couldn’t either. He gets up on all fours and crawls towards you like a guy in an RnB music video, all sexy moving arms and hips. It really shouldn’t be as appealing as it absolutely is. Starry-eyed, you open lazy arms to him and haul him down the second he’s close enough. He falls on top of you with a happy oomf. He’s long and smooth and wonderful, making you sigh when he snuggles in.

A few sparkling millennia go by laying in bed with him, toying with his hair and giggling dazedly to yourself. Sam hides his blazing face in your neck and murmurs something.

You’re buzzed by the skin-to-skin contact and cum drunk, which puts everything he says into fuzzy empty speech bubbles. The low, shy rasp of his voice tickles your neck. You try again.

“...Uh-huh…?”

“Was, uh, that too intense? Or…?”

The question floats around in your head for a while, bumping into things and spinning in zero gravity. Finally, the lights in your ship start to come on, and you pull what Sam said out from space.

“Look at me a minute.”

Sam does, curious.

“How’d,” you struggled to find your breath, “how the hell’d you learn t’ do that.”

And suddenly, Sam’s high school shyness is on a man’s face, and that man licks your slick off his lip and suppresses an evil grin. “I have, y’know. A thing about it.”

“A thing?” You echo, laughing with him. Maybe if you said it again it wouldn’t blow your mind as much. “A thing. Try an addiction, Sam, holy shit.”

In a few days, you’re gonna have to act normal around him in a room with his brother, while Sam uses the lips he defiled you with to talk, drink, and smile. Fuck. For the rest of your life, you’re gonna have to sit beside him at the dinner table and remember how he told you had a thing for eating pussy. A thing.

Glowing with innocent humility, Sam pawed up onto his hands, rolled onto his side, and positioned himself like a pin-up girl inviting you to bed. When he was done broadcasting with his entire body how much he wanted you, Sam shrugged. “I dunno… I just love to do it.”

(Being stunned silent by Sam tally: one million and three.)

He’s not real. There’s no way he’s real. You grab around for some part of him to pinch, and though Sam’s indignant yelp sounds authentic, you’re unconvinced. They had to have cooked him up in a lab somewhere.

This earns you a deep, fond Sam laugh. He gives your closest hip a playful pinch too, and after a brief tickle-fight that you miserably lose, Sam tilts his lips toward yours and husks, “Roll over that way and c’mere.”

With nothing else to do but submit happily to Sam’s will, you follow his hand and tilt in toward the wall. “You are something else.”

You’re joking, but you can also kind of feel it. Sam slings his arm over your ribs to pull your back flush to his chest, and already you melt into each other, settling back into the hollows you made in the blankets the night before. This close you can feel the magic in him. Sam oozes with cozy bonfire heat, his body laying sure and protective against your body, the last dregs of hunt anxiety in him gone. You feel the worn-soft denim of his open jeans as Sam’s lap wiggles down to scoop under you. A map of what’s ahead.

He teases a hand down your ribcage, thumbing sweetly at your belly. Sam tilts his head forward for a kiss, and unable to resist him, you meet him in the middle for one that turns into two, then three, then a swath of obsessed pecks. He must have a thing about kissing, too.

Sam pulls back to study you. With less confidence than you’d expect, he asks, “You wanna keep going?”

Just the teeniest motion of your head has Sam swooping for the chance to kiss you again, but you stop him short and twist to get a better look at him. In a high, maidenly voice, you play at being confused. Your poker face is still awful, so you have to hide your massive grin behind the invisible handkerchief you’re clutching.

“Keep going? My, a gentleman like you… an unmarried woman like me… what else is there to do, Samuel?”

His week being teased by you at all angles has forced him to evolve. Sam forgets altogether about indulging your bit and upgrades straight to more wonderful, ticklish manhandling, wiggling an arm between your vulnerable side and the bed to practically throw you back where you belong. You squeak and sputter between laughs, pretending your skin doesn’t explode with goosebumps at his touch.

