⋆｡𖦹°‧★ Hughie's the first to clock it. He can't prove it, but he knows. Soldier Boy has the emotional range of a brick except when you're in the room. If you get too close to danger, it becomes personal to him.
⋆｡𖦹°‧★ If Butcher ever found out, you'd be toast. When you bring it up to Ben, he shrugs, lights a joint, and mutters, “I’ll kick his limey ass.” He means it. He’s not afraid of Butcher, and he’d burn bridges for you, no hesitation.
⋆｡𖦹°‧★ He doesn’t sleep well but will knock out faster if you’re touching him. He gets peace of mind when your arm is draped over his hip, and your leg rests between his thighs.
⋆｡𖦹°‧★ In bed, he'll grip your waist, thumbs dragging under the hem of your shirt. His palm splays wide on your sides, stroking lines up and down.
⋆｡𖦹°‧★ Frenchie and Kimiko walked in on you once. You were perched on the bathroom sink, legs wrapped around Ben's waist while he shaved. Frenchie smacked a palm to his forehead. “I knew you liked ‘em dangerous, but mon dieu, he’s a walking war crime!" Kimiko dragged him back out by the arm, eyes wide like that was not our business. They never said a word about it.
⋆｡𖦹°‧★ Ben gives you his dog tags as a token. You find them on your pillow one morning, still warm from his skin. You wear them under your shirt.
⋆｡𖦹°‧★ Sometimes, after a bad mission or a trigger from his past, he gets quiet and stares at nothing. You’ve learned to sit close, press your forehead to his shoulder, and wait. He always comes back to you.
⋆｡𖦹°‧★ Once, when you were patching up a gash on his side, he looked at you real soft and murmured, “You’re the only damn thing in this world I’d bleed for.”
Jensen ackles x wife!reader during conventions please? Fans record sweet moments between the both of them.
𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚 caught on camera,
pairing. jensen ackles x wife!reader ( female )
wordcount. 416 genre. fluff
You're not supposed to be on stage.
You promised. Promised Jensen you’d stay backstage, hidden behind the curtain, “like a normal person” while he answered questions about monsters and music and the time Jared accidentally set a salt circle on fire.
But you made the mistake of laughing too loudly during a fan Q&A, and now he’s caught sight of you.
And it’s over.
Jensen's eyes flick to the side of the stage, and that lazy grin blooms across his face—bright and completely useless at hiding how gone he is for you.
The audience notices instantly. The girl with the microphone turns, sees you too, and gasps. “Oh my God, is that your wife?”
You start to shake your head, backing into the shadows like some kind of cryptid caught in the act. But Jensen just leans into the mic and says, “Babe. You might as well come up here now.”
“You all are menaces,” you mutter under your breath as you make your way onto the stage.
Jensen’s already out of his chair. He meets you halfway with an arm around your waist and a kiss pressed to your temple, soft like muscle memory. “I told you they’d find you,” he murmurs.
“I told you I’m not the talent.”
“And yet, somehow,” he says, turning you toward the crowd, “they still love you more than me.”
Another round of cheers. Someone yells, “SHE’S OUR MOM NOW,” which gets a solid laugh from the whole room.
You sit in Jensen’s chair while he stands behind you, hands on your shoulders, thumbs gently stroking back and forth over the fabric of your sweater. It’s domestic. It’s unprofessional. It’s so adorable the girl with the mic literally forgets her question mid-sentence and squeaks into her phone camera, “They’re holding hands behind the chair, oh my God—”
Later that night, you’ll scroll through all the videos on TikTok. You’ll see clips of Jensen resting his chin on your head while answering a fan’s question. The ones of him looking at you while you’re not even paying attention. The one where you lean back and whisper something and he just laughs, nose scrunch and everything.
You’ll see the captions:
“Get you a man who looks at you like Jensen looks at her.”
“She’s literally his safe place I’m gonna cry.”
“I’m not jealous you’re jealous.”
And Jensen?
He’ll just smile, tug you closer in bed, and say, “Told you. You’re the real star, sweetheart.”
ꔛ. all works ; writing guidelines ; support my work .ᐟ
Never more in love than when I’m leaving (never want you more than when you’re gone)
(Dean Winchester x female reader)
Summary You come home from a crappy date. Dean's there, watching the kids, and the two of you start reminiscing about - and reliving - the past.
CWs Divorced!Dad!Dean and ex-wife!reader (although they're technically not divorced yet), explicit sexy times on the couch, needing to be quiet, some jealousy, some mental health discussions, exes to lovers, starts out as a night of mistakes but turns into more? Hopeful ending!
18+. 8.6k words
AN You gorgeous sweethearts voted here for me to finish this fic out of my WIPs, so here you go! ❤️ Thank you for voting, and thank you for being here. I appreciate you all so, so much! (I'm having an emotional moment, don't look at me) Oh, and title is from Adrianne Lenker's "A better time to meet".
Dean Winchester masterlist ⏐ SPN masterlist
You walk into the kitchen to see Dean leaned over the aisle, looking at his phone. The very kitchen aisle he once built himself, while you were big and round with Emma. It’s a strange picture. It’s been ten years, his hair is longer and neither of you wear your wedding rings anymore, but it gives you a strange moment of whiplash.
You get a second to look at him before he notices you. A second to look at the man you once thought you’d be spending the rest of your life with. The one who moved out a year ago, because you both agreed it’s what would be best. He’s still the most handsome one you’ve ever seen.
It makes you feel more than one strong emotion.
“Hey,” you say, and it comes out a little breathless. He looks up, raises his eyebrows in that non-committal way he does.
“Hey,” he says, locking his phone and pushing it into the back pocket of his jeans, straightening.
“I’m sorry,” you say with a quick look at the clock over the fridge. “Couldn’t get a cab to save my life. Kids go down okay?” Dean raises his hands, drops them on the counter.
“All good,” he says. “They only complained a little about my bedtime methods.” You walk over to the far left cabinet, open it and take out the bottle of bourbon and a glass without really thinking about it.
“Why are you waiting in here?” you ask, looking over your shoulder at him. “Isn’t there a game on? You could have sat in the living room.” You look away from him to pour some of the liquor, only look up again when he doesn’t answer.
“So does that mean it was a very good night,” Dean asks, eyes on the glass and then slowly going up, “or a very bad one?” You snort, hold up the bottle.
“You want one?” you ask. Dean chews at his bottom lip, making a face. Probably about to tell you he needs to head out, has plans, when—
“Sure,” he says. “One for the road.”
With a nod, you take out a second glass, pour some of the dark liquid into it, then carry both glasses over to the aisle, hold one out to Dean. He takes it, holds it up to his nose while you put yours down, shrug off your coat, the one you put on when you suddenly started feeling self-conscious earlier about the body-hugging black dress you decided to wear. Dean’s giving you a slow grin when you turn back to him.
“What?” you ask, voice suspicious.
“You look good,” he says. You roll your eyes at him.
“Whatever.”
“No, you do.”
“Alright, Dean,” you answer, shaking your head a little as you take a slow sip. Both of you are quiet for a moment.
“So,” Dean says, rolling the glass in his hand and he’s looking at you expectantly when you turn to him. “Who was it?” You press your lips together, study him.
“You’re gonna lose your shit,” you say, already trying to hide your grin. Dean widens his arms.
“Try me,” he says. You take a deep breath, let it out slowly. You chew at your lip for a second, put down the glass..
“Tom,” you say, and you can’t help but bring your hands up to your face when you see Dean’s expression, hide behind them. The neighbor you both used to hate with a passion, even more so when he left his wife and kid for a waitress he'd met on a business trip. A waitress who promptly dumped his ass when he showed up at her doorstep with a backpack and a hopeful smile.
“No way,” Dean says and you nod, drop your hands, pick up your glass again. He makes a horrified face. “He is such a douche. I thought you agreed.”
“Listen,” you say with a shrug, “it’s slim pickings out there. He’s single, has a job and he can almost hold a conversation. That makes him hot shit in the available dating pool.”
“You know you once said you’d like to murder him with a hammer,” Dean continues, but your next chuckle is half-hearted. “A claw hammer, you were real specific about it.” You swirl your drink in your glass, look at it.
“Yeah, well,” you say. “I guess I just wanted to feel desired for an evening and he asked me out, so…” You take another sip. Slowly look back up at Dean. The joviality is gone from his face, replaced by something like shame.
“I’m sorry,” he says, voice low and rough. “I didn’t mean… You can go on dates with whoever you want. It’s none of my business.” You tap a finger against the glass in your hand, shift around in the sudden awkwardness.
“I need to get out of these shoes,” you say and Dean nods.
“Yeah,” he says, seeming still embarrassed about talking shit about your date, even though there is nothing but shit to talk about him. He clears his throat, puts down the glass. You stretch your shoulders.
“Anything I should bring for Ashley’s party on Saturday?” you ask as you’re straightening too. “Starts at six, right?” Dean freezes, his gaze dropping.
“Yeah,” he says, “about that…”
“Dean,” you say, voice frustrated, “I told you, if you two don’t want Emma and JJ staying over, that’s fine, but you’re gonna have to tell them that, because I know they’ll want to stay, and–”
“Party’s cancelled,” Dean says and you frown at him.
“Okay,” you say, “are you doing something else for her birthday, going away, or…”
“Jesus,” Dean says, looking to the side. “You’re gonna make me say it?”
“Say what?” you shoot back, already annoyed at his caginess, too tired for this shit, but the look on Dean’s face makes you close your mouth again.
“We broke up,” he says, tone sober. “Well, she broke up with me. Details, I guess.” He raises the glass again, drains what’s left in it, maybe to avoid looking at you. You’re quiet for a moment, your hands going together as you watch him. The way his eyes flit back and forth like they always do when he’s said something that might make him vulnerable.
“I’m sorry, Dean,” you say, voice low. “Do you… do you want to talk about it?”
“‘S alright,” he says, hands pushed into his pockets, looking down.
“Come on,” you say, picking up your glass again. “Bring the bottle.”
“It’s really–” Dean starts, but you interrupt him, already halfway out of the kitchen.
“Heels,” is all you say over your shoulder.
You walk over to the couch, kick your shoes off with a groan. It doesn’t take long for you to hear Dean’s footsteps coming up behind you. He walks up to you, looking down at you with an expression that asks, happy? In response, you hold out your glass, and he fills it, then his own, before putting the bottle on the low couch table and sitting down next to you with a deep, world-weary sigh.
The two of you sit there, you with your legs tucked under you, Dean with his wide, swirling the glass where he’s holding it. You look at him, look at his features, the way he moves. All so intensely familiar from all the years you’ve spent together and then suddenly becoming less familiar. Sometimes you look at him and for a moment, you forget what part of your life you’re in.
“So?” you say, taking another sip from your drink. Dean clenches his jaw before he answers.
“She says I’m unavailable,” he replies, unable not to add a slightly sarcastic tinge to the last word. “Says she doesn’t feel like I’m really interested in her, or ready to commit.”
“Hmm,” you mumble, taking another sip, holding back on any commentary for now.
“That living with me used to be fun, but now it’s like living with a ghost,” he continues. His eyebrows shoot up as he raises his glass, brings it up to his mouth. “I’m aware of the irony.”
“Does she know about any of that?” you ask. “The hunting?” Dean shakes his head before the glass has left his lips.
“Nah,” he says. “Not touching that with a ten-foot pole.” You nod, then shrug.
“Big part of your life to keep a secret from someone you’re supposed to trust,” you comment, and Dean turns to you, looks at you.
“How’s that work?” he asks, frowning a little, looking handsome as ever. “You know how people react to that.”
“I’m just saying,” you reply, raising your hands. “I don’t have the solution. Just… thinking out loud.” Dean huffs, then looks back at his glass.
“If it’s so easy,” he continues, “then how come we didn’t make it work?” He looks back at you, something deep and sad in his eyes. You return the gaze, take your time with answering.
“It’s not easy. And because she’s right,” you reply, voice serious. “Living with you’s like living with a ghost.”
You see the pain your words set free in Dean’s eyes. The crinkling of the skin around his eyes, the slight movement of his lips like he’s trying to find the right words to say. Not like you haven’t thrown much worse stuff at him, and he at you. The two of you were always passionate, that’s for sure.
“It wasn’t always, for what it’s worth,” you add, hoping to soften the blow of your words a little. “It’s just something that happened over time. Ashley might be a bit ditzy, but I know she saw the same thing in you that I did. It’s why she was so crazy about you.” You take another sip as Dean scoffs, but it’s half-hearted.
“Ditzy, huh?” he asks and you smile at him. “Should have just told me you didn’t like her.” You breathe out slowly.
“It’s not about her, Dean,” you answer and he frowns. “You just moved on so quickly, I… I don’t know.” You look down, but feel Dean’s eyes on you. When you look up, his expression is soft.
“Tell me,” he says.
“I didn’t want you to move on,” you say, a sad smile forming on your lips. “I wanted you to be hurt, wanted you to regret not putting your all into this marriage. I wanted you to be miserable. But now… I want you to be happy, Dean. I really do.” He nods slowly.
“Somehow that’s worse,” he replies, and in a way, you know what he means. The anger the two of you felt toward each other at failing at your marriage, failing your children, failing the promise of doing it right, doing it better - it's what kept you going for a long while. Afterwards, it was just you and the shards of a broken family.
“I just wanted you to get better,” you continue slowly. “This toughing it out business, it was never gonna work. And I was so angry because I just wanted you to try, when I know now that it’s more complicated than that. I might have been pretty nasty at times. Not proud of that.” Your hand finds one of your feet, and you press your fingers into the stiff muscles of your sole.
“Yeah, well,” Dean says, leaning forward, elbows going to his knees, “not like I didn’t give you reason to.” You press your lips together.
“Anyway,” you say, “it’s all in the past.”
“Maybe,” Dean asks, sighs, then reaches for the bottle again. You had red wine at dinner, hoping to drown out your date’s yapping, but the feeling of being on your couch, the bourbon warming your stomach and, if you’re being honest, Dean’s closeness, the still familiarity of it, is making you feel comfortable and soft. You shift around.
“So,” Dean says, raising the bottle as you hold out your glass, “is Tom gonna get lucky?” You snort, see the twitch at the corners of Dean’s mouth.
“I would rather never have sex again,” you mutter and Dean chuckles, grins. It warms your heart - it’s been a while since you’ve seen him smile, it feels like.
“You think he talks a lot during?” Dean asks, putting the bottle down, and you push your leg out, press your foot against his side, groan theatrically.
“Oh my God, shut up,” you say and Dean grins again. “I don’t even wanna think about it.”
“Hey, I need to know what my wife gets up to, okay? That’s how that whole co-parenting business works,” he says and you immediately shake your head.
“Ex-wife,” you correct him, pushing your foot into his side again. To your surprise, Dean grabs it and squeezes it in one hand.
“We’re not divorced, sweetheart,” he says. “You’re not rid of me yet.”
You huff as Dean gives you a sideways glance. A soft, gentle one, like he’s checking you’re okay with what he’s saying. He leans forward, puts his glass on the couch table with a grunt, then leans back, and takes your foot in both hands, puts it in his lap. Presses his thumb into your sole and drags up. You open your mouth to complain, but then your eyes fall shut immediately. A small humming sound leaves you despite yourself.
“Remember when I used to do this when you were pregnant?” he says, and you slowly blink your eyes open, look at him. There’s something unreadable on Dean’s face as he keeps massaging you.
“I remember you doing this when I decided to go on that stupid hike that one time I insisted we go camping,” you reply, taking another sip of your drink, looking at Dean over the rim of your glass. “I don’t know why in the world I thought that would be a good idea with a toddler.”
“Hey, don’t knock that trip,” he responds, hitting a particularly sensitive spot and making you gasp. “Pretty sure we made JJ while we were there.” You chuckle.
“Pretty sure we made him at Sam’s graduation party,” you reply. Dean grins, and it’s his old one - the one you used to get a lot of, the life-affirming, loving one, the one he gave you everytime the two of you realized that you’d made it - made it out, survived, that life was only just beginning. The one you saw less and less of as Dean started struggling, feeling like he was never good enough, was never gonna really belong in this life.
When the joy of making it out became yesterday’s news and all the old wounds he’d never fully recovered from started catching up with him. The ones you’d begged him to deal with, get help for. He started pulling away from you, left you with the responsibility of trying to keep it all together.
“Long time ago,” he mumbles, looking down at his lap.
“Yeah,” you say. Both of you are quiet, Dean just holding your foot now but not letting go of it, a strangely intimate gesture.
“I know it’s hard,” you say eventually, your voice quiet and Dean seems to have been deep in thought, because he blinks, looks over at you. “Digging yourself out of that hole. Believe me, I’ve teetered at the edge of it, too. But you have to, Dean. It’s not just about you, or us. It’s about them.”
You don’t need to clarify who you’re talking about - of course you don’t. They’re the center of it all, the reason you couldn’t afford to fall apart when your marriage did. The reason Dean is here, because JJ asked if his dad could come over rather than sleeping at his new place, the one your son has had you pick him up a few times from cause he says it doesn’t feel homey, Dean with the saddest look in the world, like he thought he was the biggest failure to ever live. The two of them aren’t little babies anymore, Emma’s gonna be ten in the fall. Time is passing so quickly it sometimes terrifies you.
“You know what Emma asked me the other day?” you say, looking at your foot still there in Dean’s hands. You can’t look at his face, because you don’t want to see his expression. “She asked me, ‘mom, is daddy sad?’ And I didn’t know what to answer, Dean. Because I think you are. I think you’re really sad, and I think you have been for a while.”
Carefully, you look up. Dean’s brow is low, his jaw clenched. The devastation of his daughter seeing him as only human is clear on his face.
“Fuck,” he mutters and you let out the breath you were holding. But then, to your surprise, Dean looks up at you, something stoic there. “I’ve been seeing someone.” You blink, unsure at the seemingly sudden switch between topics.
“A–aside from Ashley?” you ask with a frown, then tilt your head with an angry expression. “Dean, you didn’t cheat on her, did you? That would be so–”
“A friggin’ therapist,” Dean interrupts you, shaking his head at you, unbelieving. “Did you think–? No, I’ve been– A therapist, okay?” You feel heat rush to your face at your assumption, and then something sudden and soft in your chest at his words.
“You… you have?” you ask, sounding unsure.
“Yes,” Dean says, still sounding offended. “It’s the one Sam went to, he recommended him to me. Jesus, you really think I’d cheat on Ashley?” You open your mouth, then close it.
“That’s amazing, Dean,” you say, leaning forward when he refuses to look at you. You gently slap his arm. “Hey. That’s amazing, okay?” He grumbles a little and you can’t help but chuckle.
“It’s… weird,” he says, looking amused now. “Still a lot of stuff I need to lie about, the apocalypses and monsters and all that, but I didn’t think it would be like that. It feels kinda good, you know?” Your heart beats faster and you can’t hide your grin.
“How long have you been going?” you ask, and Dean shrugs.
“Few months,” he says. You frown.
“You didn’t tell me,” you point out. Dean shrugs again, looking bashful.
“Wanted to make sure I could stick to it first,” he mutters. You swallow, keep looking at him. Feel the pull of emotions in you, like a weird mix of all the affection you feel for Dean and the sadness that it took so long for him to figure out he’s worth being cared for.
“So,” you ask, “he tell you what an idiot you were for letting your hot ass wife go?” You tried for a jokey tone but the look Dean shoots you tells you you’ve hit something soft and vulnerable. He gently squeezes your foot.
“Don’t need a therapist to tell me that,” he replies, looking into your eyes. Your breath catches, and you swallow. “Figured that one out all on my own.”
Both of you are silent and it’s like you’re holding your breath together. You feel the pads of Dean’s fingers on your ankle and then they travel up an inch. All the while he keeps looking into your eyes.
“Dean,” you say, needing to lick your lips, ignoring how much his look is making your mouth feel dry. “What are you doing?”
“Nothing,” he says, his fingertips running over your skin. “Just… reminiscing.”
“You mean feeling lonely?” you ask, tone soft but a challenge in it.
“No. Yeah. Maybe,” Dean replies. “I don’t know.” His fingers slip higher on your leg.
“Dean,” you say again, “we made such good progress. You wanna fuck that up cause you don’t want to be alone for five minutes?” Dean purses his lips.
“Five minutes?” he says. “That how you remember me?”
You can’t help but chuckle, and Dean grins at the fact that he managed to make you laugh. He looks proud of himself. There’s something so comfortable and familiar about his cockiness. It makes you want to wring his neck a little too, but it also feels nice to see it. You haven’t, not in a long while.
“You know it’s not,” you say, and then Dean’s other hand travels up, this one at the back of your leg, where it tickles. It makes you shift around, clench your thighs.
“I just miss you, okay?” he says, voice low and deep. “Miss us. You don’t miss me at all?” You chew at your lip, swirl the liquor in your glass.
