o l i v i a ⏾

The motel room was dimly lit, shadows dancing across the faded wallpaper as you paced near the window. Sam sat on the edge of the bed, cleaning his gun with methodical precision, each movement calculated and cold. This wasn't the Sam you'd grown to care about over the months of hunting together. This version was something else entirely.

"You're making me dizzy," he said without looking up, his voice carrying that familiar timber but none of the warmth. "Sit down."

It wasn't a request.

You stopped pacing but didn't sit. "We need to talk about what happened back there, Sam. You almost got that family killed because you didn't care enough to-"

"To what?" He finally looked up, his eyes meeting yours with an intensity that made your breath catch. But there was nothing behind them. No guilt, no remorse, no recognition of the lives that had hung in the balance. "To coddle them? To hold their hands while we did our job?"

He set the gun aside and stood, moving toward you with that predatory grace he'd developed since he'd come back... well, wrong. Each step was deliberate, purposeful, and you found yourself backing toward the wall despite every instinct telling you to stand your ground.

"You're afraid of me," he observed, tilting his head slightly. Not concerned, but curious. Like you were a specimen under glass.

"No," you lied, your back hitting the wall.

A slow smile spread across his face, and it was all wrong. Sam's smiles used to light up his whole face, crinkling the corners of his eyes. This was just lips and teeth, sharp and predatory.

"You should be." He braced one hand against the wall beside your head, leaning in close enough that you could smell him, feel the heat radiating from his skin. "Do you know what I could do to you right now? What kind of power I have over you? Over everyone?"

Your heart hammered against your ribs, but you couldn't tell if it was fear or something else entirely. Something darker that you didn't want to acknowledge.

"Sam-"

"That's not really me anymore, is it?" His free hand came up to trace along your jawline with deceptive gentleness. "I remember caring about you. I remember thinking you were... fragile. Something to protect, not touch."

His thumb brushed across your lower lip, and you shivered.

"I don't feel that anymore," he continued, his voice dropping to a whisper that somehow made it more menacing. "Do you know how liberating that is? To not care about consequences? About feelings?"

You should push him away. Should remind him that somewhere buried deep, the real Sam was still in there. But when he looked at you like that... like you were something he wanted to take apart piece by piece... your words died in your throat.

"You're playing a dangerous game," you managed to whisper.

"Oh, I'm not playing anything." His hand slid down to your throat, not squeezing, just resting there like a promise. "This is what I am now. What I want. And deep down, past all that moral outrage and concern for my soul..."

He leaned in until his lips were almost brushing your ear.

"It's what you want too."

The accusation hung in the air between you, and the worst part was that you couldn't deny it. This version of Sam was terrifying, yes, but he was also magnetic in a way that made your skin feel too tight and your thoughts scatter like leaves in the wind.

"Tell me I'm wrong," he challenged, pulling back to meet your eyes again. "Tell me you don't think about what it would be like. What I could show you without all those inconvenient emotions getting in the way. Tell me and I'll stop."

Your mouth went dry. Because he wasn't wrong, and somehow he knew it. Could see it in the way your pulse jumped under his fingers, in the way you hadn't tried to escape even though you easily could have.

He chuckled like he fucking knew you'd answer like that.

"That's what I thought." His smile turned satisfied, possessive. "Sit." He was back on the edge of the bed before the word even fully left his mouth, legs spread wide, hands resting on his thighs like he owned the damn room- and you in it.

You didn’t move at first. That same pulse he’d just measured with two fingers at your throat now thundered between your legs, demanding something you weren’t proud of.

He tilted his head. “Come on. Don’t make me ask again.”

It wasn’t a threat, and that was the problem. There was no menace behind his words, just absolute certainty. He knew you would listen. Like this whole thing was already inevitable.

So you crossed the room slowly. You didn’t look at him as you straddled his lap, settling there like it wasn’t the worst idea you’d had all week. Like you hadn’t just watched him leave a blood-soaked crime scene without blinking.

His hands locked on to your hips the second you touched him- firm, grounding. Possessive.

"So focused. So fucking serious," he growled in your ear. “I used to wonder what you'd sound like when you finally came apart...” he said, his voice low and his lips brushing the corner of your jaw. “Now I get to find out.”