When his massive palm is spread over your breastbone, Sam hoists you back against him, rolls in to threaten squishing you with more plush muscle and manly weight, and snarls in a way that ruins your metaphorical panties all over again.

“Uh-uh. Don’t play. You know exactly what m’ gonna do to you. Do y—?”

Sam stirs up his hips as he talks. All the snooty teasing left in your tank evaporates in one fell swoop, feeling the delicious outline of his dick swelling against you. Okay. You’re woman enough to admit that does it for you, and you really, really don’t want to wait anymore. Sam is an unbearable tease who will drag this out forever. You take matters into your own hands. Or, really, you put them into his.

…You prop open your closest leg for him, bent at the knee.

“Aw,” Sam rumbles, “didn’t even have’ta ask.”

You don’t hide your mean little grin. Sam, of course, kisses you into oblivion just seeing it, sliding a coarse hand under the silky, sensitive flesh behind your knee to keep you open for him. The ashes of your last climax are still simmering with heat, but it’s Sam’s kiss and his touch that reignites you totally.

It’s a bit of a twist to lean back and kiss him, but Sam’s height is made for this: his bulge swells right under your pussy, and he has the room to lean in close to your ear and purr—

“Take it out.”

Sam is asking you to take out his dick. You know that, yet you imagine yourself a month from now, unsure of which weapon the boys are comfortable letting you borrow from the Impala’s trunk. Dean’ll tell you, oh, the machete’s fine. Then Sam, with glittering eyes and full knowledge of how he’s torturing you, will nudge his chin toward the trunk and utter that phrase. Go on. Take it out. Knowing exactly what you’re thinking, and when, and how. And how deep and how hard.

It takes some shuffling and some curling, but you manage to work Sam’s jeans and boxers down his thighs. Just the sound of his zipper makes your mouth water. He hisses soft by your ear at the chill of the room, but in your hand Sam’s dick is body-hot by comparison. And. And so… s-so…

You scoop your palm around the shaft, squeezing him, feeling him. Through your back you feel Sam curl in and shiver, rumbling in approval. Your cheeks feel like they’re cooking by the candlelight just going for it, but your curiosity wins out—or, more accurately, your fucking awe. Because. What the fuck. You’ve never exactly seen a dick in person before, but you’re not naive. Sam is big enough to split you in half, and—and it just kind of pisses you off, because not only is he big, his dick is pretty, too. He has a pretty dick. Just cause’ being smart and empathetic and all that other bullshit didn’t make him sexy enough. God.

You nuzzle your cheek into Sam’s and he drops his lazy temple against yours. The two of you lounge there, heaving like peeping toms, as you both take in how sexy his cock looks leaking against your belly. Laying between your legs. It’s goddamn photo-worthy. Then, the angle your hand is taking slow, experimental pumps of him… accidentally… grinds Sam’s shaft between your abuse-swollen folds. He’s already twisting to moan into your mouth when you start to rock along him in earnest. You take a fistful of Sam’s hair and ride him for all he’s worth, dragging your sopping wet cunt across his dick until he glistens.

For three blissful seconds Sam locks you against his chest and grinds with you, making it instantly clear why people always use the word friction with sex. The push and pull of it has you whimpering loud and high against Sam’s mouth. And, thank god for him, because when your head starts to fog with visions of being filled raw, Sam pulls away from your kiss and recollects his control.

“Condom,” he gasps for breath, “we should. Probably. Yeah.”

“...Right,” you cursed. Your high school sex-ed teachers would not be proud of your lack of forethought, but it’s impossible to have any kind of thought in this situation, period.

For example: Sam tilts away to fish around in his duffle bag beside the bed, and, unfiltered, your mind taps its fingertips together and cheerily hopes, maybe Sam will be so rough the condom breaks.

Woah there, girlfriend, your reason butts in. But it doesn’t have anything else to say, since you start picturing how Sam’s cum would look oozing out of you, and. Um.