Of course you miss him. You miss the easiness with which he sometimes tackled life. The way the two of you found yourself working so well as a team, just like you did when you used to hunt together. One always filling in where the other one was lacking. Miss the passionate way he loved you, and you him.
“I’ve got a couple of battery-powered friends that help me when I get too nostalgic,” you reply instead and Dean grimaces.
“Ouch,” he replies, “guess I deserve that.” You chuckle, stretch your toes.
“But yeah, you might play the odd supporting role in what I think about.”
It’s out of your mouth before you can stop yourself. Dean blinks, and then his expression settles into something self-assured, something steady. Like he’s been trying to find the rhythm to a song and now he finally has it.
“Is that right?” he drawls, and it makes heat shoot to your core, the way he says it, the way he looks at you. You almost can’t help it when you slowly run your calf along his leg.
“Maybe,” you say, your voice soft. Dean’s fingertips move again, making it feel like he’s sending lightning bolts from them straight into you.
“Anything in particular you like to think about?” he asks. You shift your foot, now dangerously close to Dean’s crotch. You notice your breath is coming a little heavier.
“Our honeymoon,” you say and a dreamy grin comes over Dean’s face.
“Whirlpool?” he asks and you need to bite your lip.
“Yep,” you say, popping the p. “That one night we didn’t sleep. Got room service in the morning.” Dean’s fingertips wander higher, now nearly at your knee.
“Fuck, you wore me out that night,” he says, voice scratchy. “I thought you were gonna give me a heart attack, the way you kept wanting more and more. You were insatiable.” You clench your thighs, slow, delicious pressure building in you.
“I was,” you reply. “I was in love. Happiest woman on the planet.”
Dean’s touching stutters, then stops. He looks at you, like he’s asking you to tell him to keep going. Your chest is rising and falling, and so is his.
“I want you so bad right now,” he says, his tone quiet, like he’s terrified you’ll actually hear him and say no. Your breath catches.
“What about Ashley?” you ask. Dean shakes his head, just a little.
“I was happy when she ended things,” he says. “I think I was hoping she would. We never had what you and I had.” You tilt your head to the side.
“Don’t make this her fault,” you say. “It’s not flattering to me.”
Dean’s hand squeezes your skin where it is, setting another volley of explosive lust free in you.
“You’re right,” he says, looking deep into your eyes. “I’m sorry.” You nod slowly.
“Alright,” you reply, returning the look, raising your chin as you decide to take the leap. “Now come here.”
Dean looks at you for a second longer. Then he suddenly moves, pushes himself up. You take a sharp breath as he leans over you, but the truth is your legs drop open, allowing Dean to slot between them. He looks down at you and your head drops back to look up at him, watch him as he narrows his eyes at you.
“You’re right, you know?” he says. “I’m an idiot, okay? That what you want to hear?” You nod. Dean’s hand lands on your thigh, and at your confirmation, it slowly starts wandering.
“You are an idiot,” you say, your own hand landing on his chest and traveling down.
“The biggest one in the world,” he says, shifting around and then your mouth drops open as he presses himself against you, your dress riding up, helped by his hand that is wandering higher and higher. “Didn’t know how good I had it. I had everything I ever needed.” You press your lips together, look at him defiantly.
“Fuck what you needed,” you say, surprised at your own intensity. “What about what I needed?” Dean’s lips move, and then he settles, looks into your eyes. He breathes in slowly, then lets it out.
“I know exactly what you need,” he says. He reaches for the glass, still in your hand, puts it down on the floor next to the couch. Then he starts moving lower.
You close your eyes as Dean presses an open-mouthed kiss to the top of your breasts, strong hands grasping your sides and keeping you in place for him. He nuzzles at that part of you and your hands go to his head, pulling him closer. He grunts in response, presses his tongue against your skin.
“Fuck,” you mumble, but Dean isn’t deterred. He kisses against your breast, through the dress, then moves lower again, kisses against your stomach. You shift around, hot seething need suddenly burning inside you.
This is a terrible mistake, surely. You shouldn’t do this. Both you and Dean are feeling a little lonely, he because of Ashley, you because of your shitty date. Sleeping with him is not the solution to this. But the way he’s touching you, wanting you, feels like it’s making you dumb. You know what Dean can do, what he’s capable of. How well you fit together. You’re sick of denying yourself in the name of reason. You’re sick of always being the responsible adult.
Dean’s hands move and wander under the skirt of your dress, slowly pushing it up. He groans, then lowers his head, runs his nose over the skin right where your panties end. His breath fans over you, making you squirm.
He doesn’t make you wait. Just presses his mouth against the fabric. It makes your eyes flutter shut.
“God, I miss how you smell,” he mumbles. Your eyebrows go together as your hands wander down, looking for the sides of your panties to drag them down.
Dean understands, gets there before you and starts tugging. Once he gets them over your ass and then your legs when you bring them up, give him room, he drops them somewhere, scoots lower, his arms pushed under you, hands around your waist, your thighs around his head.
He starts kissing you, his lips never leaving you. Low on your stomach, against the insides of your thighs, exploring you, warming you up. Your hands fly out, one going to the back of the couch, the other to the side of his head. You run your thumb along his cheek, and Dean opens his eyes, looks up at you. Like he’s waiting for you to stop him. But you don’t.
When he lowers his head again, he goes for the prize. His lips run along your own and you shudder before he starts kissing you there, soft, gentle, but deep. It makes your toes curl pretty much immediately.
Dean starts licking at you, in that way that he knows drives you crazy. The way he discovered a few weeks into your relationship, after trying different methods. This way has you squirming for him, shifting around. He once told you that that move usually had the women he was with begging for him. Not you, though. You started giving him orders instead.
He used to say that's what made him fall on love with you.
Your hand wanders to the back of his head and you feel Dean huff against you. He lets you push him closer, his nose pressing against you as he moves his face a little, brings his tongue to your entrance and starts exploring it with the tip of it. You let your head fall back, bite your lip. Allow yourself to enjoy.
Your stomach is tight with arousal as you gently start rocking your lower body. Dean moves again, presses his mouth over your clit. He drags one arm out from under you, lets the hand run down your thigh, pressing it closer against his head, like he wants you to squeeze him there, hold him tight with nowhere to go. You can do that.
You raise your head again to look at him. Press down on his head a little harder, bring your thighs together, and Dean groans against you as you keep rocking yourself against him while he sucks your clit into his mouth. He’s always loved this. Surrounded by nothing but you, he used to call it, making you giggle. You never expected to miss it this much. The look on his face from what little you can see of it. His sounds, small, low grunts. It’s intoxicating to have that effect on someone. You’ve missed being worshipped like that.
You close your eyes, roll your hips. Concentrate on the sweet, soft feeling building in you. The joy of being with someone who knows your body well, who cares about your pleasure, enjoys it as their own.
You can’t help but wonder if, in another world where you never confronted Dean about his behavior, where he never moved out, where you never went on a date with Tom, you would be in this exact same position now. Dean and you used to make it a point to get time to yourself. Go on dates, get the kids out of the house for long sessions of love making. Be conscious of each other. You did a good job, both of you did. For the longest time, you did.
You gently run your fingers over where you’re still holding Dean, scratch at his scalp and it makes him moan against you, the vibrations tickling you. His hand moves off your thigh in response and the next second, you feel his fingers at your entrance. You press your fingertips into his skin, encouraging him. He enters your with two fingers a second later.
He finds you like he never left, like he didn’t spend nearly a year away from you. You run your foot over his back, the fabric of his shirt soft and rough at the same time against your sole. Kind of like Dean. A lot like Dean, actually.
“Yes,” you mumble, bring your head up again. “Ugh, that’s… right there.” And Dean concentrates there, the pads of his fingers working at you from one side, his tongue and beautiful lips from the other. You press your lips together to try to be quiet.
He opens his eyes, looks at you again. The man you married, decided to spend your life with, decided to make the father of your children. Right there, between your legs, through trial and turmoil and grief, latched on to you, eyelids low.
The orgasm hits you and you grab Dean’s hair, make fists of it, needing something to hold on to. You rock your body up but he’s holding on to you so hard it’s almost impossible to move, but even only pressing against his strength is delicious. High, small whimpers leave you, your body too electric to be louder.
And then you drop. No pretense. You know how you must look right now, vein pulsing on your forehead, flushed, a little sweaty. But Dean crawls up your body, looks down at you. When you manage to blink your eyes open, you see his expression.
He looks at you like you’re the best thing in the world.
You swallow, emotion suddenly thick on your throat. Maybe you should stop here, make a joke about you getting yours but that it’s ultimately for the better. That you should be reasonable, both of you, and then Dean can get into his car and drive to his empty apartment, and you climb into your empty bed and all is well.
Instead, you grab his face and drag him in for a kiss.
You taste yourself on him, and Dean immediately presses himself close to you, returning the kiss. He’s just so goddamn soft to your touch. Everything about him. He tries to hide it like it’s the worst thing in the world, but you know.
He is also, in your humble opinion, wearing way too many clothes. To remedy that, you run your hands to his shoulders, start pushing his flannel off him. Dean helps you, neither of you willing to separate the kiss, so you do it blindly, uncoordinated. He presses himself against you, his jeans rough against your bare pussy but you can feel him hard there. You run your hands down his back to his ass, try to bring him closer. When you feel the tattered back pocket of his pants, you pull your head back and roll your eyes.
“I hate those jeans,” you mumble and Dean grins.
“Too bad you don’t get to tell me what to do anymore,” he says, one eyebrow arching up.
Rather than reply, you bring your hands to his chest, push at him. Dean follows with a confused look as you sit up, keep pushing at him until he plops down against the back of the couch. The next second, you straddle him.
You kiss him again before he can say anything. Dean reaches up, hands tangling in your hair, fingers stroking the skin of your neck and face. You press yourself against him, and he groans into your mouth. You pull back just a little, keep your face close to him.
“Take them off,” you say with a grin that Dean returns immediately. It feels light. It feels new.
He drags you in, kisses you again, his hands wandering all over your body. He presses his tongue into your mouth, and when you moan around it, he squeezes you where he’s holding you.
“Fuck,” he mumbles when he breaks away, “you’re so fucking sexy.” You bite your lip, then press yourself down against him and Dean moans before pulling you in once more, like he can’t get enough of you.
You hear the door upstairs open and pull away from him, stop moving immediately. Dean looks up at you, blinks, seems out of it.
“Wha–” he starts and slap your hand over his mouth, keep it there.
You hear JJ’s small steps cross the upstairs hall. Then a second of nothing, and then the slight squeak of Emma’s bedroom door, the hinges of which you’ve been meaning to have a look at but just haven’t found the time. The door closing. Nothing else for a few seconds. You slowly let out the breath you were holding.
Dean’s frowning when you look back at him, drop your hand from his mouth to his chest. He’s leaned back, and his hands travel over your hips when he speaks. Intimate, sweet.
“What’s JJ doing in Em’s room?” he asks, voice low. You take a slow breath.
“He goes there sometimes when he can’t sleep,” you mumble. “She’s fine with it. I told her she can tell him to stay in his room, but I think she’s secretly happy about it.” Dean huffs a little.
“So he’s gotten too big to climb into our— I mean, yours, huh?” he asks, only correcting himself at the last second. You shake your head slowly.
“He doesn’t like coming to my bed,” you say, unsure whether this is the moment to tell Dean this. “Says it feels too empty without you there.”
Dean swallows, clenches his jaw. It’s not a big deal, which is why you haven’t told Dean about this, despite you both still keeping a good line of communication open where it comes to the kids. Still, you’re sure it’s not a nice thing to hear. It sure wasn’t for you when JJ told you, although you made sure not to show him that.
“Dean,” you say and you bring your hands up, cup his cheeks and he blinks to look at you. “They’re fine. We’re fine.” He looks up at you, eyes soft.
Dean’s hands tighten on your hips. He keeps looking at you and then, just as you’re about to ask if he’s okay, he wraps his arms around you, pulls you in.
Your face is suddenly close to his, and damn it if you couldn’t get lost in his eyes just like you used to. He raises his chin, his lips moving before he finds the words.
“I love them so much,” he says, voice low, and you nod.
“I know you do,” you reply, running your thumb along his skin. “And they know that too.”
Dean keeps looking at you, studies you. He swallows.
“I don’t want you to go on dates with douchebags like Tom,” he says finally. “That’s not…” He stops, maybe unsure how to continue. You shake your head as you lean in again.
“Dean,” you nearly whisper. “It’s okay.” And then you kiss him again.
Because the truth is, you don’t want to be going on dates with guys like Tom either. Or with any guy that isn’t Dean. You want him. Only him.
Dean kisses you back, inhaling sharply through his nose, and your heart beats faster at how much you’ve missed him. This can’t mean anything, though. Things need to go back to normal tomorrow, because although you want nothing more than Dean inside you right now, you can’t fuck this up for Emma and JJ.
That’s what you swear to yourself, as your hands wander down Dean’s chest to the button of those jeans you hate.
He separates from you, looks down where you open them. You press yourself up on your knees when you're done. Dean raises his ass, starts pushing the jeans and his briefs down in one go. You help him get them to his knees and then you lower yourself again.
You can feel Dean’s cock pressed against you and he pulls you in, kisses you again. You let him for a few seconds, then pull back, bring your hand to your mouth, collect some spit. Then you find him between your legs, half hard, and wrap your wet fingers around him.
Dean takes a sharp breath and you pull your head back to watch him. He chases your lips, but you keep them out of his reach with a grin, at least until Dean takes your face in his hands again, drags you down to kiss him. You moan into his mouth as his cock twitches in your hand. Goddamn sap. That’s what he is. But the way he feels against your mouth and body is so intoxicating that you’re willing to forgive him for it.
Dean grows hard in your hand and when he’s all the way there, you press up on your knees again. Dean watches you, eyes soft. His hands go to your hips, stroking them and then he looks down again.
You lower yourself until you feel him against you. Briefly searching, and then he slips into you.
He feels familiar and amazing. You can’t fight the soft smile on your lips. That’s the only cock I wanna see for the rest of my life, you once told him when you were kneeling between his legs. Dean chuckled, shook his head while he brushed some hair behind your ear. You’re a damn romantic, he replied.
Your hands go to his shoulders and Dean looks up, into your eyes. You sink down on him fully with a small gasp, both of you not daring to move for a second.
You remember the first time, still, in his car. Remember so many times after. After deaths, after loss. Slow mornings when the world outside felt so far away, where nothing but the two of you mattered. When you tried for your babies. You don’t remember the last time, before it all ended, and that’s always made you a little sad.
You wonder if this will be the last time. At least you’ll get to remember it.
You begin rocking your hips, and Dean’s eyes fall shut. He squeezes you harder where he holds you. Then his hands wander up, to your shoulders, as he starts tugging down your dress, the straps of your bra. It exposes your breasts, and Dean leans forward, presses his lips against the soft skin there when they spill out. He catches a nipple between his lips and sucks it into his mouth.
Your head drops back and Dean wraps his arms around you, the tight grip helping you with your movement. His hands claw at your exposed ass, squeezing it, the way he always liked to do. In bed, or just casually around the house. Couldn’t keep his hands off you.
He moves one hand, bringing it between your bodies. Presses his fingers against your clit and your body bucks as you clench down on him and he hisses.
You move faster, feel him drag along your walls. A whimper you can barely suppress leaves you. You lean back a little, one arm going behind you to his thigh to hold yourself up. Snap your hips.
You want to be quiet, but it’s almost impossible. With the double fronts of pleasure, Dean knowing exactly how to touch you, a skill he proudly perfected over the years, you taste thick, intense relief in your throat almost immediately. You make a noise, then another, and he shushes you.
“Gotta be quiet,” he mumbles and you nod along, barely hearing him.
“Yes,” you press out along with a high whimper. “Oh God, fuck, Dean, I’m gonna–”
Your body convulses, and then you need to drop forward, your arms slinging around Dean’s neck as you press your face against his shoulder while you ride it out. It’s the only way you can even remotely hope to be quiet. Dean’s hand shoots up to the back of your head, grips the hair there, the slight pain both intensifying the pleasure and grounding you in it.
As the waves die down you slump against him, press yourself close, looking for contact. Dean just keeps touching you, stroking you as you come down, slowly, back to earth.
When you can, you kiss your way up his neck with small hums. Dean chuckles low in his throat. Always teased you for how lovey and soft you were once you came. When you reach his mouth, you peck him. You can feel him grin, so you give his lip a quick bite.
You pull back, look at Dean’s face. The way your heart beats hard in your chest isn’t just from the sex. It’s something else too. Dean blinks, maybe thinking the same. You’re not sure what he sees when he looks at you - are you still the same he knew? Is he?
As if he can hear the question in your mind, he suddenly pulls you in. Your arms are still around his shoulders and they tighten when you feel him push up.
Hey lays you down on the couch table behind you, kisses you again. You moan into Dean’s mouth, run your hands into his hair, then down his body. Dean pushes himself up, looks down at you. You grab the hem of his shirt, start pulling it off him.
He needs to lift one arm, then the other and when you drop the shirt behind you, his hands go to your dress, bunched up and pulled down around your middle. He tugs at the fabric, then grunts.
“How the fuck do you–” he mumbles, and you reach for this face, turn him to you. You’re already shaking your head.
“Just leave it,” you say as you pull him in. “Make love to me, Dean.”
Dean dips his head, kisses you again as he begins moving. You just pull him close, hold him. Dean breaks the kiss, but it’s only to push his face against your neck. You wrap your legs around him.
He stays like that, his breath fanning over your neck, at least until his rhythm quickens. Then Dean pushes himself up on his arms, looks down at you again while he keeps thrusting. You bring your hands up, hold his face. The way you used to do when a hunt was particularly difficult. The way you did after you finally got to take JJ home from the hospital after weeks.
You see the tell-tale signs - that slight pull up of his lips, the narrowing of his eyes. The catch of his breath. You always loved watching him come, the way all his pretenses just slowly melt away and he just becomes lust and passion, slave to his body.
He leans down again, his lips passing over yours. A first low grunt leaves him and his one hand goes to your thigh so he can better fuck into you, harder, but he keeps his eyes open, looks into yours. You kiss his lips, and then Dean’s thrusts stutter before a deep groan leaves him. He presses his lips against yours, then presses his eyes closed and his forehead against you as he thrusts a few times more, then stills, pushed deep.
You kiss him on the cheek, then close to his nose while his eyes are still closed. Run your hands over his back.
If you were to close your eyes, this could feel like your life only a couple of years ago. When things felt normal. Felt right.
Dean moves his head, then looks down at you. His gaze goes over your face, like he’s trying to read it. You give him a soft smile.
“We better get cleaned up,” you say, and he slowly nods.
Dean grabs some kitchen towels for you and you wipe yourself down, before rushing upstairs to the big bathroom. You take off your dress and put on your robe, then walk downstairs again.
Dean’s just putting on his jacket. The glasses and bottle are gone, cleaned up by him.
He’s fidgeting with his hands and his car key, looking between the floor and you as you approach him.
“I should probably get going,” he says and you nod slowly.
“Yeah, I guess,” you mutter. You watch him swallow, that look he gets when he’s trying to pretend whatever he’s about to say doesn’t mean much coming over him.
“I’d ask if I can stay,” he says, voice forced into lightness, “make that bed a little less empty, but it would be confusing to the kids if I’m here tomorrow morning.” You chuckle, then nod. Look at him.
He looks completely vulnerable. Fidgeting, unsure. Maybe a little scared. It breaks your heart and warms it. You don’t know him like this. He’s always been confident, boisterous after you’ve had sex. Told you all the things he was gonna do next time.
Maybe, just like you, he’s worried there won’t be one.
“You could come by for breakfast,” you say quickly, and Dean blinks, looks up at you. You can’t hide the smile spreading on your face. At the prospect of having him here in the morning, even if you won’t have him here in the night. “Emma’s been complaining that my pancakes are no good.” Dean chuckles, and there he is again. Like someone walking into a room and turning on the light.
“There’s that movie JJ’s been wanting to see,” Dean adds. “We could… I don’t know, if you wanted…”
“The one with the giant robots?” you ask, and he nods.
“The one with the giant robots,” Dean confirms. Both of you smile softly at each other.
“Sounds like a plan,” you add and Dean raises his chin, takes a slow breath. “And maybe you and I can talk… about this.” He clenches his jaw.
“That’d probably be good,” he says. “Maybe after bedtime?”
And just like that, you’ve planned an entire day together. Just like you used to.
“Dean,” you say, and he looks into your eyes. It almost looks like he’s bracing himself. “This needs to be about what’s best for them, too.” He nods slowly.
“I know,” he says. Then he’s quiet while he looks at you. His gaze is almost too much to bear. He knows you too well and you him. It’s impossible to hide. So what he says surprises you.
“Can I kiss you goodnight?”
You take a slow breath, then nod. Dean steps closer, slowly, not taking his eyes off you.
