What @deans-spinster-witch is reading - stories about Jensen Ackles and his various characters written by other writers, with a smattering of Bucky Barnes and Matt Murdock for spice. MDNI - some stories with mature themes
And thank the Gods it does - itâs the only thing that helped me survive the pandemic without losing what little is left of my mind. Reading the story is you guys write is like this
Thank you all, from the bottom of my heart, for giving me so many Dean Winchester, Beau Arlen, Soldier Boy, Alec, Jason Todd, and Jensen Ackles stories to lose myself in. (With a smattering of Matt Murdock for spice)
âË⥠series synopsis; best friends since childhood, ben was your greatest loveâbut he makes a life altering decision that affects the both of you, and what was supposed to keep you close ended up pulling you apart instead. there's no changing the past, no do overs, the only thing you can do is adapt to the life in front of you.
âź general tags/warnings; 18+ / heavy angst / language / violence / time jumps (specified) / childhood best friends to lovers to strangers to ? / no use of y/n / canon-divergent / soldier boy x supe!reader / + other chapter specific tags âË⥠/ the boys season five spoilers ËËđąÖŽà»â
â.á notes; thank you guys so much for the support on the initial story !! <33 :') i'm very grateful for the lovely feedback, and I hope you guys enjoy the continuation just as much đđ€đœ also please note, this is just me playing around with the bits and pieces of his backstory/vought rising we've gotten as of now, I made up a wholeeee bunch of stuff lol. (supe)r canon-divergent .á.á
áŻâ âȘ now playing; adaptation by the weeknd
I made a trade, gave away our days, for a little fame
now I'll never see your face, but it's okay, I adapted anyway
If anyone from Benâs past, anyone from Payback or from the old days, could see him right now, they wouldnât even recognize the man.
Heâd look them dead in the eye and swear that he was just "handling his responsibilities" and doing his job as the man of the house, but you knew better.
The legendary Soldier Boy. The strongest man on earth. The ruthless leader of Payback who didn't take shit from anyone, was currently being held hostage in his own living room.
Your baby girl was a few months old now. She was a lot more mobile, bubbly, and completely unaware of who her father was. Her tiny fist was curled tightly around the collar of his shirt, while her other hand gently tapped his face, her small fingers poking at his beard curiously as if to see what would happen.
Ben grumbled, but he didnât make any effort to move away. On the contrary, his arm was wrapped around her, holding her steady so she wouldnât lose her balance and fall.
He looked up when he heard your footsteps "Doll, sheâs testing my beard again" He said with an impatience you knew wasnât really there âTell her itâs not a damn toyâ
You walked into the living room from the kitchen, a warmed baby bottle in your hand "You can always put her down, you know" You said with amusement, sitting next to them and leaning back on the couch.
Ben scoffed, looking at you like youâd just suggested something ridiculous.
"I can't" He muttered "Sheâll cry if I put her down. Then sheâs gonna give me those damn eyes, and eventually Iâll have to pick her up again"
You chuckled softly, shaking your head. You knew better than to believe he was holding her out of obligation. He didn't put her down because he simply didn't want to.
Ben reached out, taking the bottle from your hand. He guided the nipple to her mouth, and your daughter immediately cuddled against his chest, latching on her milk. Her tiny, bright eyes never left his face.
Ben supported her head as he watched her drink "She looks exactly like you, yâknow" He muttered quietly, his tone softening just a bit "Got your nose. Your eyes" He paused for a moment, staring at her face before a dark, protective scowl appeared on his face "Look at her. Sheâs gonna grow up, use those damn eyes on some idiot, and get whatever the hell she wants. Just like you do with me"
He looked up at you then "If she ever brings a boy home, heâs not coming out again. Iâll bury him in the backyardâ
You burst out laughing "Ben, sheâs not even a year old yet. Relax"
"Iâm just thinking ahead, doll" He grumbled "Gotta keep the vultures away"
A few days later, the quiet afternoon was interrupted by soft, happy babbling coming from the nursery. You paused what you were doing and made your way there to check on your baby girl, assuming she had just woken up from her nap.
But when you pushed the door open, she wasn't in her crib.
She hadnât just woken up from her nap, but she was also sitting on the soft carpet of the room. Her hair still a little messy from sleep, but she looked awake and content, with Ben sitting on the floor right next to her.
She was surrounded by a comical amount of toys, and a brand new baby swing that definitely hadn't been there yesterday.
You leaned against the doorframe, a smirk on your lips. It was hilarious how her little collection of toys had grown, and it was all because of Ben. The man absolutely loved spoiling his two girls, even if he would completely deny it every single time you teased him about it.
Just the other day, heâd walked through the front door carrying a boutique shopping bag. Heâd tossed it on your lap with a casual grunt.
âBrought something for youâ Heâd muttered, nodding towards the bag âAnd for the squirtâ
When you opened it, you nearly melted. Inside was a gorgeous summer dress for you, and right beneath it, a tiny, identical matching version for your daughter.
When you had teased him about it, asking if the great Soldier Boy was getting into fashion, heâd just grumbled âThey were on sale. Don't look into itâ
But the small smirk on his face had completely given him away. He wanted his girls to match.
You looked at them. Your daughter grabbed a plushie from the floor, clumsily lifting it with both hands and holding it out to Ben, looking up at him expectantly.
Ben looked at the toy with narrowed eyes, then looked up at you "She's looking at me again" He grumbled "Like she expects me to entertain her. Iâm a global icon, doll. I don't do that peek-a-boo crap you do"
You laughed, walking into the room "Oh, come on. Iâm sure a global icon can handle a stuffed bearâ
"I handle threats to national security, not fuzzy animals" He complained, tho his hand was already reaching out to take the toy from her.
Before you could tease him back, a soft babble interrupted. Your little girl cooed, her eyes locked on Ben's face.
"DaâŠda" She babbled, patting his knee and handing him another toy. Then she repeated it, more clearly this time âDadaâ
The room went silent for a moment. Ben froze, his hand stopping mid-air. For a split second, his tough-guy attitude completely cracked. A mix of pride and a rare vulnerability appeared on his face.
It was her very first word. And it had been him.
You felt your own heart melt. A soft, emotional smile on your face as you watched your daughter and Benâs reaction.
But Ben didn't do emotional crap. He caught himself quickly, clearing his throat and shaking his head as he grabbed the toy she was holding out.
"Yeah, yeah. Thatâs right" He muttered, a small, smug smirk on his face "You tell your mom whoâs number one around here"
You rolled your eyes, but there was pure warmth in your chest. You sit down with them and leaned in, resting your head on his shoulder while your daughter happily started chewing on the ear of a stuffed bunny.
Ben dropped the stuffed animal to wrap his arm around your waist, pulling you tightly against his side while his eyes were still on the baby.
"Look at you two" He murmured lowly "Youâre completely ruining my reputation. If the guys from Payback saw me right now, I'd have to kill 'em all just to keep 'em quiet"
You smiled, pressing a soft kiss to his shoulder "Is it really that bad?"
Ben stared at you for a long moment, his thumb tracing your cheek before dropping back down to hold you tight. A small smirk appeared on his face as he looked between his two girls.
âIt's worth it" He murmured softly against your hair.
so i wasnât really thinking about a part three for this little story but @angel444riley shared an idea and this is what i came up with, i hope i did justice to what you had in mind haha
⧠Characters: Russell Shaw, Dean Winchester, Beau Arlen, Soldier Boy/Ben, Mark Meachum and Boaz Priestly
⧠Scenario: Who would their Disney male equivalent be?
⧠Pairings: Russell Shaw x Reader, Dean Winchester x Reader, Beau Arlen x Reader, Soldier Boy/Ben x Reader, Mark Meachum x Reader, Boaz Priestly x Reader
â§A/N: I've used scenes and quotes from the films the character appear in but altered them to fit the JA characters.
Russell Shaw
Kristoff - Frozen
The roar of the Chevelle Malibu's engine shattered the peaceful silence of the country road. You sat in the passenger seat with one hand gripping the door handle as the wind whipped through your hair.
You'd asked Colter for help after your sister went missing, but he was tied up on another job and had passed you his brother's number instead.
After giving Russell everything you knewâwhere she'd last been seen and where you thought she was headedâyou'd barely had time to fasten your seatbelt before he'd floored it.
"Hang on!" he yelled as the Malibu launched over a speed bump, all four wheels briefly leaving the ground.
You laughed, grabbing the handle tighter. "Don't worry. I like fast." You kicked your feet onto the dashboard, settling further into the seat.
"Whoa, whoa!" Russell reached over, pushing your legs back down. "Feet off the dash." He shot you an offended look. "This is a classic. Show her some respect."
You rolled your eyes with a smile.
"So," he continued, eyes fixed on the road, "what happened the last time you saw your sister?"
"Oh..." You hesitated. "It was kind of my fault."
"How so?"
"I... got engaged."
"...Congratulations?"
"But I'd only known him for a day."
Russell's head snapped towards you before he immediately looked back at the road. "I'm sorry." He blinked. "You got engaged to someone you'd known for one day?"
"Anyway," you continued, deliberately ignoring him, "she completely freaked out because she wouldn't give us her blessing, and then I got mad, so she got mad..."
"Hold on." He pointed at you. "You mean to tell me you accepted a marriage proposal from a guy you met that morning?"