“You almost sound disappointed,” Sam jokes, digging for his wallet.

You snuggle down into the blankets and pretend you’re not hiding your face. “A little bit,” you confess, chanting the word responsible over and over in your head for good measure. “How much am I gonna feel you?”

Sam finds the condom and rolls back into your bubble. He turns in to kiss your shoulder, and you can feel his smile when he tells you, “You’re gonna feel every bit of me. Every inch… every stroke… I promise.”

He is so determined to assuage your worries that he holds the condom where you can see it, turning it over (between those long, long fingers) to make sure it’s punctureless and new. The little foil packet has XL printed on one side, which both adds to your sexy thoughts and pulls you out of them. Sam really is that big. He knows it, too, which is probably how he reads your nervousness.

“We’ll take it slow,” Sam promises, voice honey-sweet and quick to reassure you. “S’ big, yeah, but I’m gonna do everything to make you comfortable, kay? And if you wanna stop—”

He cares so much, you realize.

“Sam?”

He looks into your eyes like he loves you, and utters, “Yeah?”

“Thank you for making this good for me,” you say.

Sam melts. He doesn’t seem to know what to say to that, and you let him know it’s okay with a softer, warmer kiss than the others you’ve shared. You take in the shape of his face, the subtle freckles on his cheeks and nose, how the candlelight shadows sweeten Sam’s gaze. It slams on top of you how there’s nobody in the whole world you’d rather be doing this with, and in one puff your anxiety is in the wind.

You wrap your fingers around Sam’s wrist and flirt, “...Can I put it on you?”

Sam nods, eyes lidded. You’ve never exactly had to open a condom before, so you’re careful to pry the foil open with your fingers. For whatever reason you hadn’t figured it’d be lubed, but it makes fitting the ring of it around Sam’s tip and sliding it down his shaft a bit easier. A soft happy groan escapes him. They keep escaping him as you pump his cock in languid twists of your hand.

Sam nuzzles his face between your shoulder blades, whisper-rasping, “Would you like to…? It’ll be less scary that way.”

You really, really would. Before you make your move, Sam adds, “But, uh, before you put it in—want you to look at me.” He wets his lips with his tongue. “Wanna see the look on your face when I fill you up.”

Well, fuck. You tilt your face against Sam’s, nose to nose with him and warmed by his breath, and feel the slow ripples of heat in your belly roll into long, growing waves. Sam slides a hand back to the silky underside of your thigh and props you open for him. When you line Sam up, you start with the tip, not pressing, just stroking, feeling him against you. A satisfied purr drizzles out of your mouth to Sam’s. So far, your chosen pace has been “just go for it,” and since it hasn’t failed you yet—

—you go for it.

Sam’s bulbous cockhead dips between your folds to find your hole. A desperate, keening yes squeals out of you. You’re spit-wet and absolutely caked in slick, so there’s no hitch when you pull Sam in, just a hot, sudden fullness that seems to go endlessly deeper and deeper. The fit is so fucking snug. Snug like he’s made for you. Snug and perfect and stinging, made easier by Sam’s soft huffing coos. Look at you go. Makin’ this look easy. You looked so pretty when I ate you out, baby, but I knew you’d look even prettier taking my dick. So eager, Sam says, and he’s right. Your wetness is just begging to swallow him whole. Just being stuffed with half of Sam’s cock has you sucking down air, so the final surge to bring him to the hilt pries a genuine, hoarse cry from your belly. Sam shoves his face in your hair and groans, the sound catching on the snarl between his teeth.

Together, you orbit around the throbbing core of pleasure between you, suspended in the moment.