One of his hands goes up, brushes some of your hair behind your ear. His thumb rests on your cheekbone and he just looks at you for a moment.
When he leans in to kiss you, it’s immeasurably soft. You lay your hand on his arm, but not to pull him in or push him away. Only to touch him.
He stays close when he separates. His nose brushing against yours. Then he clears his throat, takes a deep breath.
“I better head out,” he says, and you can only nod. He turns, walks towards the door and you follow him.
He stops just before taking the first step down to the street, turns back. He seems unsure almost, like he hasn’t settled on what he wants to say yet. He moves his key around in his hand.
“You know,” he says, “I wish I could go back. Do it all over again. Do it better.” You wrap your arms around yourself.
“It’s in the past, Dean,” you say, voice quiet. “We can’t change it.” He nods slowly, looks down.
“Yeah, you’re right,” he replies, then he looks up at you, at your face, and it’s like he’s looking across all those years. “I love you.”
Your breath catches in your throat, and tears shoot into your eyes that you quickly try to blink away. Dean looks down again, then turns and starts walking towards his car.
It’s the middle of the night and you’re only in your robe, and it’s kind of freezing, but you still go after him. Your feet are gonna be dirty, but you don’t care.
Dean turns, frowning when he hears you, and then he opens his arms to wrap them around you as you fall into them.
You stay like that for a long time, his jaw pressed against the side of your head, your face in the fabric just over his chest, the place you can smell him perfectly. He smells so warm. He smells like home.
You pull your head back to look up at him, and he does the same. He looks worried, so you bring up your hand, run your fingers along his cheek.
“Tomorrow,” you say, and he nods slowly. He runs his hands along you. It takes him a long time to let go.
He gets into the car and you watch him as he adjusts how he sits. He’s pushing the keys into the ignition when you knock on the window. He turns his head, then rolls the window down. You give him a soft smile.
“And I love you too,” you say. Dean’s face slackens, something deep and intense coming over it.
You look at him for a moment longer, and then you turn and walk back up to the house. At the door, you turn. Dean’s still sitting there, watching you. Making sure you’re getting home okay. Like it hasn’t been him all this time.
He turns the key, nods at you and you raise your hand. It feels strangely formal and makes you chuckle. Then the motor turns over, and he rolls down the street.
You watch until the taillights disappear into the night, and then you turn and walk inside.
Summary: Unable to control your abilities, you’re stuck in the present with Billy Butcher, his team, and America’s first asshole. At this point, you’ve become Soldier Boy’s personal punching bag. But when an accident leaves you stranded in 1942, you run into a familiar face and suddenly rely on your future tormentor’s help as your only hope.
Pairing: Soldier Boy x supe!Reader
Warnings: 18+ for language, back in the present, SB being his charming self and every (bad) thing that comes with it, humor, pining & spiraling, a bit of angst and hurt, a thin line between enemies and lovers, plenty of childhood trauma to go 'round, FLUFF (and a bit of steaminess)
Word Count: 15.3k
Posted on Patreon June 25, 2025
A/N: Lotta ups and downs in this one, but we're doing a third version of "back to the past" in this one – not time travel, not flashbacks, but memory lane! 😝
✨ Chapter title inspired by The Maltese Falcon (1941)
Main Masterlist || Series Masterlist || Tag List
Chapter 17: The Stuff That Dreams Are Made of
New York didn’t do quiet. Didn’t even have it in its vocabulary.
No birdsong. No crickets chirping. No gentle breeze swaying through the trees. No serene bubbling brooks of water. No peaceful ocean waves.
The sound of a fucking garbage truck woke him up – the low hiss of hydraulics, screeching metal scraping against metal, and a guy cursing down the block. New York was just layers of noise stacked over heat, stacked over the smell of piss and old grease rising through the gutters like rot and rats.
Pale, gray light was bleeding in through the grimy basement window, warm and dull and already too bright. A fan in the corner hummed like it was ready to give up fighting the thick heat in the room, still hot with shared breaths and the lack of proper ventilation. Dust hung in the beams of sunlight like ghosts that hadn’t bothered to leave – like him.
But not you.
The realization hit slow like letting air escape through a tiny hole in a balloon. He knew it before even blinking his eyes open. Didn’t need to look to know you weren’t there anymore. Felt the cold instead of the warmth.
You were gone.
Ben’s chest tightened. His eyes snapped open, confirming his worst suspicions.
The entire night he hadn’t dared to close his eyes. He kept watch as you curled up in his arms and clung to his chest like you wanted to crawl between his ribs and hide there. And Ben would’ve let you and kept you safe forever.
But you didn’t want that, did you? Not really. Because you didn’t fucking trust him. Still.
And Ben? Well, apparently, he didn’t trust you either, or he wouldn’t have expected you to flee in a gut-punching vanishing act as soon as sleep won and he shut his goddamn eyes.
Houdini had fuckin’ nothing on you.
He’d feared this would happen. That you’d make good on your promise and slip away. That if he couldn’t thaw your heart in time, the ice would certainly reach your feet.
He sat up straight, the old couch springs creaking under his weight. The spot beside him was empty and cold. Blanket rumpled. Pillow still indented and smelling like you.
His hand raked through his dirty blond locks. His jaw clenched. His pulse was climbing higher and higher.
If you’d gone, he didn’t know where – or when.
Adrenaline rushed his blood without a destination and purpose yet – fight, flight, or just smash the nearest wall. But then he heard it.
Footsteps.
Light taps of sneakers down the concrete steps outside, paired with your key jingling before sliding into the lock.
A heartbeat later, there you were – strolling past the threshold in an oversized Bowie shirt and jean shorts, coffee cup in hand and paper bag under your arm.
No smile. No wave. No hello. Not even a glance.
You walked right past him into the kitchen without acknowledging him. Like he was a rat that had moved in uninvited, and you’d decided not to feed it till it’d left on its own.
Ben studied the tension in your shoulders for a minute before he spoke, voice raspy and dry and still laced with sleep. “You’re up early.”
“Went to get coffee.”
“Without tellin’ me?”
You exhaled a sigh, the paper bag rustling in your hands as you pulled out a chocolate croissant – your favorite.
“Didn’t know I had to ask permission,” you muttered.
Ben licked his lips and shifted on the couch, his feet hitting the creaking floorboards with a groan. It was too fucking early for this. “Didn’t mean it like that. You know that.”
“Do I?”
Your words were sharp, the glare you threw him over your shoulder even sharper.
Ben didn’t respond, just glanced at the coffee cup on the counter – only one. You weren’t exactly subtle when it came to sending messages. He understood that one loud and clear – get out.
He rose from the couch and stepped up behind you, still keeping a safety distance as not to spook you. But your muscles only tensed more the closer he got.
“Didn’t get me one, huh?” Ben tried to keep his voice light and calm. But it wasn’t anger he was trying to hide – it was fucking nerves.
“Nope.”
Ben deduced from that attitude that you were probably still a tiny bit mad at him. That a kiss and a night in his arms didn’t magically heal all wounds. He didn’t think it would, but hope was a bitch.
“Didn’t feel like getting it thrown at me this morning,” you added under your breath, sipping your coffee.
Alright, maybe you were still a lot mad.
“C’mon, that happened once,” Ben retorted, trying to laugh it off, but your lips didn’t even twitch.
Fuck, he’d missed that. Not just the look of you. The feel of you. That fire. That fight. The way your eyes lit up when you were mad, which was often, and the way your voice never backed down.
“No, it happened nine times, including Valentine’s Day when you poured it over my head,” you replied and turned around with a raised brow and fire in your eyes.
Yup, he remembered that one, alright. Had overheard you talking with Annie in the break room about your date later that night, and Annie telling you to “get that D.”
He didn’t always understand 21st century slang, but he’d understood that one. And sure, he could’ve fucking handled that better. Add it to the damn list.
Ben rubbed his aching jaw. “Think we’ve already established I was a fuckin’ prick.”
You cocked an eyebrow and crossed your arms. “And what? Now it’s time to move on and forget about it?”
“No,” Ben said quickly – cleverly – which seemed to take you by surprise. “I know it ain’t that easy. But you at least gotta give me a shot to try and fix it. Otherwise, what the fuck are we doin’ here?”
“I don’t know, okay?!” you snapped, throwing your arms up. “I don’t know what we’re doing here, and I don’t know what I’m doing here. Can you stop pushing so fucking hard? This is all weird, and you’re different, but you’re also not, and my head still fucking hurts like a tsunami rolled through it.”
You took a deep breath and exhaled it slowly.
“And when I woke up this morning, I wanted to get you coffee, okay? Even went to your favorite place on 12th because they still use Chock full o’ Nuts and not some ‘ethically sourced, fair trade, rainforest bullshit,’” you said, lowering your voice as you were mimicking him during that last part.
Ben tried not to fucking smile. Failed. You did know him well.
“I got halfway through your coffee order before remembering all the times you dumped it on me, so I didn’t get you one,” you said but were far from done. Ben could tell by the way you sucked more air into your lungs. “But then, I didn’t want to be petty ‘cause you got me cake, so I ordered you coffee. The barista and some douche in a suit behind me thought I was fucking crazy, okay? But I made it all the way back outside with two cups, but by the time I passed the bodega on Perry Street, I remembered the speech you gave at the Women’s March.”
“You and Annie wrote that for me,” Ben argued but already knew this wouldn’t end well for him.
“Yes! Because Vought begged us to after you told them you were gonna improvise it on the spot. But then you still went off script and butchered it,” you countered in upset. “You said Betty Grable won the war by putting on a bathing suit.”
“I’m sorry, but were you fuckin’ there?!”
“You also said making pot roast was a valuable skill for a woman,” you continued.
“Wasn’t wrong…”
“You said equality is ditching the pumpkin spice and learning how to field-strip a weapon,” you added.
Ben huffed a sigh. “Alright, obviously, I just said that shit to get under your skin. Worked like a charm, too. Shoulda seen yours and Barbie’s faces,” he said, chuckling. “So, what happened to that second coffee?”
You fixed him with a glare. “I drank it. All of it. And it was fucking strong. Felt like I drank one of those 5-Hour Energy shots. Now, my hands are trembling and my brain’s on fire and my body is going through the shakes like I’m a heroin addict on cold turkey. How can you fucking drink this shit every day?”
Ben snorted.
“This isn’t fucking funny!”
“‘S a little funny,” he mumbled, stifling a laugh. But when your glare turned murderous, he raised two placating hands. “Alright, how ‘bout you put down the cup and step away from the caffeine?”
“No, it’s calming me,” you said with another rushed sip.
Ben watched your hands tremble slightly around the coffee cup. Caffeine, frustration, leftover adrenaline – probably all of it. You were wound tight.
He didn’t blame you. Hell, most of what you were mad about, he’d given you the blueprints for.
“Yeah, I don’t think there’s a lotta ‘calming’ goin’ on here, sweetheart.” Ben took a step closer and gently snatched the cup from your hands, placing it down on the counter next to you. “Also usin’ a lotta words in the mornin’ before giving a man some caffeine to flush it down with.”
You scowled, chest still rising and falling too fast. And you had that look again – that I-haven’t-decided-if-I’m-gonna-deck-you-or-kiss-you look.
Ben braced both hands on the counter on either side of you, caging you in, but you didn’t flinch away or even dare to move. He tilted his head slightly, green eyes fixed on you.
“Y’know,” he murmured, voice lower and smoother now, “for someone who says they don’t know what they’re doin’, you got a real good memory for all the ways I fucked up.”
You scoffed. “You make it easy.”
“Maybe,” he said, a lazy smirk crawling across his lips. “But I never forgot the way you looked at me either when you weren’t mad. When you let me in.”
You narrowed your eyes. “You ever think about shutting the fuck up?”
Ben snorted an amused laugh. “You were a lot nicer in the past, you know?”
“Funny. I was about to say the same thing,” you retorted.
He licked the smile on his lips, hand lifting before fingers brushed along your jawline. Soft. Slow. Testing.
“Lemme try somethin’,” he murmured. His fingers slid to the back of your neck, sure and careful. Muscle memory like he’d done this a hundred times before – because he fucking had. He dipped his head just slightly. “Tell me to stop.”
You didn’t. You never did. Not really.
So he kissed you.
It started slow – real slow. No teeth. No heat. Just the press of his lips against yours – familiar, grounding, intimate. Long enough to make your knees shift and remind your body what it felt like to belong to something, even if your mind hadn’t decided what it meant yet.
You didn’t kiss him back at first. Didn’t push him away either. Just let him lead while the cogs in your head kept twirling like a ballerina on acid.
Your lips were still tense, your breath still caught somewhere in your throat – but Ben stayed with it. His mouth moved against yours like he wasn’t in a hurry. He already knew every pressure point, every sigh, every place your defenses would crack if he was patient enough.
And at that first crack in your armor, he slipped inside before it could seal again.
He kissed you like he was trying to remind you of every damn thing you used to love about him. The softness under the edge. The steadiness in his hands. The way he used to touch you like he didn’t want to break you, even when the world told him he only knew how to smash things long before he’d even taken a first bite out of that poisoned apple.
Your hands hovered for a second. Then you grabbed a fistful of his shirt and kissed him back. Your response hit him like a gunshot through the ribs.
Your mouth opened just enough for his tongue to slip inside. His other hand claimed your waist, palm spreading over the curve of your hip.
Last night, he’d held you like something that might shatter. This time, a whole year of pretending he didn’t want you bled out through every movement of his. His muscles remembered what it felt like to have you, and they were done being polite about it.
He kissed you deep. Intentional.
And your body responded. Angled toward him like instinct kicked in faster than logic.
You tasted like coffee and sugar and whatever it was he’d been missing since the day you vanished. He savored it till it burned low in his gut and his blood roared. Every nerve lit up like he was twenty-three again and invincible.
Ben wanted more. Fuck, he wanted it all.
He wanted you on that couch. On top of him, under him, against the wall – anywhere he could get his hands on you and feel something that didn’t end in self-destruction.
But it wasn’t just want. It wasn’t just need. It was something wired into his goddamn spine – chemical and engineered.
The poison in his veins had always wanted what it couldn’t have. Craved control. Power. Submission. The need to take. To dominate. To fucking own.
But Ben had learned a long time ago what happened when he let that part run loose. He didn’t want to take from you. He never had.
Still, right now, feeling your skin burn and your pulse throb under his fingertips provoked a part of him that wanted to pin you to the counter and remind your body why it had loved him once. Keep you underneath him till every wound between you had been rewritten with sweat and skin and your name carved into his chest.
But instead, he kissed you slower. Dragged it out till your breath stuttered. Till your hand trembled against his chest because you were fighting against something, too. Probably the same thing he was, just in different packaging.
Ben pulled back and rested his forehead against yours, watching you for a moment. Everything about you – the fire, the fury, the fucking heart of you – was still there, burning under the surface. But your walls had lowered just enough to allow him to breathe next to you.
He forced his heart rate back down. Reigned himself in. Fought the goddamn urge to grip your thighs and lift you onto the fucking counter.
He looked into your eyes, thumb brushing your cheekbone. “That help?”
You nodded just the tiniest bit, swallowing. “Little… maybe.”
“Good.” He bit back a smirk. “You want me to leave?”
Your gaze drifted to the door, then back to him. You shook your head. “Actually, I was thinking about taking a drive.”
Ben lifted a brow in surprise. “Like a joyride?”
You scoffed a chuckle. “Trust me. There won’t be any joy.”
“Even better.” He smirked and watched you roll your eyes back.
“It’s a memory thing,” you shared and grabbed your nonsensical notebook from the nightstand. “Just have to check some things I wrote in here. See if it jogs anything.”
Ben bobbed his head, gave you a smirk – just a flicker of it. “You want company?”
You didn’t smile, but your voice came softer this time. “If you can behave.”
He chuckled low in his chest. “No promises, sweetheart.”
The summer morning was already too hot, the kind of heat that stuck to one’s skin before they even moved. Somewhere up the street, a fire hydrant had been cracked open – kids laughing, water spraying across the sidewalk, glittering in the sun like it had the right to be joyful.
You were not joyful.
“Where the fuck did I–” you muttered, pacing half a step in either direction, squinting up and down the block like your car might reveal itself if you stared hard enough.
Behind you, Ben leaned against the railing of your brownstone, arms crossed, watching you with thinly veiled amusement.
“Problem?” he asked, voice lazy like a sun-drunk cat. You wanted to spray him with fucking water.
“I know I parked here somewhere.”
He hummed. It was the most annoying sound on the fucking planet.
“Lemme ask you something,” Ben said. You didn’t turn but could hear the goddamn Cheshire Cat smirk in his words. “What color and model do you think your car is?”
“It’s a… red… Honda Civic,” you guessed.
Yeah, alright, you had no fucking clue. At this point, you were even doubting you had a car. You did have keys to a car, though.
You glanced at said keys in your hand. Your nose scrunched. “Wait… Toyota?”
Ben blew out a breath between his lips. “It’s a dark blue Prius. And it’s right there,” he said and pointed in front of you.
Huh. Right fucking there. Your beat-up and beloved 2004 Prius with the bumper barely still attached. You also recalled there was supposed to be a roll of Oreos hiding in the glovebox.
You rounded the car, but Ben beat you to the door handle.
You didn’t move, however. Not an inch. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
“Gonna drive,” he said like it was obvious.
“Uh, no you’re not.”
Ben squinted at you. “Why not?”
“Because it’s my fucking car.”
“So?”
“So,” you forced out with as much patience as possible, “when was the last time you even drove, huh?”
He pursed his lips and then shrugged his shoulders. “Dunno… ‘68, maybe? Vought gave me a driver at some point, so…”
“Yeah, you’re not driving,” you said and jerked the door open, sliding inside behind the wheel.
Ben got into the passenger side like a man mildly offended by the sheer existence of seatbelts. The car creaked when you turned on the engine, and the AC coughed to life as you pulled out onto the street.
Ben didn’t ask where you were going. Admittedly, he was masterful at pretending he didn’t care about shit. At least you thought he was pretending. You used to know when he played a role. Now you weren’t so sure anymore you could still tell.
He was different now. That much was fucking obvious.
Harder around the edges. Quieter. More shadows under his eyes and fewer sparks behind them. His silence in the car wasn’t passive – it was heavy. Thoughtful. Drowning.
Twenty-three-year-old Ben would’ve filled the car with jokes and questions and finger-drumming on the wheel. His elbow would’ve rested coolly on the opened window as his lips sucked on a cigarette.
This version of him, however, just stared out the window, jaw tight, muscles coiled like he was bracing for the next bad thing. This wasn’t the guy you knew – the guy you wanted to marry not even twenty-four hours ago.
“Why you starin’ at me like that?”
You blinked at Ben and swallowed, shaking your head. “I’m not.”
“Yeah? Coulda fooled me,” he muttered, raising a brow.
Your fingers tapped nervously on the wheel before you exhaled a sigh. “You’re quiet… and broody,” you noted, Ben’s gaze fixing on you. His green eyes twinkled like emeralds in the golden morning light. “Is that a constant thing now? You always gonna be grumpy and brooding?”
Ben’s mouth opened and then closed again. “What?”
You shrugged and focused back on the road, gripping the wheel a little tighter. “Nothing, just… you used to talk more… back then, you know?”
“Mmm,” he hummed, his gaze drifting back out the window.
You breathed out another sigh. “So that’s a yes? You’re gonna talk less now? Like is it something I have to get used to, or are you just nervous?”
Ben snorted lightly. “‘M not nervous.”
“So this is standard? You’re not gonna fill silences anymore?”
“I think you’re doin’ a stellar job at it for me, sweetheart,” he quipped.
Another sigh passed your lips.
For the next hour of the drive, Ben sat in the passenger seat like he belonged there. Bow legs spread, arms crossed, shoulder nearly brushing yours in the too-tight front of your too-small car.
The man was massive and never sat like he owed space to anyone. You hated that you noticed it. That your body clocked every shift in his weight, every movement of his hands – hands that had held your waist last night like they still remembered what it felt like to touch you in a different lifetime.
Eighty years, you reminded yourself. He hadn’t touched you or kissed you or even talked to you in almost a century.
Six months in 1942 felt like an eternity. Eight decades, in comparison, seemed like an impossibility.
Even crazier, how the hell could he still want you after all this time?
As you glanced sideways, he was staring out the window again, squinting into the gray sprawl of South Jersey. His hair was still a little messy, and he looked too casual, too settled in this weird limbo between stranger and memory.
It was driving you nuts. Why wasn’t he freaking out like you? Why was he so fucking cool, calm, and collected?
The AC was blowing semi-cold air, and one of the vents was stuck at an angle that kept blasting Ben in the face. You didn’t fix it. He didn’t complain. And that little fact alone annoyed you more than it should have.
And why the hell did he still smell so good? You’d never noticed it before. You did now. There was still this distinct and familiar scent you recognized from ‘42, buried under a different aftershave and cologne. But there were still traces of him in it.