"Yes." You gestured towards the road ahead. "Eyes on the road."
He stared at you for a beat before letting out a disbelieving laugh. "Didn't your parents ever teach you about strangers?"
You looked at him cautiously. "...Yes."
Russell smirked. "Sweetheart, believe meâyou don't have to worry about me. I don't bite." He flashed you a grin before winking. "Unless you ask nicely."
Dean Winchester
Flynn Rider - Tangled
"Give me my stuff back," Dean scoffed, straining against the ropes binding him to the chair.
You'd found him sneaking around your house, peeking through the curtains as he watched something outside. You weren't sure if he was hiding from someone... or something.
Before he'd had a chance to turn around, you'd panicked and smacked him over the head with a frying pan. Dragging his unconscious body across the floor and tying him to a chair had been considerably harder than you'd expected.
You didn't get out much. Your mother had always insisted it was safer inside, protected from the evils of the outside world. So strangers were a rarity. Especially handsome strangers.
Then you looked inside his duffel bag. Long silver knives. Rock salt. Lighter fluid. A stack of fake IDs. Handsome or not... What kind of man carried all that around? Maybe tying him up hadn't been such a bad idea after all.
Dean let out a long sigh. "So..." he said. "I help you, and you give me my stuff back?"
"I promise." You nodded earnestly. "And when I make a promise, I never, ever break it. Ever." You leaned closer, determined to make your point.
Dean's eyes flicked over you before he sighed again. "Alright. Listen... I didn't want to have to do this, but you're leaving me no choice." He straightened in the chair. "Here comes the Blue Steel." He lowered his head dramatically before snapping it back up. His eyes narrowed, one eyebrow lifted, lips pursed into what he clearly thought was an irresistible expression.
You simply stared. "..."
"What?" he finally asked.
You blinked. "Did you expect me to swoon?"
Dean's expression immediately dropped. "I expected something," he muttered. "Not... whatever this is." He huffed. "This is kind of an off day for me. It usually works better." He sighed, letting his head fall back against the chair. "Fine." He rolled his eyes. "I'll help you."
"Really?" Your face lit up. Without another word, you spun on your heel and hurried toward the front door.
Dean watched you disappear before looking down at the ropes around his wrists. "...Are you forgetting something?" he called. You stopped. He rocked the chair from side to side for emphasis. "A little help here!"
Beau Arlen
Aladdin
"You, uh..." Beau scratched the back of his neck. "You don't wanna go for a ride, do you? We could get outta here. See the sights."
You'd seen the mysterious cowboy around town before. The one with the dark hair and impossible green eyes. The one you'd secretly wondered what it would feel like to run your fingers through his hair. The one who'd stepped in earlier that day when a group of thugs had cornered you in town.
You still didn't know how he'd found you. Or where he'd come from. Only that he'd saved you.
And now he was here again.
He sat patiently on his horse on the other side of the fence as music and laughter drifted from the party inside your parents' house. Another evening of smiling politely at people you barely knew. You'd been counting the minutes until it was over.
"Do you trust me?" Beau asked.
A shiver ran down your spine. "What?"
He smiled softly before extending his hand across the fence. "Do you trust me?"
Your gaze dropped to his outstretched hand. You barely knew him. You didn't know where he lived. You didn't know where he was taking you. You didn't even know his last name.
And yet...
You wanted to say yes.
What you couldn't see was Beau's hand trembling ever so slightly. He wasn't this guy. He wasn't the charming cowboy who swept in and whisked the girl away into the sunset. He'd never been the hero in the love story. He was the best friend. The one who stood quietly on the sidelines. The one who waited. The one who watched someone else get the girl.
His heartbeat hammered against his ribs as he silently prayed you wouldn't notice the tiny shake in his hand.
Then, slowly, your fingers slipped into his. Warm. Soft. Real. A grin tugged at the corner of his mouth before he helped you climb over the fence. He kept hold of your hand until you were safely seated behind him on the horse. Tentatively, you rested your hands on his broad shoulders.
Beau reached back, gently taking your wrists before guiding your arms around his waist.
"You'll wanna hold on tight, darlin'."
Your cheeks warmed as your hands settled against his stomach.
Soldier Boy
Gaston - Beauty and the Beast
"What do you know about my dreams, Soldier Boy?" you asked, watching him casually stroll into your house as though he owned it.
Persistence wasn't a problem for him. Subtlety was.
Soldier Boy had never hidden the fact that he wanted you. As far as he was concerned, it made perfect sense. He was America's greatest supe, and you were the prettiest woman in town.
Naturally, the two of you belonged together. The only problem? You had standards. You wanted someone intelligent. Someone you could lose yourself in conversation with. Someone kind. Someone who made you laugh.
Soldier Boy relied on three things. His looks. His powers. And his ego.
"Picture this." He dropped into one of your kitchen chairs, kicking his mud-covered boots onto the table where you ate every night. "Big house. White picket fence. Huge backyard." He gestured animatedly as the fantasy unfolded in his head. "I come home after another long day of saving America. My gorgeous little wife has dinner waiting. Couple kids running around with the dogs." He stood, towering over you with that familiar cocky grin. "We'll have six or seven."
"Dogs?" you asked innocently.
He looked at you like you'd grown another head.
"No, doll." He puffed out his chest. "Boys." He jabbed a thumb into his own chest. "They'll take after their old man."
You blinked up at him. "Soldier Boy..." A smug smile spread across his face. "I'm speechless."
"I know." He smirked. "Most women are."
"...I don't know what to say." You ducked beneath his arm, trying to slip past him. He simply followed. A chair scraped loudly across the floor as he shoved it aside without looking. You backed toward the front door.
One step. Then another. Until your shoulders bumped against the solid wood. Well... That wasn't ideal.
Soldier Boy planted both hands against the door on either side of your head, boxing you in.
"C'mon, doll." His voice dropped lower. "I'll take care of you." He leaned in just enough for you to count the freckles scattered across his face. "You know you want this." His grin widened. "Me and you? We'd be unstoppable."
For a split second... You almost forgot how insufferable he was. Almost. You smiled sweetly. "Oh, Soldier Boy..." His grin grew even wider. "...I'm terribly sorry." You rested a hand against his chest. "But..." His eyebrows lifted expectantly. "...I just don't deserve you."
Before he could process the words, you twisted the doorknob. The door swung open.
With nothing to brace against, Soldier Boy stumbled straight through the doorway, arms pinwheeling before he crashed onto the porch with a loud thud.
You smiled down at him. "Have a lovely evening." Then you shut the door firmly in his face.
Mark Meachum
Li Shang - Mulan
You could feel his eyes on you.
He knew. He had to.
You'd spent weeks convincing yourself that your disguise was flawless. The haircut. The baggy clothes. The lowered voice. The fake confidence.
But Mark Meachum was a detective. Noticing things was literally his job.
You wanted to be a police officer, but the academy's old-school recruits had made it clear they didn't think women belonged there. So, after watching She's the Man for the fiftieth time and deciding subtlety was overrated, you'd borrowed your brother's identity and taken his place.
He'd passed the initial rounds. Then he'd gotten bored. You, however, had wanted this your entire life. So here you were.
Standing in a firing line, praying Mark hadn't figured out your secret.
His face revealed nothing. No raised eyebrow. No smirk. No look of suspicion. Just those sharp green eyes studying the recruits one by one. Evaluating. Calculating. Watching. Your stomach twisted.
The instructor called for everyone to take position.
You raised your handgun and lined up your shot.
Breathe in.
Exhale.
Steady.
Then suddenlyâ
A boot nudged the back of your ankle. Your stance widened involuntarily. Every muscle in your body locked. He was standing directly behind you. Close enough that you could feel the heat radiating from him. Close enough that if you concentrated, you were pretty sure you'd feel his breath against the back of your neck. You immediately decided not to concentrate.
"Wider stance." His voice was low and calm.. "Bring your right foot back." You obeyed instantly. "Lean forward. Absorb the recoil." A large hand wrapped around your forearm. Your breath caught. He adjusted your arm slightly before moving his other hand to your shoulder. "Relax." His grip was firm. Confident.
The touch lasted maybe two seconds. Three, if you were lucky. Then he was gone.
Just like that. Already moving down the line to correct someone else's posture.
Your heart, however, hadn't received the memo. It was still trying to punch its way out of your chest.
You stared straight ahead at the target, trying desperately to remember how breathing worked. Because honestly? Getting caught wasn't your biggest problem anymore. Your biggest problem was that Mark Meachum was ridiculously attractive.
And if he hadn't figured out your secret yet... You were probably going to give yourself away first.
Boaz Priestly
Milo Thatch - Atlantis
The thing you loved most about Priestly was his passion. You could hear it whenever he talked about something he genuinely cared about. The sarcasm disappeared. The walls came down. For a few precious minutes, he stopped being the cool guy behind the counter and became someone willing to share a piece of himself.
There was an old legend in Santa Cruz about a forgotten underground city hidden somewhere beneath the cliffs. Most people thought it was ridiculous. Priestly did not.
Over the years, he'd collected articles, maps, photographs, and stories from anyone willing to talk about it. His bedroom was practically a shrine to the mystery. So when he announced he was finally exploring a cave system connected to the legend, you volunteered immediately.
The group moved deeper underground, beams of light sweeping across the rocky walls. Then someone spotted the carvings.