Your breath caught as his mouth dragged to your neck, all heat and hunger and wrong. But you couldn't pull away. His lips found that spot just beneath your ear that made you shift without meaning to. That made you need him.

“Sam-” you tried again, weak, already unraveling.

“Shh,” he interrupted, pulling back just enough to meet your eyes. “Don't act like you've never imagined this."

That should’ve stopped you cold. Instead, it made your thighs squeeze tighter around him.

He grinned like he knew. Like he’d just won a game you hadn’t even realized you started playing.

"That night in Phoenix," he drawled, voice low and smug. "After the dive bar- yeah. You remember. That little skirt you wore? Barely covered your ass."

He leaned in, lips brushing your ear as his fingers ghosted down your side.

"You bent over in front of me twice. Twice. You knew exactly what you were doing. Always a smart girl."

His hand slid lower, gripping the back of your thigh.

"You wanted me to look. Wanted to see how long I’d play nice before I snapped."

You whimpered, and then his mouth was on yours, claiming you rough. There was no tenderness, no prelude. He kissed like it was an invasion, his tongue pushing past your lips, hands dragging your hips against his bulge in a slow grind that made you gasp into his mouth.

He swallowed the sound greedily.

You were already moving against him, breath hitching as the friction built, as his fingers dug harder into your waist.

"That's it," he murmured against your lips. "Knew you'd be like this. So fucking needy."

His hands slipped under your shirt without preamble, dragging the fabric up until he could tug it over your head. Your bra followed quickly, the snap undone in one practiced flick, and then his mouth was on you- teeth grazing, tongue circling, making your back arch like he owned every inch of you.

Maybe he did. Or maybe you were letting him.

He dragged his mouth down your neck, slow and deliberate, until his hands were at your waistband. His fingers hooked the denim and pulled them off in one fluid motion, but he didn’t pull off your panties just yet.

Instead, he paused, almost maliciously drinking in the sight of you, pressing his palm right on the wet spot that's spilled through the cotton of your panties.

“Fuck,” he murmured, a crooked grin tugging at his lips. “You’re soaked through. Haven’t even touched you properly yet.”

He leaned in, nosing along your hipbone, voice dropping to a purr.

“All that smart talk earlier, and now you’re dripping for me like a needy little thing.”

You lifted your hips with a gasp, and he finally obliged, stripping you bare, your panties discarded in a pile you barely registered hitting the floor.

Then he sat back and looked at you. And smiled.

“Ride me.”

It wasn’t a request. You reached between you, undoing his belt with trembling fingers. His eyes didn’t leave yours, not once, as you pulled him free, his dick hard and already slick at the tip. It hit his stomach with a slap, the sheer size of him enough to make your mouth water.

He watched you with a smug smirk, like you were something he’d earned. There was no warmth in his eyes, only the cold satisfaction of someone who no longer gave a damn about the consequences.

You guided his thick tip to your entrance, your breath stuttering and your body already aching with need.

And then slowly- so slowly- you sank down. Not all at once, just little by little, your pussy stretching to take him in inch by inch. Sam's hands twitched by his sides, like he wanted to slam you onto him already. But he resisted, instead taking in the view of you wincing and whining as you hit the base of him.

His breath hitched, but he didn’t make a sound. You did- a broken gasp. A bitten-back moan. The stretch of him was obscene, addictive, your thighs trembling as you settled fully onto his lap.

"That's a girl," he said, voice thick with something darker than lust. “Fuckin' knew you'd take it all f'me.”

He was generous enough to let you set the pace at first- slow rolls of your hips, grinding down as he dragged his hands along your sides, your ass, your thighs. Or, at least he let you think you were setting the pace. Really, he just wanted to see you. Feel you from the inside before completely wrecking you the way he wanted to.

He gripped your hips tighter, guiding you harder, faster, until your head tipped back and you were moaning without shame. The sound of wet skin slapping against each other was dirty. Pornographic. It echoed off of the motel walls that were already too familiar with sin.

“Look at you,” he rasped, one hand slipping between your bodies, thumb finding your clit with devastating precision. “Fucking yourself on me like you need me.”