Sam is a wind-up toy, springs tightening with every vicious squeeze of your pussy. His mouth has made you soft, slippery, and swollen, so the firmness of his cock is different but stellar. This close, in such an intimate position, you can feel his heartbeat in more ways than one, and it surrounds you and fills you so effortlessly that you can only assume it’s your own. He touches your body like it’s one he just stepped into, feeling you from a new perspective for the first time. Sam fixates on your tummy, too, and you find out why when he presses down under your belly button—feeling the thick swell of him under your skin, deeper than anyone else could ever go. He gives you a turn too, pressing your hand down in the same place. It sends electric blackouts of lust through your system that demand to be fucked brainless.

You start to wiggle in his grasp for more, stirring your hips down onto him and choking out his name. Sam is already responding: your open leg is scooped into the crook of his arm and drawn tight to his chest, spreading you open as wide as you’ll go. His hold cants up your hips in a way that lets his cock hit just that much deeper, and that’s all you need to dash your head against the pillows and mewl for your life. Two rough fingerpads slip back into the sopping wet home of your clit and stir against it at a pace brutal enough to cramp. Between Sam’s fingers and the thick drag of his cock against your soft walls, you’re desperate for something to hold onto. You latch onto Sam’s wrist for dear life. Then starts Sam’s pulling and pushing in brief, filling strokes, rocking, driving you fucking crazy, making you need him to fuck you like you need air. He was deep to a point that you swear you could feel him in the back of your throat.

“You want more?” Sam asks, and if it weren’t for the breathy rattle in his voice he could’ve sounded innocent.

You nod until your head is close to rolling off. “Yes, yes Sammy please.”

Sam grins. You feel it for an instant, then his cheek pulls away from your back and all you have left to read him by is the needy, carnal noises he’s making. All at once he’s drawing out further than he had before. You’re almost empty for a whole sob-worthy breath, which Sam makes up for with every ounce of his being.

For what has to be three glorious hours, Sam leans back to fuck you in powerful, even strokes, filling you to the brim every time, and filling the room with the thick, wet sound of his cock pounding into you. You repay him the only way you can, and—get—noisy.

You moan. You wail. You mewl, pretty much every time Sam’s hips snap up into your ass. You pant hard through it all, begging him in soft whines to f-fuck me, fuck me, p-please, Sam and to go deeper, baby—uhnn, more more more…! From there you’re on autopilot, letting loose even the most primal noises that Sam gets out of you. He is very, very good at his task, so you color the room with every erotic syllable under the sun. A porn studio would hire the two of you without even entering the room. Sam especially, but you might be biased since every time you sigh his name he drives in a little harder.

Indescribable pleasure follows even his tiniest movements. You absorb every pump with nothing but desperate enthusiasm, spreading your legs further, curling your back, and digging your fingers into the cushions for any sort of leverage at all. Just a few minutes pass until your limit is a trembling boulder of knots in your gut, but still Sam’s nowhere near finished yet. Slick coats your thighs and Sam's cock, you cry at every thrust, your body twitches and shudders all over, but he's still not there.

He slows. The brush of his lips against your ear and the wisp of his breath set your nerves on fire. “You’re gonna finish first, but tha’—that’s okay, baby,” Sam reassures, and works your poor swollen clit even harder, choking a string of thready moans from you. “Wanna feel your pretty pussy cum all over my dick.”

“Oh fuck,” you whine.

(Tomorrow, you’re going to wake up and wonder where the hell he got that dirty mouth from. Somebody needs to clean it out with soap.)

It’s as Sam’s laying sloppy kisses on your throat that his prediction comes true. The tissue in your body pulls taut, winding tight, tighter, curling around the epicenter of pleasure, toward him. You expect Sam’s thrusts to take a fierce turn. Instead, you’re treated to the same thorough, determined pace that got you here in the first place—the same pace that is currently jellifying your insides and reducing you to tears on this teeny bed. If the percussive slapping of skin on skin wasn’t enough to wake up the entire planet, then the vicious slam of the bedframe putting a new dent in the wall would certainly do the job. Somehow you hear it all past your pulse thundering in your ears. The arm hooked behind you to rake a hand through Sam’s hair bobs with each thrust, and your leg trapped in Sam’s hold bounces on beat. All you can do is scrape out broken gasps, until the tossing waves of heat and lust and power twisted in your belly have built too high—and all things that go up must inevitably come crashing down.