Ancient drawings stretched across the stone. Figures. Symbols. Stories frozen in time. Priestly immediately pulled out the worn journal he carried everywhere. You watched him flip through pages filled with sketches, notes, and theories, comparing them to the carvings in front of him.
"Oh, come on," one of the guys laughed. "They're just drawings."
"Yeah?" Priestly shot back. "And Star Wars is just a movie."
A few people chuckled. Normally, that would've been the end of it. A joke. A shrug. A quick change of subject. But something in Priestly's expression shifted.
You recognised it immediately. He cared. His gaze lingered on the carvings. "It's not about the drawings."
The group fell quiet.
Priestly stepped closer to the wall, tracing one of the symbols without quite touching it. "It's about somebody sitting here hundreds, maybe thousands of years ago and making something that didn't exist before." His voice softened. "They took the time to record their story. Their history. Everything they thought was important." The flashlight in his hand illuminated the carvings as he looked up at them. "Think about that." Nobody interrupted him. "Somebody loved this enough to make sure it survived." His fingers tapped absently against the edge of his journal. "They wanted people they'd never meet to know who they were."
You couldn't stop smiling.
Because suddenly he wasn't talking about the cave anymore. Not really.
"They didn't care if anyone thought it was cool." He swallowed. "They just wanted it to matter." The words hung in the air. For a second, nobody spoke. Everyone was staring at him. Priestly noticed.
Immediately. His shoulders stiffened. His ears turned red. And just like that, the walls slammed back into place. He cleared his throat. "Anyway." He snapped the journal shut. "Now I sound like a freaking Hallmark card."
A/N: Sorry I haven't been posting much, the creative bug has just not bit me recenlty! I've also had a bit of a new fixation with Jungkook from BTS, read some amazing fanfics!!
Jensen will always be my number one though! I have a Soldier Boy fic that I want to write, but that means I actually have to write it!
This might have to be a small series of head canons. I can do it with Pixar and female Disney characters.
Summary: While on a witch hunt you watch your husband, Dean die. When strange things start to happen around the bunker Sam, tries to convince you that it's partially grief, but you start to think something else is up. Did Dean follow you back to the bunker as a ghost, or is something else happening?
Characters: Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester, Eileen Leahy, Jody Mills, Donna Hanscum, Claire Novak, Alex Jones, Robert Winchester (OMC), Regina Winchester (OFC), Mary Jean Winchester (OFC), reader Y/N "Tally" Winchester
A/N: This fic was written for the @storytellers-contest-tjac
If you enjoy this fic or any others that you find on this wretched site please reblog so others can have the chance to see it too!
A/N 2: The cover image for this fic was created with 3 edited screenshots I took while watching the show plus common use images found on Canva.
A/N 3: Last but not least I want to thank my Alpha reader @mysticdeliciouskitty and my Beta reader @deans-baby-momma You two helped reign me in, keep my POV and grammar in line... THANK YOU bunches!!!
"Do I want kids?" I repeated his question and thought about my answer for a moment. "I used to and sometimes the thought pops in my head because you'd be an amazing dad. We decided years ago that we'd have no kids - but we could be the eclectic aunt and uncle to Sam's kids - just imagine it, we'd take them for rides in Baby and give them pie and ice cream and then give them back."
Dean laughed at the vision of our new life and said, "Yeah, we could do that. I'll teach them to work on the car and fix things around the house."
"Sam can fix things around his own house," I laughed.
âOh, I'm not so sure about that,â ever the older brother.Â
"He has worked handyman jobs many times over the years."
"Just 'cause he was too big of a prude to hustle pool or play poker."
I started laughing heartily, "Remember when you tried to teach us poker the first time?"
"I cleaned the floor with the both of you and Sam got so mad."
"He was just a kid," I defended.
"Hell, we all were, that was so many years ago."
We stared at the creek for a bit before Dean broke through the b-roll of memories filtering through my mind.
"You know we are of an age where we might need to slow down, and if Sam is gonna be a dad he'll need a respectable job and address."
"Yeah, and we can take the kids while they work. You know Eileen has been job hunting."
"Hunting jobs not monsters," he muttered.
"If you got a regular person job, which one would you go after?"
"Well, besides hunting I'm only good at two things - cars and construction."
"You're very good at working on cars but you're also good at cooking," I pointed out.
He shot me one of those boyish grins of his, before looking away, "Yeah, I'm OK at that, too."
"Ya know, there's a diner in town that is looking for help or they will have to close."
"Which one? Bee's or the Fulton's?"
"Bee's. She and her husband have owned the place for 60 years but he's not doing so well with his health and they want to retire or at least take a step back. Minnie manages all the staff and supply orders, but Bee says if they don't find someone to cook they will have to close because all that food doesn't mean anything if they can't serve it."
"Huh," Dean paused before continuing, "I never considered being a cook."
"Probably be a little easier on your back than construction."
"And my knee," he agreed and began to push himself up from the ground.
"We can't do that again," I laughed, "We sound like a bowl of Rice Krispies when we try to stand up," I told him when we were both upright again.
"How will we get on the floor to play with the kids?"
"Pillows, lots of pillows, and keeping ourselves placed strategically next to the couch so we can ease up from the floor," I grinned. Quite pleased with myself when Dean threw his head back, bold, heavy laughs shaking his whole body.Â
âYeah, weâll have to keep that all in mind.â
âI have been helping Sammy with the databases and your situation got me thinking - how did the witch slam you into the other realm? Did she do it on purpose, how did we get to this point, and has it happened to any other hunters? What if there are hunters out there who werenât dead but were believed to be and nobody knew to check the fae realm so they did die - alone and scared about becoming a vengeful spirit.â
âThat seems like a lot to undertake,â Dean stated - it wasnât a judgment or a warning, it was just a statement of fact.Â
âI know but Iâve already got some leads to research and I think it can be something I work on part time. Ya know, when weâre not looking for regular jobs or whatever.â
âIâll support you in whatever you choose to do,â he told me with a chaste kiss.Â
We had a peaceful and fun rest of our trip and even took some time to chat with Sam and Eileen to see where they were with their goal of finding jobs and starting a family.
It turned out they would be putting the jobs and house with a white picket fence on the fast track because Eileen had gotten a positive test earlier that week.
I did continue my research and database entry - Sam helped occasionally as well. Dean pretended to be annoyed with it but he even joined me once in a while to research or enter snippets of data.Â
Sam was adamant that they couldn't raise a child in the bunker and after witnessing him and Dean bickering over it for the third time in a week, I decided to step in.
"Sam, why is it that you're so insistent on getting out of here? This place is safe and you have seven or eight months before the baby arrives. You and Eileen will get there but I just want to know why you're having such a freak out over it?"
"You don't get it do you?"
"If I understood I wouldn't be asking."
He sighed and sat back down at the library table, "I don't want the baby involved in any of this," he waved a hand toward the rest of the room. "If I could change one thing about my life it would be that none of the supernatural shit happened. I want my kid to grow up feeling safe and not looking over their shoulder for demons or monsters."
"I get that Sammy, I do, and we're gonna get to that point but for the moment you have a quiet stable place that's safe. Why not give yourself the freedom to save some money before moving out to some fixer-upper?"
"Dean keeps saying that."
"He's not totally wrong and if you live in the bunker for a few weeks or months, the baby won't know. I'm not saying to stay till they are five but you are a Legacy and that won't just go away - you know things - probably more about this place and what's in it than I do. I just think you're trying to drop it and run and having a little bit of money saved up to afford to fix a house or be able to get one you don't have to fix up as much wouldn't be bad. The thing is, you don't need to move next week. You are stressing yourself and Eileen."
"That's not my intent. I just want us to be legit before the baby arrives."
"I know. Me too. But you also need to think things through - when you say how much you want out of here it makes Dean feel like you don't want him. He's struggling with all the big changes too. Just breathe, we'll figure it out, and when you get some cash and find the place we will ward and protect the property. Someday, you and Eileen will go out on dates and I'll watch that kid of yours and get to be the doting aunty - an aunty who will be able to protect that kid from anything that could cause or want to cause harm.â
Sam sighed, "You have some good points.â
âI do and your baby won't remember this place if they are a couple months old so if you think that way we've got a year to a year and a half before we gotta get you out of here. Once the baby is crawling you'll want your own place I imagine - mostly because I can't imagine chasing a crawling baby around this place."
Sam laughed, "Yeah, that doesn't sound super safe."
"Let's sit down and look at your goals tomorrow after I've had a few hours of sleep and some coffee."
"Dean's doing his test shift tomorrow right?"
"Yeah, he's also kinda nervous about it."
"I couldn't tell," Sam scoffed, "He's only been cooking everything he can. Did you know he took pictures of Bee's menu and was trying to make everything off that?"
"I had my suspicions," I chuckled. "I'm gonna hit the hay."
"Me too. Good night," Sam grinned and walked toward his room, his body appearing a little lighter after our talk.
Dean was set to do the breakfast shift the next day and then would come home. We thought he'd be back by 11 that morning but when he was thirty minutes late I began to worry. Being a hunter gives you certain skills - anxiety about someone being late is one.
I texted him but got no reply, then I called and got his voicemail - panic started to set in. Just when I was about to go looking for him my phone rang.
"Dean?"