You wondered if there were other traces of his old self, too. Or did the similarities end right there?
The kisses still lingered on your lips like phantom pressure as well. As if your body hadn’t gotten the memo yet to stop craving something that had already happened. It had been good. Too fucking good. The kind of good that made you feel like you were already losing.
God, you didn’t want him to fucking win. What was he even winning? And did it mean you were automatically losing? Because it somehow felt like you were still winning something, too.
Why the fuck did he have to kiss you like that? And why the fuck was he even better at it now than he used to be?
He was already skilled at stealing your breath away back in ‘42. It wasn’t fucking fair he got even better at it. Back then, he made your head spin. Now, he made your head spin so much it detached from your body and floated through the air.
He wasn’t supposed to be fucking better. He was supposed to be older and meaner and out of practice – not this confusing hybrid of myth and man who made your knees soft even when your spine said run.
Focus, you told yourself. You had to stop thinking about it. But your brain kept circling back to one undeniable, painful, absolutely infuriating truth:
He was a better kisser now. Objectively. Technically. Emotionally. And that made you want to scream.
Your throat fucking tingled like you could still taste his tongue. The 1942 version had been all boyish hunger and soft hands. This one kissed like he’d spent the last eighty years figuring out exactly how to undo you with a sigh and a hand on your hip.
No, no, no! Stop!
You had to stop thinking about it. Had to stop thinking about his lips or his hands or how his voice was deeper and raspier or how his beard tickled and scratched in all the right ways.
You were spiraling. Nope. You were spiraling about spiraling, which was ten times worse.
Why were you freaking out? Were you actually doing this? Were you actually giving him a chance?
Did you still love him or were you just holding onto something lost?
“You always drive with your whole body like it’s a full-contact sport?” Ben teased, eyeing your death grip on ten and two.
You didn’t reply. Just rolled your shoulders and kept driving, reminding yourself to breathe every once in a while.
The tall city buildings had dropped away now. The landscape turned gray and flat – industrial stretches of Jersey sprawl, empty billboards and rusted chain link fencing.
Why were you bringing him here? Why had you invited him to come with you? Why hadn’t you told him to leave when he offered this morning?
Instead, you’d given into your urge for him to stay. You weren’t even sure if it was him you wanted. Maybe you were just clinging to a fantasy and afraid to let go.
He wasn’t the same. Not even close.
“So, you still listening to jazz?” you asked, causing him to raise another brow.
Small talk. Good choice. Yeah, why not make fucking small talk with the man who slept with you eighty years ago? That seemed perfectly fucking normal and ordinary.
“Uhm, sometimes, yeah,” Ben replied and was still looking at you weird.
“Huh.” You nodded, tongue poking the insides of your cheeks.
Ben snorted. “Not the answer you wanted to hear?”
“No, no, it’s fine.” You shook your head casually – feigned casualness, that was.
Ben cocked an eyebrow, a subtle smirk playing on his lips. “Were you hoping I wasn’t? Are you just going through a list of things you found annoying back then, hoping I stopped doin’ them?”
“No,” you replied too quickly. “Maybe. I don’t know. Figured I had to start somewhere. Might as well hope for good news.”
Ben chuckled in amusement, rubbing his lips with his fingers. “Well, sorry to disappoint you again, sweetheart. Still listenin’ to jazz on occasion.”
“Great. So more music that sounds like a cat dying in a basement,” you quipped.
“Was gonna say the same ‘bout your Riot Girl screechin’.” Ben grinned broadly, causing you to roll your eyes. “Anything else?”
You shook your head and passed the town sign of Ashbury, almost missing it as it was half-sunk into a ditch and choked by weeds and cigarette butts. Someone spray-painted over the bottom line, but you could still make out what it used to say: “A Good Place to Grow.”
What a fucking lie. It always had been.
Your hometown was the kind of place people left and never talked about again. You’d certainly done exactly that for the last few years.
You hadn’t been back here since you kidnapped your parents in the middle of the night and shipped them off to Alaska with a small detour through the Middle Ages. The trailer had been left to rot under salt-soaked skies and the weight of every bad decision that happened inside it. The idea of seeing it again made your skin itch.
Why had you told him that story? Why were you bringing him here? What were you trying to achieve?
You had to. It was as simple as that.
You had to see it and fill in the gaps. Remind yourself of who you were and what made you you. And maybe you were trying to show Ben, too.
He’d always been curious. Always asked questions about who you were and where you came from. About your childhood. About your friends. About your parents. And you never could tell him, no matter how much you wanted to share that part with him.
Ben had never seen you like this before.
It wasn’t a part of you that you ever truly shared with anyone. In fact, you couldn’t remember if you ever had before. There wasn’t a long line of boyfriends in the past you’d ever brought home to meet Mom and Dad.
The only one you could remember that had seen it all was your first boyfriend, and he’d lived three trailers down from you and grew up in the same shitty town.
This wasn’t Ben’s life, though. It never had been. He grew up with a fucking silver spoon and lived in mansions and penthouses all his life.
Memories then flooded your head like water through a cracked hull: the smell of stale cigarettes, the feel of mold in the corners of the mattress, the nights you pretended to sleep while screaming matches played like lullabies down the narrow hall.
Ben had seen your courage. Your defiance. Your wit. All the remnants of the walls you’d carefully crafted over three decades. But he’d never seen where you came from.
And what if he did now?
What if he looked at that trailer – your old life in dented aluminum and broken blinds – and saw it as proof that you were never good enough for the fantasy you’d built in 1942? What if he looked at you and saw pity? Saw the girl that used to hide her tears and her bruises and pretend the screams were someone else’s.
Moreover, why the fuck did you care what he’d think? You weren’t even sure you still loved this version of him. So why was it bothering you so much when you wanted to show him an old version of you?
Ben leaned against the window and looked out, whistling lowly. “Jesus fuck, that town’s a dump. Even the gas station looks fuckin’ depressed. Good place to get tetanus.”
Your throat closed, but you said nothing. Didn’t come to your hometown’s defenses and refrained from giving him a proper welcome.
“Ashbury,” he scoffed, chuckling at a rusted sign. “Fitting. Looks like a place that got buried under fuckin’ ash.”
Still, you didn’t respond.
Ben lifted a brow. “What? You’re not gonna say anything now? You wanted me to talk,” he reminded you of an earlier regret. “I mean, c’mon, you’re really not gonna make fun of this place? How d’you even find a shithole like this? Google ‘depression’ and scroll past the first five pages?”
“Surprised you know how googling works,” you commented dryly.
“Yeah, well, I picked up a few things over the last year,” he said casually. “Still don’t get the Internet, though.”
“Don’t worry. No one does,” you muttered, turning onto a dirt road, gravel crunching under your tires. Potholes were everywhere, and you slowed down on instinct.
Trailers started to line either side of the road, with sagged porches and American flags that had bleached to faded pinks and grays. Each home looked like it was held together by forced willpower and duct tape.
“Fuckin’ Christ,” Ben sighed next to you and leaned back in his seat, still clearly entertained and oh-so oblivious. “Y’know, I’ve seen blown-out villages in France with more curb appeal. At least they had bakeries.”
Your stomach twisted. Your lips pursed. This had been a colossally bad idea, hadn’t it? You never should’ve brought him here. What had you been hoping to gain? A fucking bonding experience?
Closeness or closure?
“Man, and that trailer park?” Ben went on, pointing without thinking. “This place looks like the start of every unsolved murder doc–”
Ben suddenly stopped. He licked and bit his lips before his head turned slowly to you, eyes stern.
“This is where you fuckin’ grew up, isn’t it?” He stared at you, expecting you to reply, even though he knew the answer already.
You pulled into a faintly marked parking space, the yellow lines faded like an old bruise and overgrown with weeds in the cracked pavement. You turned off the engine and looked at him, forcing a bright smile.
“Welcome to my hometown.”
“Ah, fuck,” he cursed under his breath and scrubbed a palm down his freckled face. “Coulda told me before I shit all over it.”
You grinned, then shrugged. “Why? This was way funnier. ‘Sides, you’re not wrong. This town is the place where dreams come to die,” you agreed. “And now, I know what you really think, so you can’t charm me with fake flattery anymore.”
He looked out the windshield again, slower this time. More focused. Like maybe the broken siding and busted porch steps meant something now. You could feel him recalibrating.
And maybe that should’ve helped. But it didn’t. You hated every second of this.
You didn’t want to be more understood. You didn’t want to feel loved despite everything – by him or anyone else.
Maybe you came here with him as punishment. Either way, it was too fucking late now to take it back and pretend you’d never brought him here in the first place.
Because the damage was done. Because the whole drive, he’d been mocking your past without knowing it – and now he was trying to rearrange himself into someone who understood.
But he couldn’t.
“See that laundromat up ahead?” you asked and pointed out the window, waiting for his nod. “It’s also a tanning salon and a bond’s office. A lot of buildings have double duty here. That boarded-up convenience store is also a pawn shop and a pharmacy. Fun fact – the back door has a doggy door that can fit an eight-year-old.”
Ben lifted a brow. “And how do you know that?”
“Oh, because I used to break into this place,” you replied with feigned nonchalance. “My dad made me steal meds from the pharmacy. Because, you know, I could fit in there and I looked cute if the cops showed up. Would only get a slap on the wrist as a minor if I was caught. And I was a supe and healed fast. At least that’s what my dad told me. Sometimes, I broke into it by myself, though. To steal food or school supplies.”
You ended the conversation then by unbuckling your seatbelt and stepping out. Ben followed you with a confused stare, slamming the car door shut behind him.
A group of dirty kids rode their broken bikes up and down the street. Their parents sat in plastic lawn chairs and drank booze from paper bags, pretending their children didn’t see.
“You okay?” he asked suddenly, and it made your heart stop.
You let out a bitter breath and forced a smile. “Yeah, why wouldn’t I be? It’s not a big deal.”
“You lyin’ for my benefit or your own?” Ben looked at you with infuriating patience, then gave a soft smile. “‘Cause if it’s the former, you got nothin’ to worry about.”
You scoffed a humorless laugh. “Easy for you to say.”
“It is,” he replied, making your brow raise. “Not for the reasons you think, though.”
“Oh, and you know what I’m thinking now?” you challenged and crossed your arms.
“I do.” He chuckled. “It’s not that surprising, y’know? This place? Doesn’t change anything, either.”
“Change what?” Your grip around yourself tightened, brow furrowing more.
A smile rose on his lips. “How I feel ‘bout you.”
You brushed it off with a shrug. “I know.”
“Alright. Good.” He smirked like the devil. “So you can stop twitichin’ and fumblin’ and bein’ fuckin’ nervous ‘bout it. Felt like you were goin’ through withdrawals the whole ride here. Thought it was the caffeine. Guess not.”
You groaned and rolled your eyes. “Can you shut up?”
“Hey, you wanted me talkin’.” He shrugged his annoyingly broad shoulders.
“Yeah, well, clearly something I regret now. I take it back, okay?” you retorted.
Ben laughed, then gave you a smirk and stepped closer. “You regret anything else this morning?”
You pretended not to know what he was talking about. “Nope. Not sure. Did anything happen?”
“Right…” He gave you a deadpan stare.
You curled your lips, fighting against the weird pull in your stomach. “Maybe you should wait in the car. I just have to check something real quick. Won’t take long.”
“Nuh-uh.” He snorted a small laugh, shaking his head. “You’re not backin’ out now. You dragged me all the way to fuckin’ Jersey. Least you could do is follow through.”
“Fine,” you sighed and marched ahead, shoulders tense.
The door to the trailer stuck halfway through opening like it had grown roots in the threshold. You shoved it harder with your shoulder. The frame creaked, then gave, groaning open on rusted hinges that sounded like they hadn’t been moved since you last blew through here.
You stepped inside, and Ben followed, quiet behind you, his boots crunching on something that used to be linoleum.
The trailer wasn’t large. Hell, it was barely bigger than your bathroom in your apartment in Manhattan. You could see everything from the “living room” – the kitchen’s cracked countertops, the long-dead ceiling fan, the hallway leading to the back bedroom, which only held an old, thin mattress and where the window never closed properly.
It was still all here – the skeleton of your childhood.
Ben didn’t say anything. He didn’t crack a joke. Just stood there and looked, hands on his hips, gaze sweeping over the scene like he was trying to absorb every detail without breaking it.
“So, clearly not gonna take a three-hour tour. More like three seconds.” You awkwardly cleared your throat. Your voice was too loud. It bounced strangely off the walls. “No grand pianos or oil paintings of old dead relatives who disapprove of your choices.”
“Already a bonus if you ask me,” Ben said and sent you a small smile.
You turned away with a swallow before you could witness his face change. You knew it was inevitable.
“My mom used to sit right here,” you said, gesturing toward a torn recliner that had collapsed inward like a rotted tooth. “She liked daytime soaps and hydrocodone. She was a nurse before the hospital fired her for stealing pills and a prescription pad.”
Your foot hit a loose beer can. It rattled away toward the hallway.
“What did your dad do?” Ben asked, and you sucked in a breath.
“He-, uh, he worked in a factory in town. It closed down a couple of years ago,” you said. “But even before that, he hurt his back lifting something wrong, I guess. They gave him pills for it. He was barely twenty, and he got addicted. Lost his job soon after. Never got another one, unless scamming people counts.”
Ben nodded with that same sternly knitted brow, which seemed to be part of his armor now. He gestured with his chin toward the bedroom. “You sleep back there?”
“Sometimes. When they weren’t home, which was most times,” you replied. “When they were home, I’d sleep on the couch outside.”
“Why not in here?” Ben’s eyes drifted to the couch next to him.
You pressed your lips into a tight line. “Trust me. Outside was better,” was all you said. “When it rained or it was winter, Mrs. Russo, two trailers down, would take me in, though. Her late husband was in the mob. At least, that’s how most of her stories started. She did make a mean lasagna, too. Probably gained five pounds in high school by eating too much carbs and melted cheese for weeks straight.”
Ben didn’t reply. Just watched you. Your heart fucking hammered against your ribs.
You busied yourself by strolling to the corner of the room and crouched by the small dining table, lifting the dusty lid of a battered cardboard box. Inside were fragments – pieces you’d never let anyone see.
Not until now.
“I never knew them sober, you know? Or normal,” you said. “I could guess what kind of people they were when they tried to be better, but I don’t actually know. They were like this before I was born. Everyone always says addiction changes people, but I don’t think they changed. I only ever got the aftermath. The fixed version that didn’t allow for change.”
You stole a glance at Ben over your shoulder. He was standing with his muscular arms crossed, staring at a photo stuck crookedly to the fridge with a tacky magnet – one of the only ones you’d left behind.
It showed the three of you. You were maybe five years old. It might have looked normal to the casual and untrained viewer, but all you could see were your mother’s red-rimmed eyes and your father holding a beer can out of frame.
“That your parents?”
You nodded and forced yourself to shrug. “Uh, yeah.”
“Why d’you bring me here?”
Another shrug. “I don’t know. To even the score?” you offered and met his gaze. “I mean, you let me into your life in ‘42, right? Let me see everything – your home, your family, your routines. And I watched you. Dug through it. Judged. Lied.”
Maybe you were teaching yourself a lesson this time.
You sat back on your heels and pulled out a small photo album. The pages stuck together, but you opened it anyway. Inside were pictures from school – grainy, underexposed shots of science fairs and spelling bees, heated debates and math competitions.
No one ever came to those events. You took the bus home alone with a trophy in your backpack and no one to show it to.
Ben walked over slowly and sank down on the couch beside you. The cushions let out a puff of dust when he sat, but he didn’t flinch.
“Lotta trophies,” he noted. “You won all of these?”
“Duh. Didn’t steal everything,” you quipped and sent him a smile. He matched it. “‘Sides, participation trophies are for losers.”
Ben chuckled and took out a small, gold-plated trophy with a bent corner.
“Third grade,” you explained. “Built a working radio out of scrap. They gave me this and a coupon for a free pizza slice.”
“Was the pizza any good?”
You bit back a smile and arched an eyebrow. “In this town?”
“Right,” Ben chuckled, head bobbing. He turned the trophy in his hand like it was made of glass – something precious that didn’t deserve to hide away in a dusty box in an abandoned trailer.
You pulled out a handful more. The labels were faded. Some of the bases were chipped. But they were real. They were yours.
“If I didn’t win, it didn’t matter,” you said quietly. “Not that it made that much of a difference when I actually did win.”
“Never won a trophy before,” Ben said musingly. “Not even an Oscar.”
“That’s not true. You had that wrestling trophy,” you reminded him.
“Second place.”
“You got nominated for an Oscar,” you added.
Ben snorted a laugh. “Yeah, for a story about me growin’ up fake poor. Everything was fuckin’ fake about my life.” He let out a breath and found your eyes. “Except you.”
His eyes hadn’t changed since 1942. Still sharp. Still knowing. Still green, even when the world around him morphed to gray.
“This doesn’t scare me,” he said. “Not sure you were aiming for that, but it ain’t gonna work.”
You let out a disbelieving chuckle. “It should. I’m not who you remember either, you know? Yes, I know how to build a radio, but before that, I learned how to make a shiv from a toothbrush.”
Ben stifled a snort. “Yeah, I know. Kinda made me love you more, honestly.”
You frowned. “You keep saying you still love me, but you don’t even know who that person is.”
“I do know. I told you. I’ve always known,” he said all too causally. He then chuckled under his breath. “I mean, sure, guess you’re a little different now.”
You raised a brow at him, unsure if it was meant to be cruel. But when you glanced up, his mouth was drawn into something that wasn’t quite a smile, but wasn’t mocking either.
“Core’s still there, y’know?” he continued. He leaned back slightly, eyes transfixed on the trophy in his hands. “You didn’t lie about who you were back then. You lied about other things, but not that. You were always a loud smartass with a lot of bite.”
“Thanks,” you grumbled.
“You’re welcome.” Ben smirked that lazy and boyish smile again. The one that melted your heart faster than the summer heat. Then he became quieter, rubbing his palms together between his thighs. “I didn’t fall in love with a memory if that’s what you’re worried about.”
Your brow scrunched, scoffing. “Worried? I’m not worried,” you deflected poorly. You wouldn’t win an Oscar, either.
“Clearly,” he entertained your delusion. “In any case, just sayin’, I didn’t naively romanticize shit about you for the last eighty years.”
“You sure?”
Ben snorted, nodding. “I’m sure I didn’t fall in love with you ‘cause you wore fuckin’ saddle shoes.”
“I never wore saddle shoes,” you countered like it was an important point. But your mind didn’t want to focus on all the other words that came out of his mouth and the meaning behind them.
Your heart, on the other hand, was twisting and screaming and fighting. But you couldn’t lead with your heart in this matter. The thing was fucking broken and confused. It didn’t know up from down anymore, and it certainly couldn’t distinguish the Ben in front of you from the Ben it had loved in the past.
“You know what I mean,” Ben said patiently.
God, how did that man have an abundance of patience all of a sudden? You once saw him throw a fit in a restaurant because his steak took too fucking long. But somehow, he managed to wait eighty goddamn years for you.
For you.
“Look, uhm,” Ben started, pursing his lips, “‘m not really used to all of that anymore.”
You lifted a brow in gentle curiosity. “Used to what?”
Ben exhaled a shaky breath, kept his gaze trained on his hands. “Talking to you. Opening up. Been a while, you know?”
You nodded in understanding. “I know.”
“And yeah, I guess I am grumpier now or broodier or whatever the fuck you said in the car,” he admitted and met your eyes. “Seen a lotta shit, y'know? Bound to make a man a little... salty. But I’m tryin’.”
You gave him another nod and a soft smile that accompanied it this time. “I know that, too.”
“Good.” He licked his lips and swallowed. His gaze made your heart pound in your throat. “The real question is – why did you bring me here?”
“I told you.” You shrugged it off.
“And hey, maybe it was the fuckin’ truth,” he said and raised his palms. “Or maybe you were just lyin’ to yourself again. But I think there’s more to it than just settlin’ a score. You don’t owe me shit. Not after this year, so why you really showin’ me all this now, hm?”
“I don’t know,” you replied, but your heart kept only screaming louder.
“Bullshit,” Ben said with a slow smile.
“Alright, since you’re the expert on all things me now, why do you think I brought you here?” you challenged.
Ben rose to it with a smirk. “‘Cause you still love me too, even when you’re not ready to admit it to yourself yet. You’re doin’ it because you couldn’t back then. And you wouldn’t do it now if you didn’t think I was still worth the effort.”
“Bold claim,” you replied with your best poker face. But he hit the nail pretty much on the head.
“And true.” He smirked the softest grin, removed every hard line as if they could scare you away.
You exhaled a sigh, chewing on your lip. “Why do you keep telling me you love me?”
He cocked a brow, slightly amused. “That a serious question now?”