You didn’t argue. Couldn’t. Your fingers clawed into his shoulders as you rode him harder, chasing the friction, the fullness, the sweet, punishing drag of his cock with every desperate grind of your hips. That sharp edge built in your belly, white-hot and unbearable, teetering just out of reach. You could barely breathe, barely think, his name caught on your tongue like a plea- wrecked and reverent, but too far gone to speak it.

“You wanna come?” he asked, voice low, cruel. “Beg for it.”

You didn’t hesitate. Your voice was small, breathless. Just one little, pathetic, helpless, needy: "Please."

"Come on," His grin was wicked. “That’s all it takes?”

And then he pressed harder, slamming your little frame in his large hands.

You shattered right there in his lap, gasping and clenching around him, falling forward into his chest as he fucked it out of you- relentless, brutal, chasing his own high like it owed him something.

As you came, he groaned against your shoulder, arms banded tight around you like he wasn’t ready to let go. And for a second, just a second, you felt him soften. Not in body, but in soul.

Or whatever was left of it.

But the moment passed, and when he pulled back, those eyes were still empty. He didn’t let you off his lap right away. Even after you came, as you sat perched on top of him- shaking, spent, your breath catching in your throat. He stayed hard inside you. One large hand cupped the back of your neck, keeping your forehead against his shoulder, like he wasn’t finished with you.

And he was in no hurry to stop this any time soon.

“I can feel your pulse,” he murmured, fingers tapping lightly against the nape of your neck. “It jumps every time I move. Like this.”

He shifted his hips just a fraction. It's enough for you to whimper.

“You sensitive?” he asked, though there was no real concern in his voice, just that same detached amusement. Curiosity, like a scientist poking at something raw just to see it twitch. “Hm? One fuck and your pussy’s already this tender?”

He leaned back, letting you fall forward slightly, forcing your hands to catch on his chest. He watched your face, how your eyelids fluttered, your jaw tightened, your lips parted as you tried to breathe steady. He watched you squirm as he flexed his hips again, deeper this time, slow. Mean.

“Need you," he whispered, the sound sending goosebumps down your skin. "Need more. You don’t get to come again until I do.”

His voice was low, matter-of-fact. Your body? Just a means to an end. A toy, warm and willing and wet. And his.

He lifted you effortlessly and let you drop again harder, slower, groaning softly as you clenched around him in reflex.

"That's it" he said, his breath fanning your cheek. “Use your thighs.”

You tried to set a rhythm, but your muscles ached. You were overstimulated and half-lost in the way he filled you so perfectly, the way every movement scraped across some raw nerve that hadn’t even had time to recover.

"Sam..." you managed to choke out, the sound like a plea.

"What? Too much?" he cooed with fake remorse. "Hm? Too fucked out to do it yourself?"

His hands returned to your hips tight and bruising. “Guess I’ll do it myself.”

He hardly warned you before he flipped you onto your back and followed you down, still inside, still hard, settling between your thighs like he belonged there. He grabbed your wrists and pinned them above your head with one hand, pressing them into the mattress. The other slid down your body until he had your thigh hooked around his hip.

"Look at you," he murmured, letting his hips roll forward, slow and deep. "Taking it like all f'me."

You gasped, legs twitching as he bottomed out again, thick and deliberate, grinding against a spot that made your toes curl.

“Aww,” he drawled, his voice going faux-soft as you tensed beneath him. “Wish you could see yourself right now. Fucking brainless around me.”

He pulled back an inch, then sank in again, even deeper. Your mouth fell open. Nothing came out. When he pulled out, so did a thick, creamy white ring around the base of his dick.

"Look at that," he cooed. "See how wet I get you, huh? How good I make you feel?"

You let out a whimper, pleading him for more.

“Shh,” he said, smirking. “I know, I know. Not yet, remember?”

But you couldn’t help that you were already falling apart. And Sam, that dick, he fucking knew it. He watched it. Every flicker of tension in your jaw, every whimper you tried to swallow. His pace never faltered.

“I’ve barely even started,” he whispered, brushing his lips over your cheek like a mockery of affection. “And you’re already shaking.”

You tried to move- something, anything- but his grip on your wrists tightened.

“Nope,” he said smoothly. “Look at you- spread open and obedient f'me. Good fucking girl.”

He adjusted his angle again with a subtle shift of his hips, and you arched off the bed, a cry tearing from your throat as he hit the spot that made your vision blur.