"Hey Hon, I'm gonna be late coming home. They gave me the job and asked me to stay a full shift."
"What! That's great!"
"Yeah, so I'll be home after the lunch rush."
The day Eileen went into labor we were at the hardware store looking at paint samples - they hadn't even gotten the approval to move into the house yet and she was ready to start painting. I had a split second of panic when her water broke in the aisle but I called out to the clerk for a clean up and I rushed her out to the car.
I parked at the ER door and ran in to get help and the nurse who was helping wasn't going fast enough for my liking but I was trying to be polite and not holler at her.
"You seem to be in a panic but don't worry about it, she's got plenty of time."
âNot with our luck,â I muttered as I took my phone out and I called Sam and told him to get there ASAP, and an hour later Sam got there, scrubbed up and walked in the door.
I didn't even get to leave the room before Eileen was having the baby - we hadn't planned on me being in the room but they thought Eileen was having some kind of complication - it turned out she was having twins. Their first born was Robert Dean, the boy we were all expecting.
As the medical staff worried over Elieen the nurse caring for Robert shoved him into my arms, "Here's your nephew, congrats aunty."
I settled in the window seat and cooed, "Hey there, Bobby."
I watched him yawn and wriggle in my arms and I could vaguely hear someone calling out, "I see a head."
But I was in such awe of the handsome little boy in my arms that it didn't clue me into what was going on. Seeing him almost made me want my own baby. A thought that would thankfully vanish the first time that both babies needed a change and to be fed at the same time.
I'm in my 40s. I do not need a baby of my own, being aunty is perfect.
Bobby weighed almost eight pounds while his sister came in just under five.
Having twins slowed down the progress on getting the house finished but by the time Bobby crawled for the first time, we'd just brought the last load into the garage at the house - not that there was much to move since most of the furnishings came from the thrift shop or were delivered by the furniture store from the next town over.
With Lebanon being as small as it is, we don't have our own furniture shop so I was extra excited when we found out the closest place would deliver even though they were in a different town.
Eileen let me help her pick the decorations and theme for each baby's room - Regina or RC as Dean had taken to calling her, got the room that was supposed to be Sam's office.
They'd found an old farm house that had rich dark wood - most of which had been painted - that appalled me. Dean and I had spent weeks helping strip and refinish it so that it would look original. While helping at the house one afternoon the neighbors had stopped by with a fresh baked pie and a welcoming word.
I'd explained that we weren't the homeowners but that we'd pass the welcome along.
"So it's his brother that will live here?" the woman clarified.
"Yes, we're just helping because they have little ones and we wanted to be sure they didn't get too stressed."
"Well, do you two live here - near Lebanon?"
"Um, we've got a place way out in the country," I lied - the bunker isn't that far out.
She must have taken it as us living out in the middle of nowhere because she told us, "If you're looking for a place nearby there is a plot of land with two outbuildings and a newly remodeled house on it."
"Where is it?" Dean asked.
"About right here," she pointed to a map that was laying on the counter next to her. "If this map continued just a bit more this way you'd be here and it butts up against this area. It was my parents land but Ma passed on and Dad had to move to the nursing home. I've got my dad and aunt in the same place and we're selling the land my parents used to own."
"Who's the listing agent?â I asked.
"Here's her card - it's my cousin."
"I'll get in touch with her and set an appointment to look at the place," I said with a smile.
Dean and I were able to work out a lease to own agreement with them the following week and moved in a month later. The only reason it worked was because she said we had "good vibes,â so theyâd picked us even though we didnât offer the highest price.Â
Dean and I planned to set up one of the outbuildings with an office for Sam since he didn't have enough space at their place with RC now residing in his office.
"Can you believe, they are two?" Jody asked from the doorway of Robert's room.
I waved her away and scurried out the door, closing it before I answered, "He will wake up if he hears us speaking," I hurried back down the hall before answering her question, "No, and the fact that they are expecting a little sister shocks me even more."
"Think there will be a second one hidden in there?" Claire teased.
"Gosh, I hope not," I laughed, "Adding on another bedroom and bathroom was hard enough, I'm not sure where they'd put a fourth kid, especially at nap time.â
I was so thankful for Jody and the girls being there at the party the next afternoon because just as Robert blew out the candle on his cupcake, Eileen let out this sound and I said to Sam, "She's in labor."
"I'm fine," she signed
"She's not fine," I replied. "Sam, you should take her to get checked, she's been doing deep breathing for the past twenty minutes."
He chuckled, turned his back to the rest of us and signed something to her.
Dean stared at me, even as Robert threw frosting on his shirt, "How do you know that?"
"Because I've been watching her, plus I went through this with her last time."
Five minutes later Sam whisked Eileen out the door, bags and carseat in hand.
The rest of us took turns cleaning up and entertaining the toddlers until we heard from Sam that mom and baby were doing well.
It had only been three hours since they'd left and was fortunately a smooth labor and recovery for both.
Sam and Eileen had kept the baby's name a secret until they returned home with her. Dean practically pounced on them to get a look at her - a little red face with blonde wispy hair peeked out of the purple swaddle blanket.
Dean's entire body seemed to melt a little, "Wow look at her."
"So have you picked the name yet?" I asked impatiently.
"This is Mary Jean Winchester," Sam announced and I watched Dean's eyes get watery.
"She's perfect," he marveled.
It was an instant connection between Dean and his niece Mary. Not that he cared any less for the twins but the bond that man had with that baby was quite amazing to watch and several times over the next few months we'd be awakened by calls from Sam asking Dean to come help figure out how to calm her.
Dean would take her into his arms and begin to hum, "Hey Jude," or "Smoke on the Water," and Mary would settle nearly instantly.
She even came home with us a couple of nights so poor Eileen could get a night of rest.
If I were younger it might have given me baby fever watching Dean hold her and coo to calm her.
The first day of kindergarten for the twins went smoother than I thought it would, Regina cried a little but Robert hugged her and promised it would be OK. By the end of the week the teachers had to call Sam and Eileen in to discuss putting the twins in separate classes.
Robert was so protective of his Regina that he wouldn't let her use scissors, or leave the classroom without him. This had become an issue because he tried to follow her in the girls restroom and the other girls of course didn't approve.
The following week came with tears over being separated the first two days but they adjusted and were able to eat lunch together and play outside at recess so it started to get easier for them.
On the days that the kids were at school I cared for Mary and on the days that Dean wasn't at the diner he'd teach Mary how to work on the car, or he'd take her to the park.
"Having those three always wears me out but damn, do I love them," he murmured as we waved good-bye from the porch, one evening.Â
"Yeah, you're not changing your mind about wanting kids are you?"
Dean laughed heartily, "No way. Having them is perfect. I get to teach them things, play with them, and when they are cranky at the end of the day we don't have to fight them for bath and bedtime. We get the best part of having kids around."
"Plus, Sam and Eileen know they are always safe with us."
"We'd have been good parents, but I'm too old for a baby," Dean muttered.
I was flooded with relief because I felt the same way.
"Think they'll have any more?"
"I hope not," he laughed. "Not that I'd love another kid any less but three is plenty to handle, don't you think?"
I just laughed, Dean had valid points but I did miss seeing him cuddle sweet little Winchester babies.
Our life was finally good - I cared for the kiddos when Sam and Eileen needed, I helped at the diner which we were in the process of buying, and I assigned hunts or doled out info to hunters as needed.
I even got Dean an apron to wear at home that read, "Cooking things, filling bellies - the family business."
He'd rolled his eyes but wore it every Sunday for our family cookouts.
Part 5 (last) to New Blood (1), Old Flame (2), Light My Fire (3) and Up In Flames (4)
Pairing: Soldier Boy x F!Supe!Reader (Ember)
Word count: 11.5k (I apologize profusely cause its ridiculous lol)
Summary: In the aftermath of Homelander's demise, Soldier Boy reevaluates the situation and his part in it. There's only one thing he knows he can do: make things right with you. If you'll let him.
Warnings: MDNI 18+, swearing, angst, mentions of supe virus, mentions of V1, past trauma, misogyny, canon typical violence, canon character death(s) (not SB or reader), canon divergent (I've omitted him being put back in cryo because that was dumb imo), smoking, drug use, SMUT. LIKE. SO MUCH SMUT YOU GUYS. Smut: dirty talk, fingering, oral sex (f & m receiving) (he's finally on his knees people!!!), squirting, blowjob, facefucking/deep throating, spitting, spanking, pussy spanking, unprotected sex (wrap it up people), brief anal play, rough sex (but that's their love language lbr), multiple orgasms, table sex, couch sex, floor sex, multiple positions, bent over the table, missionary, spooning, hair pulling, biting, creampie, cum swallowing. partial admission of feelings because they're supes and will always be averse to that, fluff??? in a Soldier Boy fic??? Reader described with female anatomy, few uses of y/n. SB can pick up reader. SPOILERS FOR 5.05 TO 5.08.
A/N: I really need to emphasise that is canon divergent, giving the ending we got for SB. Anyway, this is the last part! I can't believe what was once a one-shot spawned an unexpected mini-series, but I'm so glad it did. This whole series is truly one of my favorite things I've written. Hope you all enjoy it, happy reading!! :)
Soldier Boy Masterlist | Read on Ao3
It had been two weeks since Y/N last saw Soldier Boy.