“I just keep wondering why,” you elaborated. “I mean, you didn’t say it before. Not until the end. Now it feels like you’re using every opportunity you get.”
“Maybe ‘cause I am,” he admitted.
“But why?” you pressed on. “What’s your agenda?”
“My agenda?” Ben scoffed a humorless chuckle. “I’m not sayin’ it for some wicked, debauched reason. Not tryin’ to weasel my way into your panties with words.”
“You sure about that?”
He actually laughed. “Maybe a little. But I promise it’s not why I keep sayin’ it.”
Your brow raised higher, waiting.
His sigh was almost dramatic. “I regretted it,” he said then. “Not telling you sooner. Not sayin’ it every day, though I felt it before you even told me. That’s what I kept thinking about the most, you know? That maybe if I said it fucking sooner, you would’ve stayed.”
“It wouldn’t have changed anything,” you said gently.
Ben looked at you. “How do you know? Maybe it would’ve. Maybe you would’ve been less fuckin’ scared that night. Maybe you wouldn’t have panicked.”
You nodded quietly. “Guess we’ll never know now, huh?”
“No, guess not,” he agreed.
You shifted closer on the floor, meeting his look of bewilderment when you’d made it all the way to his feet and straightened between his thighs. Your hands wound around his neck, pulling him closer. Your gaze flickered to his lips and back to the bemused gleam in his green eyes before you kissed him.
Soft. Slow. And then searing.
His hands found your waist on instinct and pulled you up to straddle his lap like you weighed nothing to him. You knew you didn’t. Those hands around you were invincible, and the power they held was unfathomable.
His restraint dwindled, too. He groaned into your mouth when you pressed closer, and his lips dared to leave yours and trail down your throat when you sighed in response.
Your toes curled in your sneakers when you felt the bulge in his jeans grow. You didn’t want to want him – not still, not after everything he’d done – but you couldn’t deny any longer that you did.
Still and probably always.
Because he’d been right last night when he said you’d already forgiven him once. All the shit you knew he’d still do in the future hadn’t mattered – and not because it hadn’t happened yet or because you thought you could change destiny.
You forgave him because you fell in love with him. Because you saw something neither time nor cruelty could ever take away again.
He drew away with labored breath, brushing a strand of hair out of your face. His lips were kiss-swollen. His eyes were wrecked.
“Can’t do this to me here,” he rasped, smile dancing on his lips.
“Why not?” You smirked challengingly. “Not good enough for the golden boy here?”
“Shut up.” He snorted and kissed you again. “Not good enough for you. And definitely not good enough for all the things I’ve planned.”
You bit back a smile. “So… back to the city and my pull-out couch?”
“Fuck no.” He laughed. “Back to my king size bed. Gonna need the space. Trust me.”
You swatted his arm, giggling. “You’re a fucking menace.”
He chuckled, the sound rumbling low through his chest. “Yeah, but you like it, right? Pretty sure you did back then.”
“Maybe,” you admitted through playfully narrowed eyes. “Wanna get out of here now?”
“You got everything you came for?”
You let out a breath, glanced around the trailer, and nodded. “Yeah. Did you?”
His smile was softer than you expected. “Didn’t need anything. You up for a little detour, though?”
Your brow furrowed. “What did you have in mind?”
“Home,” was all he said and smiled.
“Stop there,” Ben said as you rolled through Philadelphia’s town center.
“It’s the middle of the street,” you argued, eyes watching passing pedestrians and playing children and busy shoppers.
You knew the street but barely recognized it anymore. It all had changed. Blink – and gone. Fucking entropy.
“Just pull over by the curb,” Ben instructed you.
You did, and Ben got out of the car first like a man on a mission. He squinted up and down the street while people ducked out of his way.
How did he do that? They didn’t even recognize him as Soldier Boy and still accommodated him like he was just a force of nature with a warning sign around his neck not to be messed with.
“You know that the mansion isn’t here, right?” you noted teasingly.
“I know that, smartass,” he huffed, narrowing his eyes more before they lit up. “Ah. There.” He pointed down the sidewalk, smirking. “That’s where you ran into me.”
You scrunched your nose, shaking your head. “Uh, no.”
“What d’you mean no?”
“Trust me. My memory’s fresher,” you said. “It was in front of the bakery. I remember the smell. Which means–” You squinted in the other direction, then pointed. “It was there.”
“Huh.” Ben stumped and tilted his head.
You groaned. “Ugh, it’s a Vought Mobile store now. How tragic,” you sighed and gestured to the store next to it. “And look, they turned the soda fountain into a fucking Vough-a-Burger.”
“To be fair, pretty sure soda fountains weren’t even a thing anymore in the ‘80s,” Ben retorted.
“Yeah, but c’mon. The whole street is awful. It used to be so pretty. Why the fuck would they do that? Why would they change everything? I mean, back then–”
Ben snorted in amusement.
“What?”
He smirked. “Careful, sweetheart. Startin’ to sound like me.”
“Alright, whatever, gramps,” you huffed, rolling your eyes back before noticing Ben’s brooding look. “Seriously, what does that face mean now?”
“What face? Didn’t know I was makin’ one,” Ben replied, stoic as ever.
“You are,” you insisted. “Your beard’s kinda screwing with my reading, though, so I can’t tell what it means anymore.”
Ben frowned now. You knew that for sure.
He smacked his lips and let out a sigh. “Was just thinkin’…” He paused and broke his gaze. “You get it.”
He didn’t elaborate. Just strolled back to the car and waited for you there to follow.
You knew that fucking move all too well from 1942. He’d done it every time he didn’t want to talk about something. It had been an infuriating habit back then, and it was still fucking infuriating now.
So far, the things that stayed the same were jazz and emotional constipation. Great.
Kindness – maybe? He’d been admittedly… sweet today. Yup, that tasted fucking weird on your tongue.
You also couldn’t trust it. You didn’t. That would be insane, right? You were not insane – he was. He might have been an awful actor, but he was a fucking good liar.
The walls would crack soon. You were sure of it. You’d bet fucking money on it.
Great. Now you were cheering for him to fucking fail. How sad was that? You didn’t want that either. So, what else was there?
The kiss was nice. So nice.
Fuck.
The mansion wasn’t as easy to find as you thought it would be. Memory was a fucking bitch sometimes.
Time was an even bigger cunt.
A lot had changed in the surrounding area, including some of the street names. New houses, office buildings, stores, malls, parks – it all felt foreign now.
You glanced at Ben. It had to be even weirder for him, but he seemed strangely at ease. Just stared out the window without a single twitch or scoff of disbelief. Like he’d gotten used to things never staying the same. Like one couldn’t truly count on anything.
In theory, you knew that. All the laws of physics pointed toward constant change. Your childhood did, too. In reality, however, you hadn’t been as much of a believer as you probably should’ve been.
And then, there it was – the mansion. Still looming and massive and intimidating. Still just as impressive.
But it was smaller somehow than you remembered. You’d seen these walls just yesterday in bright technicolor. Now they were faded and stained with rain and smoke and time.
It looked like a memory trying to erase itself.
The gates hadn’t been painted in decades, either. The wrought iron was flaking rust like dead skin, vines curling through its bars, creeping up like the house was trying to strangle whatever was left of its little dignity.
Ben hadn’t said a word since pulling up the long gravel drive. And you hadn’t said anything either. Hadn’t asked a single question, although a thousand were running through your mind.
You’d been pondering what to say since you started the car. You were still coming up with nothing useful.
You stepped out of the Prius and looked up at the windows, shielding your eyes from the slanting sunlight with your palm. Most of them were shuttered. The glass that wasn’t broken was warped by age. You could tell by the way the light had to bend differently to get through.
Ben came to stand next to you, arms folded, brow all stern creases and hard lines. His eyes were fixed on the building, jaw impossibly tight. You were surprised he didn’t crack a tooth.
“You sure about this? We don’t have to go in. We can just leave,” you suggested. Honestly, you weren’t even sure you wanted to go in and see the remnants of devastation waiting for you in there, either. The outside appearance already told you enough.
And maybe, that was how Ben truly felt on the inside, too – devastated by time.
“How long has it been since you’ve seen this place last?” you asked, although you weren’t sure Ben was even listening. He seemed lost in thought.
“Haven’t been here since ‘57 when my father died,” Ben replied.
Yup, you wouldn’t touch that topic with a ten-foot pole.
“Are we even allowed to be here? Who owns this place now?”
“It’s mine.”
He said it like he’d won something but wasn’t sure it was worth anything any longer – like your middle school trophies.
“Love what you’ve done with the place. Surprised you didn’t burn it down.”
Humor. Why? You were emotionally constipated too, weren’t you?
But it worked. He snorted a little, turned his head and smirked faintly at you.
You then strolled up the stone steps together, he pushed open the massive front door with more ease than you’d ever seen before, and the two of you were greeted by the foyer that was supposed to make it feel like home.
It didn’t anymore.
The marble tiles were covered with grime and dust. The chandeliers, once glittering with a thousand tiny crystals, sagged under cobwebs. The grand staircase still stood in the center, its banister carved by hand, was now dulled by decades without polish.
It felt like the walkthrough at the end of the Titanic movie. This place had waited for more than eighty years as well to tell its story.
Everything was frozen in the moment it sank, too.
You half-expected to hear Dottie’s voice echo down the hallway or the distant melody of Margaret playing the piano in the drawing room.
Naturally, it was the first place you stormed off to.
The piano was still there – right where it had always stood.
Now, it was covered in a yellowing drop cloth, keys silent, its once-polished wood now dulled and cracked, too. The bench was slightly askew, just like you used to leave it when you rushed out after practicing with Margaret. She always said you played like you were running away from something – fast, emotional, barely keeping your footing.
You reached for the cloth and pulled it back, dust exploding into the air like a cloud. You coughed, waving it away. Beneath it, the piano’s surface was still intact, though. Dry – not broken.
You sat and lifted the lid. You’d only done it two days ago, after all.
The keys were slightly warped, however. Some even stuck. Others gave no sound at all. But you still played a few slow and cautious notes and a broken melody wobbled through the room.
And Ben? He stood in the doorway and watched like he always had. Like nothing had changed at all.
“You owe Cyndi Lauper a fuckin’ apology, by the way,” Ben said teasingly.
You threw him a raised look over your shoulder. “Come on! I didn’t butcher it that badly.”
“No, you didn’t. Actually like yours better,” he said. “But I did storm her dressing room in ‘83 ‘cause of you.”
You gaped. “You didn’t.”
“Sure did. Scared the shit outta that poor girl,” Ben confirmed, chuckling. “She thought I was high.”
You grinned. “Were you?”
“Little bit.” He raised his hand and showed a small gap between his thumb and index finger, a boyishly charming smile hiding on his lips behind it. “You always rushed the bridge when you played that Chopin song, though.”
You laughed softly. “Yeah, your mom said it was emotional urgency. You said it was impatience.”
Ben gave a half-smile. “Wasn’t wrong.”
You let your fingers rest on the keys, not pressing but feeling.
“Feels like ghosts in here,” you noted quietly.
Ben looked around before his eyes landed on you and softened just slightly. “They’re not all bad ones.”
You closed the piano and made it back to the staircase, your fingers brushing the banister with each step you climbed.
At the top, you instantly turned left – to the guest bedroom. The first safe place you’d found here. A place where you could just breathe whenever you’d needed to.
It was still the same too, though the wallpaper had faded and cracked, and the mattress had sagged.
You strolled to your closet and opened the doors, but only found it empty inside. All that was left was a pale blue satin ribbon from one of your dresses, lying next to a dust bunny on the floor.
You picked it up and twirled it between your fingers, heart sinking a little more. Soon it would probably reach the bottom of the ocean. You were Jack in this story, after all.
As you passed Ben on your way out, he gently stopped you, hand curling around your wrist, then sliding lower till he cautiously interlaced them with yours. He kept his gaze fixed on your joined hands, then gave them one single squeeze and pulled away all of a sudden – like it didn’t feel quite right.
He placed his palm on the small of your back instead and nodded silently down the hall. You knew where he wanted you to go before he guided you there – his room.
The door creaked open, and your heart stopped.
The massive bed was still there, including the carved mahogany and twisted bedposts. The bookshelf between the windows was still filled with books. He hadn’t taken a single one with him when he left, it seemed – like none of them mattered any longer.
The vinyls next to the record player, the quilt his mother had sewn, the little carved eagle figurine on his nightstand that his grandfather on his mother’s side had made him and given to him as a boy – he’d left it all behind.
“Have you not been here since–” You didn’t finish. Didn’t have to. Ben understood.
“Uhm, no, I have,” he replied, voice all smoke that choked the lightness out of it. “Just… stayed in one of the guest bedrooms… after.”
You turned around to face him. Your mouth opened, but no words came out. Instead, your gaze drifted to the bed.
You could still see it – the shape of the two of you all tangled in sheets and youthful laughs. You’d whispered about forever, but no one had mentioned any breaks in between.
Was this all still part of that grand forever plan?
“Maybe don’t look at it like a fuckin’ crime scene,” Ben quipped from the doorway and gave you a scrutinizing look.
You snorted a small laugh. “I’m not,” you assured him. “Just… remembering. Feels like yesterday.”
“Well, for you it was, right?”
“Yeah, it was,” you replied quietly and exhaled a breath you’d been holding in for too long. “You still remember what happened that morning?”
Ben chuckled. His gaze drifted to the bed, hand scratching his jaw. “Not exactly. But I could take a good guess.”
You threw him a raised look, but bit back the smile.
“Can you give me a minute here?”
You nodded and passed him on your way out, gently brushing his arm. “I’ll be downstairs.”
The mansion had always been full of corners – the kind you could vanish into without anyone noticing. You followed the back stairwell down past the pantry, through the narrow hall that once belonged to the people who’d actually kept this place alive.
The servants’ quarters had always been small and modest compared to the rest of the house. Somehow, it was still cleaner here, as if Florence had cast a spell that would keep it free of dust for the next century.
The wallpaper had yellowed, and the beds were stripped, but the doorframes still wore the grooves of where shoulders had passed thousands of times. You moved slowly past the rooms, your steps quiet on the broken floorboards. Dottie’s room was the second on the left.
Her narrow bed was still there. The quilt you’d once helped patch hung limp with dust, but intact. Her dresser stood crooked near the window, and beside the bed sat the little nightstand where she always kept–
Your eyes landed on the deck of cards.
They were still here. Fanned just slightly and still in their faded green paper box. Worn at the corners from a hundred hands of Gin Rummy. You’d spent hours here, sitting cross-legged on her bed, losing every other round while teaching her bad French and gossiping about everything under the sun.
You didn’t know what happened to her after you left. You didn’t know what happened to any of them, and you were too scared to ask.
You slipped the cards into your pocket and made your way to the kitchen. You could’ve sworn you still smelled rosemary and lemon, even though it was impossible. You knew it was just memory playing tricks on you.
You crossed the worn tile and ran your hand along the counter where Florence used to knead dough. The bookshelf by the stove still held her old, battered cookbooks. One of them, the blue one with the broken spine, was Florence’s own collection, handwritten and stuffed with clippings. Recipes from her mother. Her aunt. Even a few she’d stolen from the newspaper.
You pulled it off the shelf and opened the cover. You smiled at the doodle of a pie on the first page. You decided to take it with you as well. It deserved a better place than collecting dust and being forgotten in here.
By the time you circled around to the west wing, the sun was starting to sink lower. The light filtered orange through the warped windows, catching dust like snowflakes.
You found Ben in the study. Of course you did.
You didn’t announce yourself, just leaned against the doorframe and watched him for a moment.
Ben stood in the center of the room, arms crossed. His eyes were fixed on the empty leather chair. He looked... smaller in here. Still tall. Still broad. But younger somehow – like the walls were doing something to him. The shadow of that godawful man still seemed to tower over him after all these years.
The desk was still there – massive, sharp-edged, domineering. Papers scattered across the top like ghosts mid-task. There was something new in here as well – a giant oil portrait of Richard, right above the mantle of the fireplace.
If narcissism was a picture, it’d be this.
“Jesus fuck,” you muttered and creased your brow as you stepped inside. “When did he have that one made?”
Ben snorted and found your eyes. “‘52, I think. You like it?”
“Sure.” You nodded and threw him a look that made him laugh. “Only gives me the urge to light a match.”
“Yeah, me too,” Ben said and scoffed. “Always fuckin’ hated this room.”
Your fingers brushed his before intertwining them. He stared at it again and stiffened, like he wasn’t used to being comforted by anyone anymore. But eventually, his thumb caressed your knuckles, and he gave your hand a grateful squeeze.
“How did he die?” you asked quietly.
“Heart attack,” Ben said but didn’t look at you. His voice was devoid of any emotion. “Third one finally got him.”
“Probably all the red meat and the booze and the repressed anger,” you muttered, feeling that little pang of guilt coiling in your belly.
Ben arched an eyebrow at you. “Wasn’t that repressed.” His knuckles tapped the edge of the desk. “Didn’t even go to the funeral. Had some Vought assistant arrange it,” he added, halfway lost in memory. “Florence just called me outta the blue one day. Guess she didn’t know who else was left.”
You were quiet for a moment and just watched him. His shoulders seemed to gain more weight, the longer he was in here. Regret, mistakes, missed chances – it was all right there and added another crushing brick.
“I have to tell you something,” you said then, worrying your bottom lip. You gripped his hand a little tighter on reflex as his brow raised higher. “I almost killed your dad back then.”
Ben snorted a chuckle. “Yeah, you and a lot of other people.”
“No, I mean I made his heart stop,” you clarified.
His brow furrowed, but you couldn’t tell if that was a good or a bad thing. “What d’you mean?”
You exhaled a deep breath. “Remember that awful dinner with your parents?”
“The one where my mother made a scene and almost stabbed him with a steak knife?”
You snorted a little. “Yeah, that one,” you confirmed. “You talked with your father in the study after.”
“Don’t remember that part,” he said, and you lifted a brow. “Honestly, don’t remember a lot of the shit he said in here. Not in detail. All boiled down to the same message, anyway.”
“Guess it did,” you breathed quietly. “But that night, what he said to you… it kinda made me angry, so I stopped his heart for a few seconds. He had that heart attack the next day.”
“Huh,” Ben hummed, the creases on his brow softening slightly. He then looked down at you. “Why didn’t you finish the job?”
“Ben!” You slapped his arm with a gasp.
He laughed – actually fucking laughed. “What? Woulda done me a favor. Might’ve actually changed somethin’.” He smirked, then glanced down at the book in your hand. “Is that Florence’s cookbook?”
“Yeah,” you replied, your fingers brushing over the cover. “You mind if I take it?”
He shook his head. “No one’s gonna miss it. Trust me,” he said, then squeezed your hand and motioned with his chin to the door. “Ready to finally leave this shithole?”
“Almost.”
There was one last place you wanted to see. You walked out the back door and into the long stretch of grass behind the mansion. The garden was long dead and overgrown, but the stone path that led to George’s work shed was still there.
You opened the door and were immediately hit with the familiar smell of sawdust and grease and rust. The light filtered in through the high window and the cracks in the wood.
The old blackboard was still there too, covered in half-faded chalk equations. You were sure they hadn’t been touched by human fingers in eight decades. It was strange that you’d only written some of them yesterday morning. Now, it looked like it happened a lifetime ago.
You ran your fingers over the edge of the worktable and found a now rusted pair of George’s wire cutters that you always used to borrow.
“I spent most of my days here,” you said quietly.
“I remember,” Ben said, still leaning in the doorway.
Finally, you turned around and met his eyes. The words sat on your tongue like a match waiting to be lit. “What happened after I left?”
Ben let out a deep sigh, shoulders slumping as if he’d been waiting for you to ask, and the answer had been weighing on him.
“Dottie actually did it,” he started, the lines on his face a little softer. “Moved to France after the war. Wrote me a letter once. She seemed fine. I never wrote back.”
A small smile twitched on your lips. You felt happy for her. At least, she fulfilled her dream. Maybe she got to live out her days in some quaint French village, married a nice guy she liked, and had some kids. You could live with that.
“The others?”
“Florence and George retired after my father passed. I got Frances a job in the city with another family after. She died in ‘71,” he replied.
Your heart weighed a little heavier. You knew it was impossible for any of them to still be alive. Hell, even Ben was technically supposed to be either dead or super old, breaking some world record.
You swallowed thickly. “And your mother?”
Ben was silent for a moment but didn’t break your gaze. He shrugged his shoulders then. “Don’t know.”
Your brow knitted. “What do you mean you don’t know?”
“I mean she left.”
You lifted your brows and blinked at him. “She left?”
“Yeah, in ‘46. Don’t know what happened to her after. I assume she’s probably dead now,” Ben replied with a casualness that felt cold. He rubbed his jaw. “My dad always said he knew where she went, but I don’t think he did. I always figured she took inspiration from you and just ditched him.”
That stung. And for the first time, it really sunk in how your leaving had affected him.