“That’s my girl,” Sam slurs, squeezing your tits in both hands. He rolls his hips into you and coos, “Just like that… take what you need, baby, it’s okay…”

Like last time, Sam fucks you through it. You’re scooped up in his arms and squeezed tight, tight enough to be drawn into Sam’s body and absorbed. The hot, gorgeous drags of friction against the sensitive walls of your cunt slow, but Sam never draws out, burying himself deep and soaking up every wild clamp of your pussy. There’s something fucking spectacular about having something to clench down on. Sam is that perfect something, vieny and thick and still fucking hard.

You cum on him in long rippling rushes of wet heat that feel downright unrealistic, otherworldly—exaggerated, maybe, by the fact that you fucking—black—out!

It must only be a few beats later that you come out of it, but the fact remains that Sam Winchester made you cum so hard you passed out, and you’re going to have to live with that for the rest of your life. You’re already starting to realize that Sam is the best lay you’re ever going to have, period, and the dull happy throb of your orgasm hasn’t even left your body yet. Sam hasn’t even left your body yet.

Wait, fuck. He’s still hard.

…This could be. This could be very good.

Fueled by hormones, sweat, and adrenaline, you pull off him and roll the rest of the way onto your belly. During all the crazed fucking, you and Sam had migrated halfway down the bed. You crawl to the top as sexily as you’re able, stuff your cheek against the closest pillow, and wiggle your cum-soaked ass in the air just for him, open for his taking. Your face could start the whole bed on fire, but you feel more alluring than embarrassed.

“C’mon, Sammy,” you taunt, and throw him a mean grin, “gimme the big finish.”

Sam sucked in a deep breath from his nose, probably preying for strength. A dirty smile touched his face. “You’re… you’re amazing, _____.”

Feeling like it, you turned your face over onto the other side of the pillow and tempted him with another mesmerizing ass wiggle. Sam was up on his knees in an instant. You should’ve known that Sam, the addict, would instantly take the chance to shove his face between your legs. The only warning you get is his massive hands clamping down on your calves to hold you still, then a hot, silky tongue swipes once through your folds for a taste. You haven’t finished squealing when Sam’s weight saddles up behind you, and the heavy shape of his cock starts to rut between your legs.

“Sorry,” Sam hums, not sorry at all, “Needed a taste of you.”

Stars above, he doesn’t hesitate to get handsy with you, too, taking two broad handfuls of your ass-cheeks. Your ass sits so nicely against his hips that you start to wonder if soulmates are real. Because Sam must be yours, fitting into you like a key and teasing you open like a master lockpicker. Once you’re where Sam wants you, he bobs your ass back until his tip has room to part your folds, and after that you’re both brought home into sparkling, slippery, blinding pleasure. He digs his fingers into your ass and pulls you right on him, filling your pussy to the hilt, like always. Key. Lock. Click click click.

“Yes,” you and Sam hiss together.

“Fuck,” Sam adds. “You should see yourself like this. You look so stuffed, baby, squeezing down on me.”

“Feel so stuffed,” you flirt back, wiggling into him.

This angle is different than the last, exaggerating, as Sam immediately starts in on his pace from before, how thick his cock is. He curls his fingers around your waist and beats in hard, pulling on your still-sparking overstimulated wires from last time. Every joint in your body locks ramrod straight, overwhelmed with brief flashes of too much too much. Your pussy clenches helplessly around him, but Sam brings you over it with a few well-placed stirs of his hips. In no time you’re mewling for him like you were before, emboldened by your first round.