As the days passed, it was getting harder to ignore what was happening in the country. With every news report or segment on VNN, it was becoming apparent that Homelander was more unhinged than ever before. Declaring himself God and forcing people to follow him was a new low for Vought, but she shouldnât have been surprised that they were scared to shut down a problem of their own making. She knew they would never right their wrongs, they wouldnât stop Homelander from doing what he wanted, but she felt a disappointment settle in over the last several days that Ben had fallen prey to all of it again.
She wasnât shocked. Everything he had done had been in service of the company rather than the country, whatever he believed. Unlike Homelander however, he never delusionally declared himself a deity and had people blatantly follow him. So, while she hoped that he would come to his senses, she knew in reality that it would never happen.
She also knew it was only a matter of time before he found her, no doubt to keep in line with whatever his son wanted. She didnât know for sure, but considering they had been in search of V1 and now Homelander was acting more invincible than ever before, she had to conclude they had found the original serum. It would devastate her to leave the only refuge she had ever known, if it came to that. She knew she should go before either Soldier Boy or Homelander came for her, but she had never been one to back down from a fight.
She packed two bags and collected the money she had stashed, anyway. As a precaution.
She had a strange feeling of deja vu to a few years ago when she had tried to flee, and Ben had found her on that fateful night. The night that really changed so much between them. Well, for her at least, their fleeting tryst on the floor of her living room that gave way to feelings she didnât understand. She knew what the exact feeling was, but she dare not say it out loud. He was everything she despised: leading with ego and arrogance, machismo to the max, entitled swagger that he didnât know how to control, misogyny dripping off him; a complete brute. In between all of that, however, was a broken and vulnerable man that she had no intention of fixing.
Because she wasnât the epitome of goodness, either.
She had done her best to save people, but considering it was crime fighting under Vought naturally it wasnât what she had believed it to be. There were unnecessary casualties along the way, causing her to become cynical and bitter, the fire that kept her going being snuffed out long before she finally couldnât take it anymore. No amount of alcohol, drugs or sex could fix any of it, and yet those vices were all any of them had to keep going day by day.
So they were the same, and there was no denying it no matter how she tried.
After the way that she had left him, in quite literally the most explosive manner, she took some time to reflect on all that transpired between them. Through all the literal blows and vitriolic words, through the equally brutal sex and the euphoric haze that came with it, they had come to understand each other in some strange way. So after she cut ties in such a dramatic fashion, she knew sheâd never see him again, but the realization didnât delight her in the slightest. So, she did what she did best. She turned to those vices that sustained her yet again. Alcohol, drugs⊠and well, she supposed sheâd have to abstain from sex for a while.
Who could ever compare to him anyway?
Soldier Boy had watched the demise of Homelander on live TV just like the rest of the country.
While he had planned to be on his way to Colombia by now, his son had other plans for him in the form of keeping him hostage. Rather than keeping him in the basement cells like others that had wronged Homelander, he had been on a permanent lockdown in his apartment. Which was now fully renovated after the brief halt thanks to Y/Nâs pyromania. He supposed he should be thankful not to be locked away in the cells with the likes of Stan Edgar, but that didnât mean he liked his plan being derailed. He had finally had enough of his sonâs antics, and a clear line drawn in the sand with his departure wouldâve been best for everyone involved.
Colombia had been a cover story for the most part.
Soldier Boy didnât want Homelander knowing his real intention - to find Y/N. The last thing he needed was to be followed by crime analytics or by him. So he thought that Colombia was the best place to use as an excuse to make a quick exit, and use the last of Voughtâs resources available to him to get to her. He remembered where she was located from his last conjugal visit, so that wasnât the issue. It was the fact that she most likely wouldnât want to hear him out, but she was going to have to. He had come to the conclusion that his decision to give Homelander the V1 was a bad idea, very soon after the fact. He told Homelander the words he wanted to hear - that Clara wouldâve wanted him to have it in order to become the superior being she always believed they could make.
He as Soldier Boy had never been up to the task, and ultimately failed in her eyes. So maybe his son could be. It became apparent really quickly that it had only driven him to further delusions of grandeur, of becoming a god. Or rather, God. It was a ridiculous notion and one he wanted no part of, so he decided to part ways while he still could. He was met with protest, which he suspected had more to do with Homelanderâs ego rather than actually wanting his father there.
And that was how he found himself locked inside his own penthouse, with no escape. He tried everything, hell he even tried breaking down the doors with his blast, but clearly they had found a weakness in him that even he wasnât aware of. Whatever they had reinforced the doors with did seem to be weakening, however, and maybe heâd find his refuge soon.
It was the next morning when the broadcast from the White House started. He saw the way Homelander sat behind that desk, a desk he had seen many far more competent leaders behind, and the way he began his speech to the public. He decided it wasnât too early for a glass of Bourbon. The events unfolded far too quickly after that. The camera falling to the floor, punches being thrown, glimpses of Butcher and Ryan as they fought Homelander, and then a bright light filled the room, not unlike his own power with the chest blast.
He sat forward in his seat, eyes glued to the screen as his son begged for his life, offered to suck dick and eat shit on live television for the entire country to see, all in the name of self preservation. Any feeling of respect or familial bond left him as he watched the disappointment that he turned out to be, his own flesh and blood. So, as he witnessed Butcher deliver the final blow, a crowbar to Homelanderâs head, brains splattered against the presidential desk, he tipped his glass in a salute of cheers to the screen. Whatever contention he had with Butcher didnât negate the fact that he did something no one else could, and he had to commend him for that fact.
He threw back the rest of his drink, stepping up in front of the shut doors. He felt the surge of energy flow through him, light glowing from under his suit as he growled, before it burst forward. It lasted several moments before he groaned in slight pain, the light dying and giving way to the doors caved in, completely scorched and melted by his power. Finally, without even a glance back into the apartment, he walked out.
Leaving behind the memory of his sorry excuse for a son. Leaving Vought behind.
A place he had been tied to for over 80 years. 40 in active duty, being used as their pawn under the disguise of fame. Another 40 as a ghost story, only to find out he was double crossed by his own team. It was strange to think there would no longer be a safety net, some sense of security, but in reality, he never really had it. Being handed over to the Russians was the first sign of that. So before Vought could do anything to him again, it was time to put his trust in something else. Someone else. Someone who had asked for it and he had stupidly betrayed in return.
With one member of the security team who was still a part of supe detail, they began the long drive to the home that Y/N had acquired from The Legend in retirement from Vought. Something they owed her after everything they had put her through. He had no idea what was awaiting him, all he knew was the fiery woman he had come to unexpectedly feel something for wasnât going to make it easy for him. He wasnât sure he wanted it any other way, either.
He just hoped that yet another reunion between them ended the way they always had.
Homelander with his head slashed open, lying on the floor of the White House.
A news report confirming him dead.
That morning had found her slightly more sober than she had been in the last few days. With every news report, it was very clear that things were unsafe out there. There was no one she could turn to, having cut all communication to The Legend knowing it wasnât ideal for either of them to be talking. She decided that she needed to head somewhere outside of the States if things escalated. Somewhere she could be well hidden and no one would find her, until it was safe to return home. She had resigned herself to the thought that the bags she had packed were now absolutely necessary. After a quick turn into town to get some things she needed, she flicked the television on in the background, typing different destinations in the search, a cigarette dangling between her lips.
And that was when she saw it.
Something flashed across the screen in her peripheral, causing her to lift her head. She frowned at the low volume and picked up the remote, her eyes widened at the scene that unfolded before her.
Homelander. Dead.
She stepped back, fumbling to sit in the chair and steady herself. She could barely believe it. She had never known the full extent of his cruelty, but she had heard whisperings over the years, and now⊠it was all over. A small smile pulled at her lips knowing that he would never hurt anyone or spew absolute hypocrisy ever again. Just as quickly, however, the smile fell when she thought about Ben. Did he know what happened? Was he even alive? Did Homelander kill him before his one last mission to convert the masses?
She picked up her phone, staring down at the black screen. She wasnât even sure who to call. It was quite possible that no one in that Vought building knew what happened to him. She wasnât sure who of the Seven was still alive, and quite frankly, none of them could be trusted. She could go to him, she could pick up her keys, storm out of the house, drive like a maniac back to New York and try to find him. She could do it, she could finally make up for all the other times she had failed to find him.
Just as the thoughts rushed through her mind, she placed the phone down. She couldnât betray the decision she made to leave him behind. He had V1, he was immortal and he was fine. He was probably off grid somewhere, enjoying copious amounts of booze, drugs and women. He was alive and he had the freedom to go wherever he wanted now. He didnât need her. So he was long gone, and he was fine.
She repeated that thought to herself as night fell.
Feeling every part of herself relax knowing the threat was over, she rolled a joint for herself before she undressed. She tied her silk robe around her naked frame, taking the joint and tumbler of whiskey onto the back porch. She made her way to one of the chairs, sitting back before she clicked her fingers, bringing the small flame to the end of the joint. The wood deck overlooked a backyard that led straight into the forest, the chirp of crickets loud as the only light came from the moonlit sky. The days had gotten warmer, but the nights remained cold, the icy chill in the air kissing any exposed expanse of skin as she laid back in the lounger. She ran warm naturally, but every now and then the slight breeze managed to make her shiver. It felt good, to actually feel something. With no one around for several miles, she enjoyed the privacy she had, with no need to look out for anyone or anything as her hand slipped into the opening of her robe. She pulled it aside, exposing her breasts to the night air, the cold causing her nipples to stiffen into hard peaks, her hand descending further down between her legs as she took a drag of the joint, her eyes closing.