You were just gone. Here one minute and vanished into thin air in the next. He didn’t know what happened to you for decades. Always doubted himself and everything that was supposed to mean something, like it was carved in stone.
How would you have felt if he’d done that to you?
“I’m sorry,” you said quietly, causing his brow to raise, but he didn’t offer anything else. “Wanna know what happened to her?”
Ben bit the insides of his cheeks. “Thought about it. Think it’s best not to. There isn’t an answer that’s gonna make it better.”
He was probably right. If she died happy without him, it’d break him just as much as finding out she died sad and alone. And truthfully, you didn’t want to know either, so you just nodded in understanding.
“What happened to you after?” you asked softly then.
“You already know what happened,” he replied simply.
You pressed your lips into a tight line. “Not really. I know what happened after the Compound V. Don’t know what happened before.”
“Is it important?”
“Kinda. I think so,” you responded.
Ben sighed and crossed his arms. “I came back. Not immediately, but eventually… when I ran outta money. Stayed gone the whole summer. Slept on Quentin’s couch in Philly,” he shared. “But I couldn’t find a job, so I came back with my tail tugged between my legs. Begged the old man for forgiveness and told him he was right. That I shoulda listened to him.”
“Ben–”
“Don’t,” he gritted warningly. You sucked in a breath. “Happened a long time ago. Doesn’t matter now.”
“Sure it does,” you insisted gently.
“He was a lot worse after. Didn’t really matter what I’d say or do. Didn’t matter if I was right or wrong,” he said with a humorless scoff. “My mother was worse, though. After I came back from the war – came back like this – she didn’t really look at me. Just said ‘You’re like him’ and walked away. My father told me not to come back, so I never saw her again after.”
“She was proud of you. You know that,” you tried to remind him, but he shook his head.
“No, she wasn’t. Not at the end,” he replied and sounded so sure of it that it broke your heart. “You done here?”
His words were final. Cold. Removed from anything that was supposed to tether him here.
You nodded silently and followed him back to the car.
“One more stop,” Ben said suddenly when you stopped at your first intersection. He hadn’t spoken since you left the estate in the rearview mirror. “Turn left.”
You switched the turn signal from right to left without question. You waited past a few more directional instructions before you finally dared to ask.
“Where are we going?”
“Somethin’ else I want you to see,” Ben said, and you couldn’t tell from his tone if it was a good or a bad thing. “Heads up, though – wasn’t exactly plannin’ on showing you this today. Figured by the rate it’s been goin’, it’d be at least another few months before I brought you here.”
“Then why are you now?”
He simply shrugged, fingers tapping on the plastic under the window. “We’re already here. Might as well.”
A few more minutes of silence passed before Ben told you to pull over in the middle of some suburban street. You couldn’t remember if you’d ever been here before. No memories sprang to mind as you looked around.
“Recognize it?” Ben knocked his knuckles against the window on his side, nodding toward a small blue house beyond it.
“Maybe… I think?” You narrowed your eyes at the home. The front door, the porch, the placement of the windows, and the smaller barn to the side – it all seemed eerily familiar. “Wait… Is that the house we were supposed to buy?”
“Yup,” Ben replied and popped the p. “And I did buy it.”
“What?!” Your head snapped toward him. “But you said–”
“Bought it a few months ago, not back then,” he clarified.
“It was still available?”
“No, a family lived there. They’re gone now,” he said.
Your brow raised. “Did you… kill them?”
“What?! No! Jesus fuck…” Ben looked downright offended, green eyes wide, brows drawing more together with every passing second. “I paid them a lotta money to get the fuck out.”
“Oh. Good.” You nodded quickly. “That’s… comforting.”
He bristled. “What, you really think I’d just waltz into some home and fuckin’ slaughter a whole family?”
“Happened before,” you muttered bitterly under your breath and averted your gaze to the floor. “You don’t have the best track record.”
His jaw locked, and as expected, he threw the car door open without another word, got out, and slammed it shut with a harsh thud.
You exhaled a deep breath before eventually following him up the porch steps and all the way into the foyer. With every footstep from the car to here, however, you had a gained a little more speed and a little more anger. By the time steam was coming out of your ears, you almost bumped straight into his solid back.
“You can’t be mad at me for saying the truth,” you fumed and watched him slowly spin around with a cocked brow. “You also can’t pretend it didn’t happen and that you aren’t that guy because you fucking were.”
Ben didn’t flinch. “You done?”
“No,” you said firmly. “Far from it, actually.”
“Alright,” he scoffed, rolled his eyes, turned, and walked.
Typical.
“If you walk away now, I’ll fucking leave,” you said. “It’s done.”
He stopped in the doorway. Didn’t turn, though. Not immediately. His hands balled into fists, one of which tapped against the wood next to his head before he glanced over his shoulder at you.
He clicked his tongue. “I’m not fucking pretending, alright?”
You stared at him. “That it? C’mon, you gotta do better than that.”
“Fuckin’ Christ, what the hell do you people fuckin’ want from me, huh?”
You sighed internally. Of course he’d get defensive.
“We people might want some goddamn accountability,” you argued. “I mean, do you even fucking care? Do you feel guilty?”
His jaw clenched, and his fists tightened so much his knuckles shone white.
“Doesn’t fuckin’ matter,” he said after a beat. “Doesn’t matter how many times I apologize or to who. Doesn’t matter if I get punished or tortured or paid for my damn crimes ten times over. It’s never fuckin’ enough.”
“It does matter,” you countered. “Stop playing the victim.”
“You do know the fuckin’ government and Vought ordered most of that shit,” he argued.
“Please,” you scoffed. “You knew better. I know you did. You knew your father wasn’t right. You knew you shouldn’t have gone back there. You knew what Vought was doing – and the government. You knew you were hurting people. You just didn’t care. You never said no. You didn’t put up a fight. You didn’t resist a single fucking urge.”
Ben’s Adam’s apple bobbed once. “No, I didn’t,” he finally replied. The crinkles around his eyes were hard, though, the green almost poisonous. “Does that make it fuckin’ better now? That I knew and never did anything? That I didn’t give two shits about the world?”
Your throat closed, but you managed to shake your head and choke out a “no.”
Ben scoffed and crossed his arms. “Yeah, didn’t think so.”
But something in his firm stance changed. Maybe it was his heart or just the fear of losing you when he noticed your feet shift and sway toward the door. Either way, the tension in his muscles subsided with his next breath out.
He carded a hand through his hair and rubbed it down his face. “It’s not gonna happen again, alright? None of that shit... All I can say. All I can do. If there’s more to it, tell me. I’ll add it to the fuckin’ list. Up to you if you wanna believe me or not.”
“I–…”
You stopped but didn’t close your mouth. You looked at him. You knew there wasn’t anything he could do. The damage was done. The only one who could change the past was ironically you.
And in a way, you’d caused it, too – not just him.
“I believe you,” you told him, and it felt like several bricks were falling off his shoulders at that moment.
“So… what now?” he asked after a minute had passed.
“Show me the house,” you said simply.
Ben’s brow quirked with the slightest remnants of confusion, but he nodded nonetheless.
“Been renovating it for the past few months,” Ben said as he led you into the living room, then the kitchen. “Added stuff I thought you’d like. You know… every time I was mean to you.”
You arched an eyebrow. “What, like penance?”
“Maybe,” he chuckled softly.
“Did you do it yourself?” You warily glanced around. As romantic as that would’ve been, you’d seen that man’s handiness in action.
“Nah.” He shook his head, chuckling. “Paid some people. Found a good contractor. Trust me. You don’t want me doin’ electrical work in here.”
You giggled. “Oh, I know. I really don’t.”
“Brought all the ideas, though,” he added, almost proud. “Actually thought hard about what you might like. Lemme tell you – you’re not easy to fuckin’ please.”
You furrowed your brow, bewildered. “I always told you I don’t need a lot.”
“Yeah, exactly,” he huffed. “You never fuckin’ want anything.”
“Well, anything I did want, you took away,” you muttered. “Unless you have a job at a university lined up for me in your back pocket.”
Ben pursed his lips, almost like he felt guilty. “Look, if that’s what you wanna do, I’m not gonna stand in your way again.”
You scoffed and crossed your arms. “You better not.”
He smiled in defeat, nodding. “Right.”
You sauntered a little closer to him, your fingers brushing the marble counter as you rounded the kitchen island. “So, what did you think I’d want? Bigger kitchen to cook you dinner?”
He chuckled in amusement, wagging a finger at you. “Not gonna fall for that one, sweetheart.” He grinned knowingly. “Most of your stuff is upstairs, actually.”
Ben then led the way through the house. The floors were all dark walnut, and the windows let in enough light for plants to flourish. It wasn’t too big, but it wasn’t too small, either.
It was perfect. You would’ve been happy here.
He’d tucked a small piano into a corner of the living room. It wasn’t grand like the one in the mansion, as if he somehow knew you’d prefer the middle ground. He’d also put up a telescope on the back porch and built a small garden behind the house. And the bookshelves even featured the odd physics textbook.
It seemed liked he’d truly thought of everything.
“Look up,” he said with a mischievous smile as you stepped into the master bedroom behind him.
You glanced at the ceiling and saw a skylight right above the bed. You could watch the stars till your eyes closed. You’d told him that once – that your dream was to fall asleep under the Milky Way every night. He never knew it was because you used to sleep outside when you were a child.
“You like it?”
You turned around and looked at him. You couldn’t help the smile as you nodded. “I do. It’s beautiful,” you replied. “The whole house is. Kinda the stuff that dreams are made of.”
Ben hummed and didn’t say anything more. Still unreadable. Still mildly closed off. Of course he was.
“Bathroom’s got a big tub, too,” he added with a clear of his throat. “Just like you wanted.”
“You remember that, huh?”
“I do.” He chuckled lightly. “Guess somethin’ about the image of you naked in a tub kinda stuck.”
You laughed, your cheeks radiating with heat. “Then it did what I wanted it to do,” you quipped, taking a step closer to him. “But, uhm… what does it mean? I mean, do you want me to live here with you or–”
“Look,” he cut in softly before you could spiral too far. “It’s yours. You can do what you want with it. Sell it, rent it out, live here – with or without me. All I’m sayin’ is, I’m not a condition you need to worry about. ‘M not part of the equation. Just wanted you to have it and keep a promise, alright?”
You took a deep breath in and out. That whole proposal was fucking insane, right? This whole day, this whole year, the last six months in an entirely different era – it was too much to digest for anyone.
“What if I want you to be in the equation?” you asked.
His brow shot up, eyes widening slightly. “Then I’ll be… a variable?”
“Alright, you’ll be a variable.” You gifted him a small smile and nodded. “Can I think about it, or is this a moving-in-tomorrow thing?”
“Take your time,” Ben said simply and then glanced out the window at the setting sun. “Gettin’ late. You wanna drive back now?”
You bit your lip, shuffling closer. A smirk drew the corners of your mouth slightly upward. Your hands slid slowly up his chest, green eyes following them as they draped around his neck before his gaze met yours. There was curiosity in his, soon overtaken by the same hunger you felt.
You wanted to be close to him again. You wanted things to go back to the way they were, almost forcing the broken shards back together without glue and with sheer willpower alone.
“I don’t know,” you said, your voice low, gentle, and yet a little mischievous. “That bed looks big enough. Room got a lot of space, too.”
Ben didn’t even bother replying. His eyes turned dark. He took his opening and just kissed you.
His mouth crashed into yours like something long overdue – no preamble, no hesitation, no carefulness this time. Just heat and teeth and years of wanting shoved into a single kiss.
You could barely take a breath before your back hit the dresser with a thunk that rattled the frame, but you didn’t care. Not when his hands were on your waist, gripping like he couldn’t get you close enough. Not when his mouth was trailing fire down your jaw, your neck, your chest, dragging a moan out of you that sounded more like surrender than anything else.
This wasn’t slow.
This wasn’t sweet.
It was the kind of kiss that didn’t ask permission. No, it remembered it had it once and fucking reclaimed it.
His hands on your hips pulled you in like he was trying to fuse bone to bone, memory to muscle. He kissed you like it hurt – like it cost him everything not to lose control entirely.
And maybe it did.
Because the second your lips parted for him, the second your tongue tangled with his and your hands found the rough line of his jaw, something broke open in your heart, too.
He wasn’t the same guy you’d kissed yesterday, but somehow he still was.
Time meant nothing anymore. Not when your mouth already knew the shape of him. Not when your hands moved instinctively to the buttons of his shirt without a tremble like you’d done it before.
It still wasn’t the same.
This version of Ben was heavier. Broader. His body more solid. His soul more scarred. His kiss was rougher and his touch more desperate.
Everything was heat and hands and that low sound in his throat you had already missed after a single day.
Your hands ran down his chest as the last button gave way. He was so warm under your palms. Solid. Familiar. Still somehow yours, even when your fingers dove under his shirt, dragging across scorching hot skin and the new ridges of muscle you didn’t remember.
You barely registered him gripping your thighs until he lifted you, effortlessly setting you on the edge of the dresser. His massive hands were on your knees now and spanned across your thighs, pushing them apart. Your breath hitched. His lips claimed yours like he was drowning in you.
And maybe you were drowning, too.
Maybe this was the only way to stop thinking. Stop doubting. Stop spinning in a world that kept rewriting itself every time you tried to find your footing.
So, you wrapped your legs around him without thinking, and he groaned into your mouth, hips grinding with the kind of pressure that only came from too much lost time.
You kissed him like it could rewind something.
He kissed you like it could fucking save him.
You gasped against his lips as his beard scraped your jaw in a way that made your spine arch and your thoughts scatter. And just as your hands found his skin again, just as you tilted your hips against him and felt him press back with equal force–
“Dammit,” he cursed and broke away.
The word vibrated deep in your chest before you froze entirely. You didn’t even dare to take a breath.
Ben pulled back just slightly, his breath ragged, arms braced on either side of you like he needed the furniture to keep him upright. But his forehead still pressed against yours, only confusing you more.
“What’s wrong?” you asked, volume barely above a whisper, voice still raspy and laced with the last hints of heat stuck in your throat.
Ben swallowed thickly before meeting your eyes. “I have to tell you somethin’.”
You laughed a little, lifting a brow. “Can’t it wait?”
Ben sighed, half in frustration. “Wish it could. But–...”
He didn’t finish. Just turned and walked to the bed, slumping down on the edge of the mattress with a bone-deep groan.
“But?” you pressed.
“But you ain’t gonna like it. Might even make you hate me again,” he said and ran a hand through his hair. “I fucked up.”
Could you still call it growth when he told you a second before sleeping with you?
“Okay…” You nodded slowly and pursed your lips. “Gonna have to elaborate a little more on that one.”
Ben clicked his tongue, head bobbing. Then he met your eyes. “It’s about Edgar… and Vought. There's somethin' you should know.”
▶️ Chapter 18: Love Means Never Having to Say You're Sorry – JULY 27
Seriously, can we call this growth? lol What did you think of reader settling the score? Ben's still clearly navigating everything around him 😂
Coming Up:
The silence that followed sucked the air right out of his lungs.
“It’s not your fault,” you said with that same fucking softness in your eyes he knew so well.
He scoffed in disbelief. “Sure it is.”
You sat down on the bed next to him, knee brushing his. “You didn’t know what effect it would have. You couldn’t have. I mean, sure, maybe it was a little… stupid and… reckless, but it’s not on you.”
Ben huffed a dark laugh. “You say that now, but you haven’t even heard the full story yet.”
Your brow arched.
He cleared the thick lump in his throat. “After the Homelander thing, when you were in a coma… Edgar came to me. Visited me outside of your hospital room.”
Your head slowly turned to him, brows drawing tightly together.
Ben swallowed heavily. “Wanted to kill him right there,” he muttered bitterly. “But he said he knew how important you were to me. That I needed you close. Said he could make that happen. Offered me a deal.”
You scoffed, shaking your head, averting your eyes to the ceiling before they closed. “Please don’t tell me you took it.”
ello there, how are u doin? i hope ure doing great!! i just saw that your requests are open so maybe would you be up writing for dark!dean winchester x reader since its kindaa hard find a good dark fic about him, maybe like the reader is too innocent or naive and dean couldn't help but to take advantage of her or anythings fine really! i hope u have a great day thats all thank youu!
hi baby, I’m doing okay, how are you doing? I hope you have a great day too💗
summary - dean finally snaps and takes what he wants.
warning - smut, dark content, swearing, corruption, creampie, voyuerism?
18+ only please, the gif I use isn’t mine, divider by @newlips.
Dean couldn’t take his eyes off of you. You were Sam’s friend from college and recently the two of you had started talking again. You had invited the two of them over to yours to enjoy the hot summer day by the pool. What Sam hadn’t told him was that you were quite… Naive, almost innocent. When you opened the front door wearing the tiniest little dress that barely covered anything, Dean instantly hardened, his jaw clenched as he held himself back.
But it was almost like you were teasing him. When they both stepped foot inside your house and followed you into the kitchen, Dean watched as your arse bounced when you walked, the way your hips swayed so naturally made him grind his teeth together. He wondered if you were doing this on purpose or if you really were clueless about how slutty you looked.
It wasn’t until you all headed outside towards the pool that Dean nearly snapped completely. His grip tightened around the beer bottle as he watched you strip from your dress, leaving you in the tiniest bikini known to man. His gaze moved over to his brother, noticing he wasn’t even fazed with your lack of clothes. Dean almost felt jealous.
A few hours passed with Dean struggling with the dark thoughts in his mind, he spent his time near you in the pool, watching the drops of water roll down your body. He lets out a grunt as he tips his head back, beer bottle to his lips only to find that he’s finished it.
“Is everything okay?” Your soft voice fills the air, hand coming to rest on his lower back as you look up at him. Dean’s jaw clenches, feeling his cock harden even more. Sam sits on one of the lounge chairs, head too busy in a book to even notice the struggle that his older brother is going through.
“Just out of beer.” His voice comes out rough, grip still tight on the bottle as he peers down at you.
“Oh.” You blink up at him, licking your lips. “I’ll go and get you another one!” You smile softly before pushing yourself up onto the edge, giving Dean the perfect view of your arse. His hand jerks, itching to slap it. Your hips sway, arse jiggling as you head back into the house, leaving the hunter watching you with a dark look as he studies everything about you. His tongue flicks out as he watches water roll down your body, wanting to catch the drops of water with his tongue.
You riffle around in the fridge, pouting when you find that you’re out of beer. You walk out with the pout still on your lips, looking at Dean. “I’m sorry. It appears I’m out of beer… I swear I had a whole bunch.” You scratch your head, confused.
Dean grunts, gaze locked onto how your breasts bounce with each word. “It’s fine. Sammy will go and get some more.”
Sam’s brows furrow, looking up from the book. “I will?” Dean stares at him, raising a brow. “Right, okay. I will.” He stands, stretching.
“I’ll give you some money!” You’re about to turn around when Dean’s voice stops you.
“It’s fine, sweetheart. We’ll pay.” Your mouth opens about to say something but you close it when Dean gives you a look.
Before Sam leaves, he gives Dean a look that basically says not to try anything with you.
“Come here, sweetheart.” Dean beckons you over when he hears Sam leave. You obediently listen, walking over to him. “Sit.” He gestures to the edge of the pool, licking his lips again.
You sit, mouth agape as you listen to him. You slide your legs into the water as you sit down, kicking them around softly. A small squeal escapes you when Dean grabs your thighs and pulls you closer. His hands grip you tight as he leans in.
“Do you know how much of a fucking tease you are, sweetheart?” You squirm slightly, feeling a throbbing between your legs. You don’t respond, you don’t know how to. Were you being a tease? Dean’s hands move to your arse, grabbing handfuls and squeezing with a groan. “Oh fuck. Have you ever been touched, sweetheart? Hmm? Have someone rub your cute little pussy?”
Your mouth falls open as a whine slips out. You barely have time to respond before Dean’s hand is already between your legs, rubbing his fingers against your clothed pussy. Little sounds fall from your lips as your hips slowly rock against his fingers. A squeal escapes you when Dean suddenly pulls you back into the pool and spins you around. He pins you against the edge, pressing his bulge against your arse.
“Are you going to be a good girl and let me fuck you, sweetheart? I promise I’ll be gentle.” He groans, rocking his bulge into your arse. You push back against him, accidentally rubbing against his hardened cock. “Fuck.” Dean grunts, sliding his hands down, he quickly pulls out his cock and pulls your tiny bikini bottoms aside.
Dean groans when he thrusts inside of you, his eyes rolling back with how well you squeeze his cock. “Holy fuck. You’re so tight.” He buries his face into your neck, hands gripping your hips as he begins to thrust in and out of you. You whine and moan, your head falling back. You’ve never felt pleasure this intense before.
You gasp when Dean lifts your leg, letting him fuck you at a better angle. His thrusts pick up, pounding into you. The sounds slipping from your mouth are so loud that your neighbours can probably hear you.