“There it is,” he rasped, driving into you deeper. "Makes you so fucking dumb for it, doesn’t it?"

You were panting now, strung so tight you could barely think. Your legs were wrapped around him, desperate for more, for anything, and he didn’t give it. He stayed steady. Cruel and perfect.

“Fuck, you feel that?” he asked, dragging his hips back and driving in harder this time. “So tight around me."

Your whole body jolted. You whined, hips twitching under the weight of him.

“What?” he mocked again, voice syrup-sweet. “Too deep? You're a big girl, you can take it.”

He didn’t stop. He just kept ramming into you like your cunt was made to take his cock- loud, slick, filthy, your legs trembling as he dragged you toward another edge.

"Shh. I know. I know," he whispered, his breath hot against your jaw. "It’s too much. You're taking it so good."

And you were. You let him use you, your body clinging to him, your mind barely hanging on. The way he fucked you was all control and no compromise. He wasn’t giving you what you needed, he was taking what he wanted.

"Aww, look at that," he cooed, fucking you deeper. "She’s tightening so pretty for me. You gonna make a mess now? Huh?"

You whimpered, hips stuttering beneath him.

He smirked, leaned in close, and whispered:

“Not yet.”

The pressure built until it was unbearable, every thrust a tease, every roll of his hips designed to keep you teetering over the edge, denying you of your release.

And then finally he released your wrists.

“Go ahead,” he said, his tone dropping. “Touch yourself. Make yourself come while I fuck you.”

You didn’t hesitate. Your hand dropped between your thighs, and the second your fingers brushed your clit, your body seized around him, blinding heat snapping through your core. He groaned as you clenched around him, fucking you through it, rougher now, deeper, chasing his own release.

“Fuck- yeah,” he rasped, lips dragging down your jaw as he spilled inside you. “That’s what I wanted.”

You clenched around him in helpless waves, your body milking him through it. Your pussy was tight and filthy wet, spasming with every pulse of his cock as he emptied himself deep inside you. The heat of it made you gasp, made you feel him in every nerve ending, every twitch and grind of his hips as he fucked you through the high.

It was messy, slippery, and obscene. Your thighs were slick, and his breath grew ragged against your throat as your cunt kept fluttering around him, overstimulated and wrecked. He groaned low in his chest, hips stuttering once more as if your body squeezing down on him dragged the last drop from him.

He stayed inside you, buried to the hilt, savoring it like he wanted to carve the memory into your skin. His breath was warm against your neck when he spoke again.

“Always wanted to do that,” he muttered real low. It made your eyes widen just barely.

Then he pulled out. You flinched at the sudden absence, your body clenching down on nothing. Overstimulated. Messy. His cum leaked from you immediately, warm and thick, sliding down your ass and onto the sheets.

He watched it happen, watched the mess he'd made in you. His head tilted and his lips curved into a quiet smirk.

“You look pretty like this,” he said under his breath, like an observation. A compliment on accident.

Then he stood, crossed the room, and came back with a towel. He knelt between your legs, spread them wider with one hand, and started to clean you up, efficient and slow, like he was still savoring the view. The way your thighs trembled. The sticky mess of your cum and his between them. How soft you were now, how ruined.

His touch was shockingly gentle. It was almost like his body remembered a version of him that might’ve kissed your knee or murmured something soft.

But that man was gone. And this one didn’t kiss you. Didn’t crawl into bed beside you or pull the blanket over your shoulders. Didn't offer you a drink. When he was done, he tossed the towel aside, wiped his hands on the sheets, and stood up.

"I'm gonna shower," he said. And with that, he turned to the motel bathroom, the door clicking shut behind him.

You knew this wasn't really Sam. Whatever made him him had been carved out, leaving behind something that wore his face and spoke with his voice but felt nothing. No guilt. No love. No consideration for the consequences of using you like he'd been wanting to all along.

But your body was still singing from his touch, every nerve ending still alive with the memory of how he'd taken you apart with surgical precision. How he'd whispered things in your ear that the real Sam would never have said, wouldn't have even thought.

You exhaled a shaky breath and let your eyes drift closed.

It wasn't right. You knew that. But damn if part of you wasn't already wondering when it might happen again.