Flashes of those few days of bliss with him in Vought tower crossed her mind; every rough kiss, every hair pull, every thrust, every mind blowing orgasm that left her vision star spangled. There were moments in between all of that too: the lighter kisses, a tender caress of her jaw, filthy words juxtaposed with the act of whispering them softly into her ear, looks shared that left both of them ablaze, all things she didnât think he even realized he was capable of. Coming from somewhere so deep within him, a place he hadnât tapped into in decades.
And yet, it was all for her.
A soft moan fell from her lips as her fingers slid between her folds, the chill blowing over exposed body as she continued to imagine his hand at her wet heat instead of her own. His lips sucking at her swollen nub, his tongue delving into her tight canal before moving down to a place she hadnât let many others explore. Quite frankly, no one had been as enthusiastic as him to do that to her. She bit her lip as her legs widened, getting lost in the fantasy of him pleasuring her, so lost she didnât hear the crunching of leaves and twigs under heavy footfalls.  Â
âSo this is how you take advantage of being all alone out here, huh?â
Y/N let out a terrified shriek as she sat up, pulling her hand away as her legs snapped closed, breathing heavily. She pulled her robe back over to cover herself, as she saw a figure cast in shadow, the familiar silhouette standing at the bottom of the porch stairs as the gold accents of his suit gleamed in the moonlight. She stood up slowly, unable to really see his face as she dropped the joint on the deck, putting it out with her bare foot and feeling it singe her skin before it healed just as quick.Â
âWh-What are you doing here?â she stuttered.
Soldier Boy took a few steps forward, the light cast from the moon revealing more of his face to her. It was set in an almost unreadable expression, his brows furrowed as he looked up at her. His stance was strong, shoulders squared and arms at his sides, looking like the perfect soldier but she knew better. The tightness in his jaw told her he was holding something back.
âHeâs dead,â he said, his voice deep and rough as it cut through the chirp of crickets. He knew he didnât need to elaborate on who he was referring to.
âI know,â she muttered, pulling her robe tighter around her body. âSo you decided to come back here, now that heâs dead and do what exactly?â
He couldnât help the smirk that crossed his features. âI think your little show was a good idea of what.â
âI donât want you here,â she stated, glaring at him as she ignored what he said.
He watched the way she shifted her weight from one foot to the other, crossing her arms over herself, her hand lightly scratching at her neck. There were all tell tale signs that she was nervous, and all things that he could use to his advantage. She was lying to him, and to herself and he was going to have to do something about that. If he had to start with his own truth, then so be it.
âYou were right, okay? About a lotta things, but mostly about him. There arenât many regrets I have in life but trusting him over you⊠that was a stupid move,â he explained, clearing the first barrier between them.
He saw the way her shoulders slumped, no doubt surprised by his honesty. Hell, he was too but he was ready to clear the air between them. Slowly, he walked up the stairs, his eyes connecting with hers even through the darkness but she shuffled back the closer he got.
She shook her head, walking backwards towards the french doors leading to the deck. âI told you⊠I told you I wasnât going to do this with you again and I meant it.â
âYou know you canât stay away from me for too long, Y/N,â he called her out, smirking.
She scoffed before turning around, rushing towards the doors back into the house. She looked over her shoulder as she attempted to shut them, but his hands came up to block her from doing so. She stumbled back as he followed her in, sauntering towards her. He was merely inches from her, his eyes intense as he gazed down at her.
âLook, if I gotta drag you to Colombia with me kicking and screaming⊠well Iâd prefer to hear you screaming once we get there,â he stated, a slow grin pulling at his lips.
âIâm not going anywhere with you,â she snapped. âNot after what you did to me.â
âI meant what I said before, Y/N,â he started, his snark dropping instantly and giving way to sincerity. âWhat I did to you⊠I fucking regretted it the second I did it.â
She shook her head. âI donât believe you.â
He leaned in slightly, his eyes flitting between hers and her lips. âLet me make it up to you, then.â
âNo,â she spat.
A rough hum escaped him as he lifted his fingers, lightly holding her chin. âOh come on, donât be like that, doll. You and me, snorting, sucking and fucking our way through Bogotaâs gonna be real swell. So, what do you say?â
She smacked his hand away, glaring up at him. âYou think you can just fucking waltz in here and Iâll fold for you?â
âWell, yeah, you fold pretty easy,â he winked.
âNot this time,â she mumbled, her voice wavering. âI hate you.â
She didnât know who she was trying to convince, herself or him, but it was no use. He leaned down further, their faces close as he peered into her eyes. His hands came up to rest on her shoulders, thumbs lightly caressing the soft fabric of her robe as he felt her tense, a sharp inhale of her breath causing him to smirk. He had her. He knew he had her.
He clicked his tongue, shaking his head at her. âYou canât fool me, sugar. I know youâre carrying a torch for me.â
She lifted her hands and pushed at his chest, her lips pursing in frustration when he didnât budge. âYouâre fucking insane.â
âMaybe so, but Iâm sure as fuck not wrong about this,â he whispered, not breaking eye contact with her.Â
âYeah? What makes you sure?â
His lips brushed over hers as he smirked lightly, closing the small gap between them as his mouth fused over hers. She breathed in harshly through her nose, her hands grasping at his vest, clinging to him desperately as he wrapped his arms around her. She fell into the kiss immediately, and she hated that so much. She was mad at herself, but she was absolutely livid with the traitorous bitch between her legs that grew wet instantly from just a fleeting embrace. She pulled back harshly, lifting her hand and slapping him across his face but it made no difference. He chuckled, the sound a little sinister as they both knew he had already proven his point.
She huffed at the sound of his laugh, shaking her head. âFine! I am, okay? Iâm not emotionally stunted like you but itâs not like it matters. So, you can kindly fuck off now.â
She tried to push away him once more, but he stood his ground as he maintained the powerful gaze between them. Despite the lingering tension in the air, feelings only partially spoken, they both knew that while they feel something, it would never manifest in a normal way. They were supes, they would never have a sense of normalcy that everyone else did, which meant they didnât have to express themselves the same way, either. He was quite sure that neither of them even desired to.
âYou ainât lookinâ for flowers and chocolates and all that romantic shit from me, are ya?â he asked, firmly.
She visibly cringed at the thought. âFuck no, I hate that crap.â
He nodded, slowly. âThen what do ya wanna hear from me?â
Y/N opened and closed several times, trying to find the words she needed to tell him exactly what she wanted. Theirs would never be a traditional relationship, and she didnât even want that. She had it once, and it ended up almost destroying her. With the lack of words, she tried once more to pull away from him, but his strong arms around her waist kept her in place. His eyes never tore away from her as the silence dragged on, the tension so thick between them you couldnât cut through it with any weapon.
âYou wanna hear that I think youâre a goddamn fucking knockout, is that it?â he asked, breaking the silence with his rough timbre.
She gasped softly as she saw his green eyes darken. Slowly, he turned around and guided her backwards by her waist, their steps trepidatious as their gazes remained locked on each other.
âOr that youâre the only dame thatâs ever made my heart race as hard as youâve gotten my dick, that what you wanna hear?â
With each word and each step, he deliberately moved them back towards the dining table. She whimpered at his words, an arousal building inside her at his honesty, something she never thought she needed. The curve of her lower back pressed into the edge of the table, and before she knew it, he bent slightly to grasp her thighs, lifting her up to sit on the surface in one swift move. His lips captured hers in a rough kiss, the intensity not easing in the slightest as he trailed a path along her jaw. He moved down her neck, lingering on the spot he had so ruthlessly shoved a needle into, now free of the discolored bruise. His lips roamed over her chest, pulling the tie of her robe to fall open and reveal more of her to him. His tongue left a wet line down her breast, her head falling back as his mouth closed around her nipple. She hissed as his teeth grazed over her, their eyes meeting as he pulled back slightly.
âOr maybe you wanna hear that knowing you were the only one who ever tried to look for meâŠâ he started, his hands gliding over her thighs as he spread them apart, exposing her wet heat. He never broke eye contact as he sank down slowly, her eyes widening as he dropped to his knees in front of her. âSets my soul on fucking fire and makes me a total goner for you, doll.â
He wasted no time as he lifted her legs and placed them over his shoulders, moving to the apex of her thighs, taking a brief moment to revel in the patch of hair he enjoyed so much before licking a long stripe over her folds. He repeated the action several times before he circled her throbbing clit, a soft groan leaving him at the taste of her. Her eyelids fluttered, but she willed herself not to close them as she peered down to fully grasp the gravity of what he was doing. The guy who once declared âI donât get on my fucking knees for anyoneâ was now in that exact position, something she never thought sheâd ever get to witness. She moaned wantonly as her fingers slipped between his silky locks, gripping firmly to keep him in place, anchoring both of them to that moment.
âTaste so fucking good,â he muttered against her mound, his fingers digging into the flesh of her thighs. âCanât get enough of you, baby.â
Y/N shifted closer to him, not wanting any space to exist between them as she continued to hold onto his head. She gasped as she felt his tongue tease her wet canal, delving deeper into her as another groan from him vibrated against her and sent a shiver through her whole body.