Dean grips onto you harder, pushing you into the edge of the pool as he fucks you harder. Grunts and groans falling from his lips, he leans closer and sinks his teeth into your shoulder. “Feel so fucking good, sweetheart.”
“Dean! Seriously?!” Sam yells from the backdoor, his eyes wide and beers nearly falling from his grip.
You moan, dazedly looking at your friend while his brother continues to split you open. You don’t even think you’re in your own body anymore with how much pleasure is coursing through you.
“What, Sammy? I’m just getting to know your friend.” He doesn’t stop fucking into you, only going faster and harder. His hand slides down and begins to rub your clit causing you to jerk and whine, your eyes rolling back and body falling limp in his hold.
Sam scoffs, turning around, he storms back into your house.
Dean chuckles, grunting into your ear. “I think he’s a little mad, sweetheart.” You whine, your pussy clenching around him. “Are you going to cum for me?” He thrusts deeper, hitting your g-spot with perfect strokes. “Go on, cum for me, sweetheart. Let me feel you.”
As he pinches your clit and thrusts deeper, you moan loudly, feeling your body tense up. You suddenly cum, squeezing Dean’s cock.
Dean moans, the sound causing you to clench around him again. He continues pounding into you until he grunts, burying deep inside and cumming hard, pumping you full of his thick cum. “Fuck, sweetheart. You’re in for a long fucking night,” He grabs your chin and turns your head to face him. “I’m going to fuck and fill you so much that you will be dripping of my cum for a month.”
Summary: You struggle to help Dean work through his stress
Content: Dean x Reader, swearing, yelling, injuries, a bit of arguing, and some slight fluff at the end.
Note: This was written for the 5K Celebration Challenge for @zepskies! I entered under my main blog beakaleak32 and asked for a .gif to base a story on, and she gave me the one below (cuz she knows I'm a sucker for shower scenes haha). Congrats on all your amazing followers Alex! I hope you and everyone else enjoy the story!
You weren’t sure when you had lost track of how Dean was handling his stress. Maybe it was innocent, and you believed that he was managing things just fine. Dean also was a professional liar and had gotten good at hiding things. More likely was that things hadn’t been easy lately and you were focused on yourself. Whatever the reason, Dean was starting to scare you.
While you were on the hunt for a wickedly smart shapeshifter, you noticed Dean’s easily losing his temper over little things. At breakfast one morning he snapped at a waitress for serving crappy coffee. He was either bickering with Sam or pointedly ignoring him. You had even noticed he was slamming the doors of Baby a bit harder than he usually did. But it all came to a head when you were trying to get information from a witness.
“I said talk, dammit!” Dean roared, whipping a knife out of his pocket and holding it up against the young man’s neck.
Immediately, you realized where Dean’s head was at. Before you could open your mouth, Josh kicked out his foot in an attempt to sideswipe Dean. Caught off guard, Dean stumbled slightly but righted himself and quickly latched his hand onto Josh’s throat.
“Dean!” You yelled. It was pointless to try to pull Dean off, you knew he was stronger than you. Why had Sam decided to go back to the motel?
“You better knock that shit off or I’m running this blade through your throat.” Dean was inches away from the witness’s face, his voice low and gravelly.
“He’s not a shifter!” You cried in desperation. Dean threw a look over his shoulder at you.
“A what?” Josh gasped, meeting your gaze over the top of Dean’s head. Dean turned back to face Josh, his eyes narrowing for a moment, before releasing his grip. Josh inhaled deeply.
“You serious?” Dean muttered, walking a path around you while he gave Josh some room.
“I had to act fast, you were gonna hurt him!” You explained in a hushed whisper.
Dean didn’t reply, but you saw his jaw twitch before he stepped back in front of Josh. It seemed that mentioning the paranormal had helped loosen Josh’s tongue, because he was able to recall seeing his girlfriend in two different places within minutes of each other.
On the drive back to the motel, Dean was quiet. You had expected him to call you out or at the very least talk about the next steps. When you tried to ask him a question he responded by turning up the volume on the radio.
Great, that’s just great.
You’d seen this before, of course. Whenever you were half a step ahead of Dean or forced him to see his incorrect logic, he started to disengage. Call it a defense mechanism or a trait learned early in childhood, you still struggled with this aspect of his personality. Part of you wanted to shine a spotlight on it and make him see how unhealthy it was, and the other part knew that would just push him further away. But Dean had genuinely frightened you when he pulled the knife on Josh, and you couldn’t let that slide.
“Look, I’m sorry if you thought I was interfering, but that was not supposed to be an interrogation. He did not deserve to have a knife pulled on him.”
Dean barely hummed in response, his eyes on the road in front of him. And just like that, you were pissed. With a jab of your finger, the music stopped cold. Dean’s head pivoted.
“The hell?”
“Stop being a freaking child!” Your fists tightened around themselves, going white with the lack of blood.
“Oh, I’m being a child?” Dean spat back.
“Yes! You’re giving me the freaking silent treatment!” You felt like you were screaming in the confines of the car. Lowering your voice slightly, you continued. “Dean, what I’m trying to say is that you’re worrying me. And I want to be here for you, but you have to talk to me. You can’t just shut me out.”
“You’ve got nothing to be worried about, I’m fine.” Reaching out, Dean thumbed the stereo back on, and he continued driving in silence.
There wasn’t a chance to discuss it further as Sam had new information when you got back to the motel. With a solid lead, you all headed out to an old warehouse where you suspected the shapeshifter was holing up in between activities. Just when you thought that the lead was a bust, Sam found a small hiding space. As you started to investigate, the shifter appeared, and a brawl ensued.
Later, you would wonder what you had been thinking when you tried to surprise the shifter from behind. At the last second he spotted you and tossed you into a wall, your knee taking a big chunk of the impact and letting out a resounding crack. Dean yelled your name. Sam was closer and able to come over while Dean poured his fury into finishing the shifter off. He joined you as Sam helped you to your feet, your right leg holding your weight, and gripped your left side tightly to support your bad leg.
The drive back home was filled with a different kind of silence. You sat in the back with a makeshift ice pack over your knee while Dean shot random glances at you through the rearview mirror. Sam was researching knee injuries and asking you sporadic questions based off of his findings. You noticed him beginning to grit his teeth in the light of his phone, but you didn’t have the energy to ask how bad he thought this was.
In the fleeting hours of dawn, you arrived back at the bunker. Even though Dean utilized the garage so that you didn’t have to take the towering stairs, there were still small steps and uneven levels within the halls of your home. Apparently, the Men of Letters didn’t think about maneuvering around with injuries. As the corridors began to wind, making it difficult for Dean to immediately support your side, he swung you up into his arms and carried you the rest of the way to your room. You desperately wanted to protest that you could have made it, but it also felt nice to give your good leg a break.
“You probably want to shower?” Dean questioned after depositing you onto your bed. He knew that was generally your routine after a hunting trip. You nodded impishly, but he was already moving around the room collecting things you would need. After he set a pile down on the bed, he moved towards the door without you. “I’ll be right back, gotta grab my stuff.”
“Your stuff?”
“I’m not letting you shower alone.” His words came out with a little grit, like he was holding something back. You sighed, knowing there was no talking him out of it, and sat and waited for him to return.
After what felt like an hour of equal parts creative thinking and frustration, you were balancing on your foot under the shower spray with Dean hovering protectively behind you. He waited patiently while you soaped up and rinsed off and then let you stabilize yourself on his hands while you swapped positions. Dean seemed to fall into a rhythm and forget you were there for a moment, tilting his head back under the shower and letting the water fall over his face like it was washing away more than just grime. He ran his hands through his hair, sighing heavily. You felt your heart ache.
Reaching out, you set your hands on Dean’s shoulders. He immediately tensed up. Slowly, you used the water as a lubricant and dug your thumbs into his muscles. You expected Dean to move away from you and finish up, but he surprised you by lowering his head and letting you work out the knots along his neckline. When you found a tight spot by his shoulder blade, he let out a soft groan.
Even though your leg began to quake from overuse, you simply tried to shift onto your bad leg, not wanting to stop. When it became almost unbearable, you wrapped your arms around Dean’s waist and leaned into him to take some of your weight. Trying to hide your discomfort, you planted kisses along his shoulder and neck. His hand came up to cover yours.
“Do you need to sit?” He asked, looking over his shoulder at you. Of course he saw through your ruse.
“I don’t want to be done,” you said, avoiding the point he was trying to make, “this is nice.”
“You’re shaking,” Dean responded simply. He turned slowly, avoiding toppling you, and adjusted himself so that he was more supportive. Gently he placed a kiss at the crown of your head, a quiet thank you, and then he stood there and gazed into your eyes.
“Is this the part where you tell me I’m an idiot and to stop hurling myself into danger?” You quipped after a minute.
“Nah, I’m leaving that lecture for tomorrow.” Dean smirked. “Tonight, we talk about what you brought up in the car.”
You cocked your eyebrow. That was the last thing you had expected him to say.
“I hear what you’re saying. Life has been a shit show, and I’m probably not handling it well.”
“Probably?”
“Okay, smart ass.” Dean chuckled, shaking his head. “I’m not. But when I was watching you in the back seat, I remembered that time you had me talk to you through your panic attack. How having something to focus on helped pull you out. And I thought maybe…” Dean swallowed. “I could try to let you be my focal point.”
“I ain’t going anywhere, Winchester.” You pressed yourself closer to him as you answered. “Not emotionally, and definitely not physically anytime soon.” You both smiled. “I’m here, and I got you.”
Dean ducked down, capturing your lips in a tender kiss, before he leaned his forehead against yours. It might seem small, but you knew this was actually a big step for Dean. You were ready to help him find himself again, even if it was ugly. Because that’s what you did for people that you loved.
Mark’s mind was a storm of frustration, as he sat in silence, he couldn’t shake the urge to find some way, any way to let it out. His thoughts drifted to you, as he heard your footsteps approaching the bathroom door, wondering if being around you might finally offer him the release he desperately needed.
That’s how you ended up in the bathroom, bent over the sink, pills scattered all over the counter, gripping each side of the sink attempting to steady your balance as mark is pounding into you from behind. He tightens his hands around the curve of your hips as he says, “Fuck, you have no idea how badly I needed this—n you’re always so fucking eager.”
It suddenly hits you—just how deep his frustration runs, how desperately he needed this moment, more than ever before, like everything inside him was breaking open, craving release as you feel his cock hitting the perfect spots, pounding into you intensely and passionately.
Mark grabs the back of your neck pulling you up against his chest, then wraps his hand around your throat as you feel the coolness of his necklace hit your back. “Always willing to be my stress reliever huh pretty girl? letting me stretch this pussy out whenever I want.
“I’m gonna fuck you so hard you won’t be able to think straight. You want that sweetheart?” You nod aggressively in approval, letting a whimper leave your lips as Mark softly whispers in your ear, “better hold on tight then, cause when I’m fucking done with you, you’ll be feelin me for days.”
I literally cannot stop thinking about mark fucking me all angry and pouty and after this episode I had to ugh, expect more drabbles like these here and there :)!
tags: @tinas111 @bad-wolf1991 @maanlikemoon
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Summary: Mark is still reeling from some life changing news when you find him in the shower one morning...
A/N: Written for @zepskies 5K follower challenge where this gif was the prompt for this drabble!
You poked your head into the bathroom, Mark still standing under the shower nearly forty minutes after it’d been turned on. Enough was enough. You stormed inside and ripped open the curtain, water dripping down Mark’s lowered head.
“You done being depressed over the fact you’re not dying?” He sighed, eyes closed. “Mark, you put away the guy's brother for murder. The doctor fucking with you was not your fault.”
“Why are you even here? I dumped you, remember?”
“I recall. Funny how you did that the same day you found out about your since debunked tumor.” You turned off the ice cold water, Mark shivering. You grabbed the towel from the bar, wrapping it over his shoulders. He stepped out, standing there while you put another towel around his waist. “I’m sure those two events had nothing to do with each other, right? Takes a real genius to fit those two puzzle pieces together.”
“I’m no good for-“
“I understand why you did it. Don’t get me wrong, you'll have to grovel for the next decade but we’ll get through it.”
“How did you even find out anyway?” he asked quietly.
“Captain Anderson called me. So,” you said, drying him off, Mark allowing you to do so. You grabbed some sweats and a hoodie from the chair, handing them to him. “Are you going to stand there in silence or say something like, sorry for dumping you two weeks before the wedding and making you think I slept with your sister?”
“Thank you for being here,” he said quietly, pulling you into a hug. “And I’m sorry.”
“You can make it up to me for the next fifty years,” you mumbled into him, Mark bringing you in closer. “I’ll forgive you someday but for now, I’m just glad you’re okay.”
she’s the sweetest person to ever be and mark just lets all his anger out on her when she asks to many question, because of everything that was been happening with his tumor. so she distances herself from him a bit but once he realizes what he’s done he does everything so she can forgive him
mark meachum x fem!reader
Mark lashes out in fear, distancing yourself from him until he realizes the damage and fights to make it right. content! emotional hurt/comfort, angst with a tender ending. word count: 868
notes: thanks for the request!! I've been trying all week to get inspiration to write for Mark and enjoy what I wrote, but I was having a hard time, so I'm glad I got a request for him to practice my writing :) I hope this is what you wanted!!
There’s something about how quiet you’ve become lately that makes the walls feel thinner.
You still move like yourself — soft, deliberate, graceful in the way only someone deeply in love moves through a home. But your presence no longer wraps around him like it used to. You don’t touch his shoulder in passing. You don’t ask if he’s hungry. You don’t call him baby when he’s pacing in the hallway, muttering to himself and raking his hands through his hair like the frustration is a fire only he can feel.
You used to chase after him when he got like that. Soft hands catching his wrist. Words that didn’t scold — just saw.
Now you don’t.
Now you sit at the edge of the bed when you think he’s asleep, fingers picking at the frayed hem of your sweatshirt, and the space between you both has become a breathing thing. Alive. Growing.
And Mark knows — god, does he know — that it’s his fault.
The tumor. The goddamn tumor.
The weight of it has infected everything: his patience, his mind, his sense of control.
He can’t fix this. He can’t throw money at it. He can’t outthink it.
So when you ask —
"Did you talk to the specialist today?"
"Is there another trial you can apply for?"
"Why won’t you let me come with you?"
— His voice goes sharp before he can stop it. “Jesus, would you just stop? I don’t need you breathing down my goddamn neck all the time!”
You’d flinched. Not like you were scared. But like he’d stepped on something fragile between you. And then you didn’t ask again.
That was four days ago.
Now, you speak in past tense. You sleep turned away. You still make his coffee in the morning, but you leave it on the counter and don’t wait to see if he drinks it.
The sweetness hasn’t gone — it’s just quieter now. Guarded.
And he hates it.
Tonight, he comes home late. Tension like coiled wire in his spine. Another round of bad news. Another clue that led nowhere. Another maybe. He half-expects to find you in bed already — curled up on your side of the mattress like you’ve started building a life at arm’s length.
But the lights in the kitchen are still on.
You’re sitting at the table. Wearing one of his old sweaters. Holding a mug you haven’t touched.
You look up, and your expression is careful. Like you’re waiting to see what version of him just walked through the door.
“Hey,” you say softly.
He swallows.
“Hey.”
The silence between you cracks open — a seam in something that used to feel whole.
You look back down. “You should eat something. I made—”
“Don’t do that.” His voice is rough. Uneven.
You blink, confused. “Do what?”
“Take care of me like I haven’t been—” He stops. Runs a hand over his mouth. “Like I haven’t been a complete asshole to you.”
You say nothing. But your eyes glisten. Just barely.
“I know what I’ve been doing. I know I’ve been taking it out on you,” he breathes, like it costs him to say it. “Because I can’t control any of it. Because I’m scared. And I didn’t want to admit that. I thought if I kept pushing forward, if I stayed angry, it would feel like I was doing something.”
Your voice is soft. “And me asking questions…?”
“Felt like a reminder that I couldn’t answer any of them.” He laughs, hollow. “But that’s not fair to you. You didn’t deserve that.”
You look down into your mug. Swallow hard. “You hurt me, Mark.”
“I know.”
“I was just trying to help you.”
“I know that too.”
His throat works.
“I miss you,” he says finally. Quiet. “You’re right next to me, and I miss you.”
That’s what breaks the dam. Your breath catches, and you press your lips together like you’re afraid of what will come out if you speak. But he’s already closing the distance. Dropping to his knees in front of you like it’s penance.
His hands curl around your waist — tentative, like maybe you’ll flinch again.
But you don’t.
You let him hold on.
“I’m still scared,” he whispers into the fabric of your sweater. “But I don’t want to fight you. I can’t do this without you. And I’m sorry I made you feel like I didn’t need you.”
You tilt his chin up. Eyes shining now.
“I know,” you whisper. “I’m still here. I’m always here. But I need you to stop shutting me out.”
He nods. “I will... I'll try at least. I promise.”
You brush his hair back with trembling fingers. Kiss his forehead.
And for the first time in days, when he breathes in, it feels like maybe there’s something worth holding on for. Something left to fight for that isn’t just survival — but love.
𖤐 reblogs and feedback are appreciated! requests are also welcome, ty!
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taglist: @sturnspup @mostlymarvelgirl @youdontknowe @kathie85 @that-stanford-girlie @donatello-fiend @aryaharmon @star-yawnznn @tinas111 @candy-coated-misery0731 (if you want to be added or removed let me know <3)
Summary: You and Mark have an emotional reconnection after he finally comes clean. But that also means you have some unfinished business to take care of with your sister, Rachel.
AN: Wrote this last week because I guess I can't stop myself! 😂 So yep, these Mark stories have officially become a series of one-shots called — ‘Til When Do Us Part. This one is also a gif check requested by my friend @lamentationsofalonelypotato for the 5K Follower Celebration. I think this is an important puzzle piece to explore after Catastrophic Blues. 😉
Word Count: 4.6K
Tags/Warnings: [Set during 1x02] 18+ only! Reunion smut, fluff, an epic cat fight (lol), angst, hurt/comfort
Series Masterlist
His hair dragged through your fingers again. First soft and loose, then gripped tight—desperate, hot tingles across your skin.
It was almost too much.
A halting moan fell from your lips, his biting kiss along your throat as he moved inside you.
“Fuck. Takin’ me better than ever, baby,” he said into your skin, his words gritted out and tinged with smoke and relief. “Gonna feel me for fuckin’ days at this rate.”
The sound of his voice reached deep into your bones. The safety of his arms caged you underneath him on his bed, the old mattress creaking with every test of the springs. He wrapped an arm around your thigh like curling steel, opening you up more for him, making his rolling thrusts hit deeper. Harder. A man possessed.
You gasped, your pussy already throbbing in time with your heartbeat. Your words were barely syllables, but they escaped you nonetheless. "Oh, fuck. Mark..."
He smirked into your neck. His lips trailed down to your shoulder and nipped harder with teeth, just to feel you writhe against him. You whimpered, your sensitive nipples brushing against his chest when you arched back up into him.
His hot breaths further ignited your skin. Your nails raked down the back of his neck and down his shoulder as you held on for the ride—an obscene squelching of wetness and hot breaths, skin against flushed skin. Your fingers pressed into every divot of muscle, as if you could sink right through his skin and make him feel you. Not for days. Forever.
You didn’t have words to speak. It was all in your eyes when they met his. Raw, vulnerable, glassy with pleasure, your breaths unsteady with emotion.
He pulled back a little, just so he could slip his hand between your bodies and find your slick, swollen clit again. He swept the pads of his fingers in the angles and rhythm he knew would serve you best in between his thrusts.
He swallowed your gasp of his name, your whimpers as you shuddered and came. A sensation like kaleidoscope colors, bursting like so many stars. You fucking squeezed him from the inside out for the third time tonight, finally forcing a ragged groan from his own lips as he spilled into you. His hips stuttered a shaky and powerful release.
You grabbed his face and poured your soul into that kiss, a wet and filthy meeting of lips and tongues.
Panting breaths forced their way through his nose, but he wouldn’t break that kiss for all the world. He finally had you back in his arms. He had the scent of your floral soap in his nose, your familiar sweetness on his tongue, your hair threaded through his fingers. He had it all.
It wasn’t the faded memories he clung to in a brick-and-mortal cell, or the daydreams of what if that had been torturing him whenever he saw a girl in a white dress, or a family sitting at dinner with their little kids in highchairs.
It was you, solid and real.
Your kiss swollen lips dragged from his slowly, reluctantly, with shaky breaths in between.
He let your thighs slip down to rest more comfortably around his hips, but he didn't move just yet. He stayed buried deep inside you.
He brushed your frizzy hair away from your forehead, his eyes a little softer, less crazed. You sniffled as a tear rolled from the corner of your eye. He swept the wetness away with his thumb.
“I know it was good, but you don’t need to cry, sweetheart,” he teased lightly. There was a tender note in his voice though.