You get your nails into Sam’s sculpted ass and drag him deeper, faster, urging him on the end of a moan, “Fuckin’ take it, Sammy—mhhnn, take what—what you need, Sam, yes, so good—”

This is exactly what Sam needs to hear. You’re scooped up around the middle, just like before, and Sam crushes his face into your back, spooning you close as he brings himself closer and closer to where he needs to be. Your hands can’t get enough of him, smoothing down his vieny arms and squeezing his hand against your belly. The picture the two of you must make is obscene on unimaginable levels. Sam, latched onto you like a parasite and reaming you for his release. You, smushed under him and loving it, digging your ass up into him for more. All the sweat-twisted blankets shoved to the floor. Sam’s hips canting your thighs apart. The worn-smooth slope of his palms, squeezing your tits and your tummy and your waist in achy handfuls.

Finally, Sam’s hoarse choked panting cuts off with a sharp breath. His hips putter into you for the last time, then still. Sam spills into the condom, shuddering against you from head to toe, and slowly… the two of you collapse into each other… panting and panting until your breathing syncs up. Sam’s chest goes up. You suck in a breath. His chest goes out, and you deflate right with him.

He doesn’t get up and you don’t ask him to. As the haze of sex starts to clear from the room (as much as it can, anyway), the chill of the mountainside creeps in behind it, and the hottest thing around for miles is easily the giant, naked Sam Winchester in your bed. Wrapped up in him and as warm as can be, you wonder if he’s as close to passing out (again) as you are.

But no. Suddenly, Sam’s up on his hands, and there’s only two possible reasons why.

“Didn’t get to kiss you as I finished,” he complained.

Smushed into your pillow, you tell him, “I think you have two addictions.”

Regardless, you roll onto your back so Sam can lay one on you. Since your soul is officially back in your body, you’re more aware than ever of the aches and bruises you’ve earned, not to mention a few sets of pomegranate-purple fingerprints. After a few stunning kisses from Sam, you’re still not sure that all of that actually happened. You touch his face and pinch his cheeks plenty of times, but all he does is look at you extra dreamily. Still doesn’t seem real.

Of course, being a gentleman, he decides to prove it to you.

“Speaking of my other addiction…” Sam lays a playful hand on your belly, “I know I wound you up a bit back there. Can I take care of you one more time? Please?”

“Hmm…” You pretend to think, grinning to yourself. “Man. I just can’t say no to you, Sammy…”

Two weeks later, you’re crammed in a teeny car instead of a teeny cabin, riding down a back road in rural Texas the Dean way—blowing by road signs at sixty miles an hour, windows down and music up. Sam’s shotgun. You’re content to sit behind him, catching his eye in the side-mirror as he pretends to hunt around newspapers for a new case. His hair flutters in the wind, outlining his face in the most enchanting way.

“I don’t know how the hell the two of you stayed up there the whole week!” Dean hollers over his Lynyrd Skynyrd tape, which he could turn down whenever he wants to. He throws you an unenvious look from the driver’s seat, “You must’a been bored out of your fuckin’ gourds!”

You’re honestly surprised that Dean didn’t automatically assume sexy shenanigans occurred at the cabin. Sam doesn’t move to answer, deeply engrossed in his reading. Where Dean can’t see, you curl your fingers into the hair at the back of Sam’s neck and caress his scalp, which earns you a look that promises that sexy shenanigans can happen anywhere. They can happen in motel rooms. Click. Even Impalas, when Dean’s gone. Click click click.

You shrug at Sam’s brother, shouting over the music with an unsubtle grin. “We entertained ourselves!”

Tags: @samssluttybangs @cookiemumster1 @lacilou @cevans-winchester @leigh70 @seraphimluxe @emily-roberts @emme-looou @aloneatpeace @williamstop @ornella0910 @chaoticshepardplaid @dakota-dream @lcvecstiel @goghkiss @spnexploration

READ PART TWO.

#sam winchester #spn #supernatural #uncouthspn #sam winchester x reader #sam winchester x you #sam winchester x reader headcanons #sam winchester imagine #sam winchester smut #user uncouth

5K notes · View notes