âOh, fuck, Ben, thatâs⊠god, thatâs so fucking good,â she moaned, loudly. One of her hands slid up her own body, squeezing at her breast as the other stayed in his hair, her hips leisurely grinding against his face.
It was all too perfect. The soft lighting in her own home casting a golden glow over them, his hands roughly clinging to her thighs, just as she pinched her nipple into a hard bud, her other hand so tight in his luscious locks she feared ripping out even one precious strand. All of the words he had said to her before doing something she thought was impossible. As his tongue continued to move from her clit, through her slick folds and down to her entrance, just before her mind became foggy from the pleasure she was receiving, she had a realization about him.Â
She didnât need him to drop the big L-word. She knew very well that sometimes that word caused more problems than solving them, and she was far more interested in other qualities from him. Trust. Loyalty. Passion. While he had played fast and loose with trust the last time they were together, she believed him when he said he regretted his actions that day. So no, she didnât need some big love confession, with hearts and glitter, because she had something far better than that. She had finally brought this man - Americaâs Greatest Supe - to his knees as he devoured her like a man starved, practically worshipping at the altar between her legs.
That was the only kind of declaration she needed.
A whine suddenly slipped past her lips as he pulled back from her, her hand reluctantly falling free from his hair. Their eyes locked again as he smirked at her little protest, his mouth glistening with her arousal. He kissed her thigh, just as one of his hands slid over her skin and down between her spread legs, moving between her folds. She threw her head back when two of his fingers slid inside her, slowly thrusting in and out of her tight heat. His lips closed over her swollen nub again, his tongue circling around it at the same pace, eliciting another whine from her, only more desperate this time. His ministrations quickly gained momentum, the pads of his fingers pressing into her sweet spot with precision which caused her to squeeze harder at both of her hardened nipples.
âFuck, r-right there,â she whimpered, gazing down at him through hooded eyelids.
Y/N could feel the familiar pinch in her core, the pressure slowly building inside her as he went on. She felt her inner walls clench around his digits, the wet squelch of her arousal lewdly making it known how close she was. She felt the coil tightening, a moan escaping her at the steady climb to her inevitable peak, but she didnât account for him having other ideas as his fingers sped up. His mouth pulled back, being replaced by his other hand as his fingers harshly rubbed at her bundle of nerves, as he continued to work the others faster.
She saw the way his jaw clenched, brows set in determination as he kept his face close between her open thighs, and she knew. She knew what the goal was, what he wanted from her and he was going to get it at any cost. A sensation she had only felt the last time he had done this to her began to bloom, adding to the already growing euphoria within her.
âWant you to make a fuckinâ mess, sugar,â he muttered, peering up at her. His fingers worked so hard and fast, that you could barely see them as he continued to push her to the edge. âWant you soaking my fingers and my face.â
âBen, oh god, youâre-youâre gonna make me⊠again,â she mewled, shaking her head frantically. âI-I donât think I canâŠâ
A hard smack landed against her inner thigh, causing her to jolt as she squeaked in surprise.
He groaned softly, biting at her soft skin. âOh yes, you can, doll. I wanna see my favorite little party trick again.â
Her head tipped back, eyes squeezing shut as her hands slipped away from her breast and gripped the edge of the table. A string of expletives and moans fell from her lips as his fingers continued their delectable torture, and before she even realized it her vision turned white behind her closed lids, her voice bouncing off the walls of her home as she screamed his name. She felt a steady stream of liquid flow out of her, vaguely recalling a delighted chuckle escape him as she felt his tongue lapping at everything she had to give. She breathed heavily as she slowly opened her eyes, glancing down to see him swipe his hand down his dripping beard.
âThatâs never gonna get old,â he remarked, as he stood and scooped her up into his arms.
Her eyes had barely begun to focus but she could see her juices running down the thick veins of his neck, before he pressed his lips to hers, roughly. She moaned at the taste of herself on him, fingers scraping against the fabric of his suit. She hastily tugged at the material, a frustrated growl leaving her as she reached for the tactical vest to remove that first.
âGet this fucking thing off,â she muttered against his plump mouth.
He captured her wrists in a tight grip, pulling them away. âWeâll get to that. Right now, I wanna fuck that dripping pussy of yours.â
Y/N gasped as he suddenly pulled her off the table and flipped her around, pushing the front of her body down on the surface. Her breasts pressed into the cool wood, her hands splayed out on either side as he kicked her legs apart. She bit her lip in anticipation as she heard him unzip, a wanton moan falling from her as she felt him slap the large head of his cock against her dripping folds. He roughly tugged her robe off with a frustrated grunt, throwing it somewhere in the room and leaving her completely exposed to his clothed form. Without another second to spare, she squeaked as her eyes widened when he slammed into her, her walls sheathing him completely as they stretched around his girth. It had been weeks since she had felt him, and while that wasnât long in hindsight, she had been craving that delicious sting that she had only ever experienced with his impressive size.
âFucking Christ, this fucking filthy little snatch,â he grunted, feeling her around him, briefly pulling out before his hips swung back, pressing harder into her. âSo tight, every goddamn time. No matter how many times this cock fucks you open it just snaps right back, huh, doll?â
She barely responded, a weak âyeahâ being pushed out of her along with shortened bursts of air as he skipped over warming her up. His pace was already brutal, his hips smacking wetly against the curve of her ass, her juices still clinging to her skin from making her squirt. His thrusts were deep, already reaching that sweet spot inside her that only he had ever managed to, the continuous careen of his hips hard and fast. Her fingernails dragged along the hard wood of the table, a shrieking moan spreading condensation of her breath along the surface, but she couldnât help the smirk that pulled at her lips. Flashes of their first time together, the night of the shareholders party, came to her. They had been briefly positioned much in the same way, her bent over the table as he ruthlessly pounded into her, before the legs of the table gave out from under it and he pulled her away. She didnât hope for the same outcome, but just like he never took pause then as he kept going, she didnât want him to stop now either.
âBen, oh fuck, you⊠you feel so good,â she whimpered, reaching one hand back to latch onto his forearm and anchor herself to him. âYou fuck me so good.â
He smirked as one hand slid up her back, fingers splaying into her hair and gripping it tight. âYouâre fucking right I do. No one else ever fucked you like this, did they?â
âN-No, no one,â she stammered, trying to peer back at him.
Using her strands as leverage, he pulled her up off the table and leaned forward, his chest meeting her back, his lips close to her ear. He bit at her lobe, sucking it softly as his hot breath fanned against her cheek, sounds of pleasure like a constant waterfall from her lips. She was close to the edge again, her walls clenching around him as he continued to pound into her, the wet slap of skin echoing in the room. The hand at her hip lifted up, coming down hard over the curve of her ass, making her body jerk at the impact as she moaned loudly.
âAnd no oneâs gonna fuck you like this ever again,â he growled into her ear, his voice low but the deep rumble in his chest vibrated against her back. âNo one but me, right?â
âY-Yes,â she gasped, her eyes squeezing shut. âOh, fuck, I-Iâm so close!â
His eyes stayed focused on her side profile as his hand struck her again, harder than before. A pleased hum left him when she mewled, taking in the way her features morphed with pleasure. âI can feel it, doll. Feel you squeezing around me, gonna make you squirt all over my cockâŠâ
Her hands were flat against the surface of the table, but her fingers tried to curl in and give her some support as she held herself up. He pushed her back down, her nipples dragging along the shiny surface with each thrust, his hands back on the globes of her ass. He pounded into her over and over, feeling how hard her walls were gripping around him. He smirked, spreading her cheeks apart and eying the way the puckered hole squeezed around nothing, tempting him. His gaze flicked up to the back of her head as he sucked his thumb, bringing it down and slowly pushing it past the tight ring. The air was knocked out of her as she cried out, and that was all she needed. He slammed into her once, twice before she instantly let go, screaming his name as she felt her wetness cover him and flow down around his hard cock. He pulled out of her before she could fully come down, whimpering softly at the slow trickle of liquid down her thigh. A disappointed whine left her as she felt empty again. It was a feeling she now truly hated, wanting nothing more than to have him buried deep inside of her yet again and as soon as possible.
As she tried to catch her breath, she glanced back with blurry vision to see him strip himself of all his gear, his suit and his boots. She turned slowly, biting her lip as their eyes met, suddenly feeling bashful in front of him. He stepped closer to her, his rough fingers lightly pinching her chin when her gaze dropped briefly, bringing her face up to stare deeply into her eyes. Seconds dragged on as neither one of them made a move, her mind working overtime to try and figure out what he was thinking. He leaned forward, his forehead pressing to hers in an unexpected, intimate way, catching her off guard. She suddenly wondered what he might do next, completely taken aback by this small display of affection.
His hands slid down her arms, rough against her soft skin, lifting them up and draping them around his neck. Quickly, whatever unrecognizable feeling was in his eyes was replaced by that snark and playfulness she had come to enjoy, a grin pulling wide over his perfect teeth. He pulled her close and hoisted her up effortlessly, making her giggle as her legs automatically wrapped around his waist. He crossed the room in hurried strides, reaching the couch and pulling a cushion into place as he laid her down. She shifted back against it, making herself comfortable, pressing her lips together as she took in the full sight of it. The amber lighting of the room shined across his skin, bathing him in a golden light as it bounced off the hard lines of muscle. She felt her walls clench around nothing in anticipation of having him again.