Your heart clenched to hear it. Part of you still couldn't believe this was real. Despite yourself, you laughed a little, breathless and boneless.
“I guess it’s just, um…it’s been a while.”
“Really? You haven’t, uh, been seeing anyone?” he asked, trying to hide the hope from his voice.
You snorted. “No.”
Plain and simple. He quirked a smile.
“And you?” you asked reluctantly, as if the answer wouldn't tear into you if he said any form of yes.
He almost laughed. “I was in lockup for nine months, remember?”
Relief allowed you to relax again. A smirk began to curve your lips as your fingers tapped an idle rhythm on his dewy arms.
“What, you didn’t get yourself a little boyfriend? No ‘drop the soap’ action?” you teased.
Mark’s jaw nearly unhinged. He stared down at you, disbelief and amusement warring for dominance at your cheek.
“Oh, you think you’re funny, huh?”
Your whole body shook in effort to contain your giggles, but you couldn’t help yourself.
His tongue poked the inside of his cheek as he tried not to laugh. Honestly, he should’ve expected nothing fucking less from you.
You were still kee-keeing when you caressed his bearded face with both hands, then twined your arms around his neck. But soon, you sobered up.
“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t… You had to live with those animals for almost a whole year. I can’t even imagine how deeply shitty that was. How scary,” you said.
Mark huffed, shaking his head. He rubbed your arm and pressed a kiss to the inside of your wrist.
“Heh. I was in hell long before I walked into Palmdale,” he said.
The confession slipped through his lips before he could think better of it, but there it was. Your expression fell even more. With a sigh, he stroked your cheek. Then he carefully withdrew, pulling out of your heat. You both felt the loss with soft groans.
He climbed out of bed just to grab a towel from his bathroom for the cleanup.
This was the first time you’d come to his place, just a couple of days since he took you home from that bar in Downtown. Two days since he came clean to you about what happened in Venice. Two days since you somehow found it in your heart to forgive him.
He still didn’t know what the hell he was doing with you. He hadn’t discussed it with you, hadn’t labelled it. It was almost as if you two had picked up from where you left off, except this time, there was an unknown expiration date.
That reminder literally hit him between the eyes. It forced him to pause in the bathroom and white-knuckle grip the edge of the sink. He grimaced and willed the pain away, stifling a grunt. Fuck...not even a moment's fucking peace.
"You okay?" your voice filtered over from the bedroom. Mark turned his face away from the mirror, just in case you could catch an angle of him.
"Yeah," he said, a little rougher. He breathed in deep, until the sharpest edges were passed. He padded back out and brought the dampened towel back to you.
It was late, but he still checked his phone on the nightstand for any missed notifications. He never knew when he might get called in by Blythe—another thing Mark couldn’t tell you about. He wondered if the taskforce was on your radar anyway, what with how D.A. Valwell was consistently trying to butt into their operations.
So far, you hadn’t mentioned anything weird going on with your boss in the office. Maybe Valwell was keeping you out of it. As he should.
You welcomed Mark back into bed and under the covers, luring him into a kiss as he settled in beside you. He drew you into his arms and couldn’t help but stare. He took in every contour of your face. Every shade of beauty.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “Have I said that yet?”
A slight, sad smile twitched at your lips. Your heart pulsed sharply.
“What’s happening to you isn’t your fault. There’s no reason to be sorry,” you said.
“There is a reason,” he nodded. “I didn’t want to leave you twisting in the wind. I just…”
“I know,” you sighed. You watched his profile as he looked ahead, rather than at you directly. A deep breath ran through him, not altogether steady.
“I love you,” he said. He swallowed, jaw clenching. “Think it’s pretty obvious that I never stopped.”
You guided his face back toward you with a gentle hand on his cheek. Your thumb brushed over his lips.
“It’s become painfully clear to me,” you said, “that I’ll never love anyone like I love you.”
Morning came, and you weren’t ready. You didn’t want to leave this house with its familiar smell and its gray-blue walls, which you and Mark painted together. After he inherited the house from his mother, who passed away a few years ago, you helped him clean and touch it up without losing the character of the house.
You were going to officially move in with him after you two got married and let go of your Downtown apartment that was close to your job, but often so empty. Obviously, that move never happened.
“You’re having dinner with your mom tonight, right?” Mark asked, pulling you from your thoughts.
You finished tucking in your blouse into your skirt and began to fix your hair in his wardrobe mirror. You had to go into work, and so did he. He was buckling his belt over his jeans, already dressed in a dark green shirt and one of his favorite leather jackets—the black one you helped him pick out.
“Yeah, every Tuesday,” you nodded. You turned and reached for the edges of his jacket. “I know it’s your business to share, but…can I tell her about what you’re going through? That we’re back together? She would want to see you.”
Mark hesitated. “I’d like that too, but let's just keep this between you and me for now.”
You frowned. “I still can’t believe you haven’t told your precinct. How long do you plan to work like this? Mark, what if…what if something happens when you’re on the job? I mean medically.”
He couldn’t blame you for your worry and concern. He held you by your arms and gave a reassuring squeeze.
“You know I’m on a case right now. It’s important,” he said, trying to communicate the gravity of it through his eyes, the tone of his voice. “After that’s done…I don’t know. We’ll talk about it. That and the, uh, second opinion stuff.”
Despite your lingering worry, a small smile peeked through. “At least you said we.”
Mark flickered at a smile too. He bowed down to kiss you on the forehead, lingering there with a short sigh. Ever since he left you, he’d been operating with a reckless head and a worse heart. But if you were determined to stick this out with him, like you seemed to be, then it wasn’t just about him anymore.
He’d have to protect you too.
“Mmm, smells good, Mom,” you said, shutting the door of your childhood home behind you. Inside, the modest three-bedroom house was filled with the rich savory smell of something warm in the oven.
Your mom, Lisette, waved you over with her oven mitt hand.
“Hey, honey. Come ‘ere and taste this.”
She took out a large glass pan filled with beef pot roast, complete with carrots, little yellow potatoes, and charred sprigs of rosemary on top.
“Wow, all that for just the two of us?” you asked, kissing her on the cheek. She just smiled and gave you a forkful after she blew on it first. You took the bite and fairly melted.
“Ughhh, so good. It’s been a long time since you made a whole…” You trailed off as you realized it.
Lisette’s smile turned bittersweet. “Yeah, it was your father’s favorite.”
She took off her oven mitts and left the pan to cool on the counter. She braced a few fingertips on the edge of that counter, as if her mind contained too many memories to sort through. You brushed a hand against her arm, earning her attention.
“Thanks. I brought dessert too,” you said, raising the grocery bag in your hand. You set that on the counter as well. You gave your mom a hug, warm and comforting.
Lisette sighed and hugged you back gratefully. She rubbed your back, like good moms did. But when she pulled back, she noted the smile on your face with a raised brow. It was genuine, not the fake ones you gave to pacify her. In fact, you looked more relaxed, more like yourself.
“You seem…”
“What?” you asked in confusion.
“I don’t know. A little happier today, I guess,” she said. “Did something good happen at work?”
You huffed. “No. Valwell’s antsy and frustrated about something, but every time I ask what’s wrong, he tells me it’s fine. Nothing for me to worry about.”
Not to mention, he’d taken three long lunches at odd times in the past week alone. Every time he got back to the office, he seemed more agitated and upset, storming through the halls like they owed him rent money.
“Well, it’s probably above your clearance, honey,” said Lisette. “If he wanted you to know, he would tell you.”
You frowned thoughtfully, tapping a nail on the counter. Before you could think too hard on it, your mom subtly cleared her throat, the way she always did when she was a bit nervous. She busied herself with grabbing silverware for the dinner table. Your brows drew together.
“You grabbed three sets,” you pointed out.
“Mhmm,” she nodded. “We’re going to be three today.”
“Who else is coming?”
Lisette hesitated, didn’t seem to want to meet your suspicious gaze. “Your sister. I invited her.”
Your face fell. Stony and incredulous.
“You did not.”
“I did. You two haven’t spoken in almost a year.”
“For good damn reason, Mom!”
“I know,” Lisette said, in a sharper voice than you expected. After a moment though, she softened. “I know. What she did to you…it’s frankly incomprehensible. But she’s still your sister. Your father would be sick to know you two are fighting like this.”
A harsh sigh fell from your lips. You rubbed your temples with both hands.
“We’re not fighting,” you said. “I’m just choosing to pretend I’m an only child.”
Lisette gave you a sad frown that spoke more volumes than her words could. You felt a stab of guilt for it, but you didn’t take it back. If you had to see that hateful bitch today, then you wouldn’t hold back this time. It would be on sight.
And…of fucking course.
As if on cue, there was a commotion at the front door. The lock began to turn and click. Then the door slid open, revealing Rachel with her key to the house poised in hand. She was a personal trainer and yoga instructor, so she was wearing her skin-tight Halara leggings (yes, the “TikTok Leggings”), along with a breezy crop top.
She had a chain-link purse strung over her shoulder and oversized sunglasses on the bridge of her nose, but you could still see her eyes widen when she caught sight of you, her steps stopping short in the doorway.
You stared right back at her. Your teeth clenched, like a train grinding against the tracks at a hard stop and shooting off sparks. Everything Mark told you two days ago came rushing through your mind—every unwanted touch, every disgusting, manipulative word she used to try and spin him into her web while he was at his worst.
“What—What’re you doing here?” she said, a frightened little deer caught in your trajectory.
You didn’t even answer. You couldn’t speak.
You just moved, rounding the kitchen counter and cutting through the dining room with a purpose. Rachel squeaked, and she scrambled to back out of the house the way she came in. She flung the door open and retreated.
You followed.
“I know what you really did, you lying, psycho bitch!” you hissed. Your voice carried and seemed to slap Rachel upside the head. She stopped on the stone walkway leading up to the house. She turned around, lifted the sunglasses to the top of her head, and she glared at you warily.
“What’re you talking about?” she shot back.
You laughed in disbelief. “Oh, don’t act dumb now. What you did to Mark isn’t just reprehensible. I should file a report and get you fucking arrested for being a vile cunt.”
Rachel’s eyes flashed. Her face screwed up in anger, so much that she strode back up the steps and slapped you across the cheek. Your head twisted to the side at the stinging blow. You even stumbled a little, but your shock gave way to a grim smile.
Can we say, self-defense?
Her face dawned with realization, just a bit too late. She didn’t even have the instincts to duck your punch.
“Goddamn it. Fucking move, people!” Mark muttered uselessly at the cars in front of him.
It had been a long damn day. It also looked like he and the team were heading to Mexico in the morning. Doing a drug run for Javi, a local cartel boss, would hopefully get them one step closer to finding out who he carried a shipment of goddamn fissile material for. They had to find out who was trying to orchestrate another 9/11 in California.
Mark was on his way home, cutting through L.A. traffic the best he could during rush hour. His stomach was practically attacking his liver in hunger. He also wanted to see you before he left, hopefully for just a day or two.
Didn’t you say you were over at your mom’s for dinner? Damn, that woman could cook.
How many Sunday dinners had he spent with your family in the past five years? All those Christmases and Thanksgivings, birthdays, Fourth of Julys at the beach and Memorial Day backyard barbeques.
Your mom was a sweetheart, too. She always bought him gifts at Christmas, never forgot his birthday, always saved him a special cut of whatever she was cooking. Truth be told, she was like a second mother to him, especially after his mom passed.
Mark sighed. He closed his eyes for a moment and let his head slowly fall back against the headrest. A warning flash of pain echoed through his skull, like a small oyster knife on the twist.
Fuck me.
It would be good to see Lisette—and be able to share another one of those meals with you too, however many of them he had left.
The traffic light finally turned green. Mark found himself changing lanes, then changing directions. Another twenty minutes had him pulling up to your family home on a quiet residential street.
Well, it was usually quiet.
“Aw, shit.” Was that Rachel out there on the driveway? What the hell was she doing here?
She was beelining up those cobblestone steps right for you. She threw you a slap so hard it snapped your head to the right, making your hair fly in your face.
“The fuck?!” His angry brows furrowing, Mark parked the car and unclipped his seatbelt quick, but when he next looked up, he caught sight of your swift left hook.
“God-damn,” he couldn’t help but laugh. As a man of the law, he knew he should've been stepping in right about now, but this opportunity was a little too satisfying to give up. He stayed where he sat to watch the show.
Rachel went down like a sack of shit.
And you didn’t waste no time. You pushed her the rest of the way down into the grassy front yard and got on top of her, pinning her arms behind her back and wedging your knee in her spine. Before she could swing back and headbutt you, you shoved her face into the grass.
Your dad taught you pretty damn well.
Rachel screamed and cried for help, but all it did was fuel your ire. You felt crazy and deranged, but you also felt alive too, for the first time in a long time.
Meanwhile, your mom watched in worry from the porch. Her protests weren’t strong enough to reach you though.
“Get off me, you fat ugly bitch!” Rachel screeched.
You saw a nice little brown pile the neighbor’s dog must’ve left this morning. It was just close enough for you to grab (unfortunately) with your bare hand. You pulled her head back by her hair and smeared dog shit all over her face—her cheeks, her forehead and chin. Her shrill screech reached new heights.
The neighbors could’ve been watching with shocked open mouths and iPhone cameras raised high, but you didn’t give even half of a fuck. You did quiet her down though, by shoving her face back into the dirt. The lawn was still nice and damp from the afternoon sprinklers.
“Yeah? You like that? Keep talking shit and I'll break your fake-ass nose, which I helped pay for!” you shouted. “I waited in that fucking lobby for hours while they hacked off the old one. I gave you cold compresses for your swollen, puffy lobster face. Now how about I snap that shit off like you’re Mr. fucking Potato Head?”
She cried as if you were killing her. Dramatic, as always. But eventually she stopped wriggling and thrashing so much, just shaking her head and sniveling. Realizing she wasn’t about to get out of this so easily, she switched tactics.
"Okay." She splayed her hands out the best she could behind her back in surrender. "Okay! Jesus Christ, I'm sorry!"
“Oh, yeah? You’re sorry? What’re you sorry for?” you asked.
"I already told you I fucked him! I fucked your fiancé!"
"No, but you tried to," you seethed. "You just couldn't, could you? Because he's a good man, and you're a lying slutbag. Isn't that right?"
Rachel tried to deny it, but the harder you shoved her shit-stained face into the wet dirt, the more she coughed and spluttered. You eased up just enough for her to nod her head, lips trembling.
“I-I’m sorry. I-I was wrong. I didn’t mean for it to end up so bad,” she sobbed. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, just let me go—”
Tears began to sting in your own eyes. “Do you know what you actually stole from me?”
Your breaths shook, along with the inner most depths of your soul. You bent closer to her ear.
“Time. That’s what you took from us,” you said, a coarse whisper. “Time we’ll never get back.”
Rachel continued to cry pitiful tears. You almost, almost started to feel bad for her.
But then, you didn’t. Too many memories were rising to the surface.
“Why’d you do it, huh? Danny Mendez wasn’t enough for you?” you said. “Oh yeah, you remember him, back in high school. You made out with my boyfriend the night of my senior prom, bitch!”
Oh yeah, that was a fun little memory to unlock from the brain bank. You realized now that it established a pattern of behavior, one you still couldn't completely understand. It hurt your heart.
“Why?” you demanded through blurry tears. “Why do you hate me so damn much?”
“Because!” she yelled. Her own tears had mixed with the shit smears on her face. Her lips wobbled. “Everyone thinks you’re so fucking perfect! Mom…Dad…he practically worshipped you.”
Your brows knitted together. “No, he didn’t. What the hell are you talking about? He rode my ass all the time! Way harder than he ever did to you.”
Your dad had been a good man, but he'd also been a fucking hardass. A former marine turned LAPD, from officer to Homicide Detective, and finally Captain. In typical firstborn syndrome fashion, you took on the brunt of his expectations, and even resented him for it at times. But you eventually saw the wisdom and the work ethic he was trying to instill in you.
Then again, it would’ve been better for everyone if he had paid closer attention to Rachel. She had been a wild child who even you had a hard time corralling. Your mom was a loving, nurturing person, but unfortunately, not much of a disciplinarian. Your father had too much on his plate at work to wrangle Rachel in as much as he’d wanted.
“Because he believed in you!” she said. “He didn’t just pick at you or criticize you or tell you what to do like you were one of his little soldiers. He talked to you like…like a person. Even…even when he was dying. He only ever asked for you, or for Mom. He never asked for me.”
You heard the resentment and immature selfishness in her voice, but you also heard the hurt. The deep kind of hurt that could make you lash out at others, just to try to mask the pain.
After a long moment of hearing her pitiful sniffles, you sighed.
“He did ask for you,” you admitted. “That day, when you and Mom went out to get coffee, and it was just me and him…I think he knew it was the end. He opened his eyes for the first time in days, and he said your name. His eyes went all around the room, like he was looking for you.”
Rachel’s body shook underneath you. Her quiet sobs of realization reached your ears.
“I called you, but you didn’t pick up. Maybe you had your phone on silent because we were in the hospital… Anyway, a few minutes later, he was gone,” you said. “But he loved you, Rachel. He just hated that he couldn’t stop you from becoming what you are. Selfish. Insecure. Immature and vindictive. A truly heinous combination.”
Rachel had long stopped fighting you. She just cried and shook like a leaf.
You jolted at a touch on your shoulder. You were surprised to find Mark, looking down at you with calm reassurance and a tinge of humor in his eyes.
“All right, sweetheart. Think she’s had enough,” he said.
Rachel gasped and craned her neck up as far as she could. Her eyes went impossibly wide, her mouth falling open in shock to see him.
Mark helped you up with one hand on your arm and another around your waist. He guided you away from your sister. Rachel pushed off the ground and scrambled shakily to her feet. She wiped at her disgusting face painted with three kinds of shit, but shame was what radiated the most when she looked up at you and Mark.
“I…I’m sorry,” she said.
It was the first time you actually believed her. You didn’t say anything, but you swallowed tightly.
Rachel shot one last glance at Lisette, who was teary herself with disappointment. Rachel grabbed her purse off the ground and retreated quickly to her car. You watched her go, releasing a deep breath and the rest of your fury.
Mark massaged the back of your neck, pressing a kiss to your temple. He felt a surge of pride well up in his chest for you. Not just for being a veritable badass and handling your business, but for still having the kind heart he knew underneath.
“You good, Rocky?” he asked with a note of teasing.
Your lips tugged reluctantly at a smile. You wondered how much he saw. How much he heard. All you knew was, you really needed to get cleaned up.
“I don’t know. I might still be a danger to myself and others,” you said, a little slyly as your gaze ran up to his. “Might even need you to restrain me.”
His brows rose, his resulting grin showing teeth. You still knew how to catch him off-guard, in the best fucking way.
“Mark, is that really you?” your mother asked from the porch.
You two had to put a little pin in your game, for now, but his green eyes were full of promise. His lips twitched upward and he squeezed your waist. Then he looked up.
“Hey, Lisette. Been a while.”
When you and Mark ventured up the steps to join her, Lisette welcomed him into a warm, warm hug. The kind that sunk into his bones and made his shoulders feel a little lighter.
She later sighed and pulled away, giving you both a raised brow.
“It looks like there’s more to the story of what happened last year,” she said.
“That there is,” Mark nodded. He shared a look with you, and with your clean hand, you rubbed his back in support. However he wanted to do this, you would back him up.
“Well, we can talk about it over dinner,” Lisette said. She opened the front door to the house, giving a small smile. “I made a pot roast.”
Mark’s face broke into a grin. “Oh, I’m excited.”
You and your mom had the same laugh, like sweet sunshine.
“You remember my pot roast?” Lisette asked.
“’Course I do. With the little potatoes, sprinkle a’ rosemary?”
Mark held the door open for you like the gentleman he was, and he shut it behind him.
AN: Sister, sister, dog shit eater. Amirite? 🤣
I have another Mark fic in this storyverse for you guys next week! I do have more ideas too (especially after watching 1x05 😭), so I plan to continue this little series as we get deeper into the season. 💜
But until then, I'd love to know what you guys think of this one! I think reader and Mark deserve a lot more "making up for lost time" moments lol. And was her confrontation with Rachel everything you wanted it to be? 😂
Next Time:
Your arms wrapped around his waist from behind. A smile began to tug at his lips on reflex. He felt your head resting against his dewy skin. Your hands inched up his chest and playfully teased with your nails. Little sexy scratch. Little kiss between his shoulder blades.
“Go back to sleep, baby,” he said. A teasing note crept into his voice, “It’s too early for you.”
“You got in late last night.” Again. He’d been pulling late hours all week. Whatever case he was on, you had a feeling it was a big one. He still wouldn’t give you any details though. Not even when he was gone for almost two days, coming back smelling like a rancid farmhouse and covered in sweat and grime.
“I want to see you,” you added softly. “Kinda the whole point of me being here.”
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