âGot any of the good stuff lying around?â he asked, hovering over her as he pecked her lips.
She turned her head and tipped her chin towards the coffee table, his eyes following her gesture to the small black box kept on top of it. He reached over and opened it, smirking as saw a few different selections, but immediately grasping the small baggie of white powder between his fingers. He looked down at her as he opened it, shifting on the couch so he was closer to her. She frowned as she watched him, but as he tapped a line across her chest she found herself biting her lip. Their eyes met briefly as he leaned down, that shit-eating grin plastered across his features before he dragged his nose across, taking the line in one quick inhale. She moaned softly, unable to tear eyes away from him.
âFuck, itâs even better off you, doll,â he smirked, making another line down her breast.
He repeated the action with the opposite nostril, ending it with a lick over her nipple which caused her to squeal at the tickling sensation, pushing him lightly as she giggled.
âYour turn,â he said, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively as he held the coke out to her.
She pushed herself up into a sitting position, taking it from him as her eyes dropped down to his cock. He was so hard, the tip a deep pink as it leaked precum and made her mouth fill with saliva at the mere sight. She moved forward, tapping out a line of the substance over the thick vein that ran along the length of his shaft, looking up at him through her lashes before she snorted the whole line. He groaned as he watched her, throwing his head back as she sucked at the head, swirling her tongue around it. She pulled back to take another quick bump off his length, smiling devilishly as she took him into her mouth again. She bobbed her head back and forth, licking around the tip every time she came up, moaning around him.
âThis fucking mouth is gonna be the death of me,â he husked, jaw clenching as he gazed down at her. âAlmost as much as that diamond pussy of yoursâŠâ
His right hand slipped into her hair, fingers gripping the strands tight and tugging hard, pulling her back from his cock. She gasped, peering up at him as a small chuckle bubbled up from her throat. The thumb of his other hand pushed her chin down, opening her mouth as he bent over, gathering saliva in his mouth and spitting it onto her waiting tongue. She moaned wantonly as she felt it, her head automatically being jerked back down to take his cock between her lips again. He grunted with each thrust into her throat, the sound matching the soft glugging noise coming from her, her own saliva collecting at the sides of her mouth. He gathered her hair into a ponytail before he pulled her head back, a harsh gasp leaving as her lungs burned, air filling them once again.
âFuck me,â she breathed, her voice wavering desperately. âBen, I-I n-need you to fuck me again.â
He chuckled maliciously, his fingers sliding across her face before they cupped under her jaw, squeezing her cheeks together. âCanât get enough of this dick, huh?â
âNo,â she managed to get out between squished lips.
Ben pushed Y/Nâs shoulder, making her drop back on the couch, her head landing on the cushion again. He shifted closer to her as he took hold of his cock, smacking the head against her folds before sliding the length over them. She moaned softly, trying to catch a glimpse of what he was doing as she stared down the line of her body.
âLook at me, Y/N,â he stated, one side of his lips pulling up when she did. âTell me how fucking bad you want this cock inside your pussy again. Beg me for it.â
A distressed hum left her as she clung to his shoulders, her fingers digging into his muscles. âBen, please, I need it. I need it so bad, give it to meâŠâ
He spread her legs further apart, continuing his torturous actions as he teased her wet heat with his shaft. âYou gotta do better than that if you want me to give it to you again, doll.â
âJust fuck me, you son of a bitch,â she growled in frustration.
He drew back, his eyes darkened as a devilish smirk appeared on his face. His hand replaced his cock over her folds, coming down to strike her hard over her swollen nub. She screamed at the sting, but her eyes fluttered closed as it gave way to a blissful sensation. Her arms fell back over the arm rest, head tucked into the crook as her lips pressed into her skin. He struck her again, a shrieking moan escaping her as she bit down on the flesh of her bicep, chest heaving with deep breaths.
âYou know you gotta ask nice, Y/N,â he ordered, leaning over her with his arms caging her in.
She breathed heavily as she turned her head, eyes reflecting the frenzy of everything she wanted. âPlease, please Ben, fuck me. Fuck me hard, wanna feel that big dick stretching me open, filling me up. Please.â
âNow weâre getting somewhere,â he muttered, staring down into her eyes. His cock throbbed with every word she spoke, lining up to her entrance as he settled between her thighs. âThis the cock you want, sugar? No one elseâs, huh?â
She shook her head, meeting his piercing gaze. âNo oneâs⊠just-oh god!â
Her eyes widened as he slammed into her in one full thrust. Her words and her breath were cut short by the stretch, one of her hands leaving the arm rest to wrap around his neck, fingers combing into his locks. He groaned, feeling her walls instantly clench around him again, completely accustomed to him by now and making him feel a sense of pride. He leaned in further, lips brushing against hers as he remained still with her.
âJust what, huh?â he asked, his voice deep and husky as their gazes were locked on each other.
âJust want⊠just want your big cock fucking my filthy little snatch,â she begged, wantonly.
âOh, fuck,â he chuckled, partly in amusement but also at the fact those words coming from her aroused him in a way he never thought possible. He nipped at her bottom lip, wiggling his eyebrows lewdly. âGuess I rubbed off on ya, huh?â
She couldnât stop the urge to roll her eyes. âYouâre so fucking gross.â
He slowly began to shift against her, his cock drawing back before moving in, teasing her once more. âReally? If Iâm so fucking gross then maybe I put a stop to thisâŠâ
âDonât you fucking stop,â she snapped, fingers practically ripping his hair as they gripped the strands hard.
He guffawed, the sound turning into a deep growl as she tugged at his locks. The brief interlude to tease her had been enough of the slowness, his hips not missing the beat as he thrusted into her harder, a loud moan falling from her lips. Her breath was caught in her throat as the glide of his cock within her was instantly too much, the pace hard and fast, exactly the way they both preferred it to be. Her walls stretched completely around his girth, a light sting that added to the pleasure of it all, as he slammed into her and pressed right up against her cervix. She threw her head back, mouth hung open as she cried out, practically feeling him in her stomach. The sound reached her ears as it bounced off the walls, as it did the wet slap of his pelvis against her thighs, adding to the cacophony of their rapturous fucking. It was a sensation that no one had been able to give her, not in her entire lifetime of performing the euphoric act. No one but Ben.
And he certainly didnât expect to feel the same way. His head tipped back briefly, relishing the feel of her walls gripped around him like a vice, the veins in his neck straining against the skin. All the women, from countless backgrounds over the decades⊠they really had nothing on her. He looked back down at her, watching her eyes flutter as she struggled to keep them open, and he knew with the utmost confidence that it wasnât an exaggeration. He knew she could hold her own against him, could give it back to him if needed, so if she was willing to put up with an asshole like himâŠ
She really was something fucking special.
Christ on a Cross, Iâm fucking in love with her.
âGod, youâre so fucking beautiful,â he groaned, cupping her cheek.
She closed her eyes briefly, an incredulous giggle leaving her. âYouâre just saying that âcause youâre fucking me right now.â
His hand wrapped around the back of her neck, and firmly jerked it up to make her look up at him. His gaze was unwavering, his jaw tight as he continued to pound into her in hard thrusts, despite the softness in his eyes.
âFar from the only time youâre beautiful, dollâŠâ
With that, he picked up the pace into the most overwhelming rhythm. Short, deep, fast thrusts that she could barely form coherent thoughts around, her hand on the arm of the chair fisting the fabric. Her other hand slid down his muscular back, her fingertips glowing with embers and searing the skin, making a sharp grunt fall from his mouth as it all healed as quickly as it burned. They continued to look into each otherâs eyes, both of their pupils dilated from the drug working through their systems, amplifying their need. Her whole body quaked from the sheer force of his thrusts, her breast swaying, their skin rippling as their bodies clapped against each other. The sounds that came from them and echoed around the room were downright animalistic, a feralness to the act that she hadnât experienced before.
They were completely ravenous for each other, and she never wanted it to end.
âOh, fuck! Ben, yes!â she screamed, back arching as her toes curled from everything he was making her feel. âR-Right there, donât stop⊠donât fucking stop, p-please!â
âWouldnât dream of it, sugar,â he muttered, the words fanning over her lips. âAlready know youâre gonna cum so fucking hard for me. Want your little party trick soaking this couch, want it gushing everywhere, you got it?â
Before she could say anything, he closed the gap between them and kissed her, hungrily. It was all teeth and sucking, swollen and bruised lips refusing to separate more than an inch. Her hand moved from his back and gripped his pert ass, tight. The hand that clenched the arm rest held on for dear life, using the leverage to meet his thrusts. Her core tightened, the tingling sensation burning hot at that point, feeling it just beneath the surface along with the pressure of his cock pummeling harder into her. She reluctantly ripped her mouth away from his, gasping for breath as she stared up at him, her third orgasm of the evening building up faster than she was ready for.
âYouâre fucking close, arenât ya, baby?â he smirked, his hand skimming down the length of her body. âFucking shit, I wanna see you lose it, Y/N. Let me see you lose it on this dickâŠâ
âBen, oh my god!â she shrieked, throwing her head back.
His fingers found her throbbing clit, circling it with sure fingers. Her hand left the arm rest behind her, slapping over the back of his neck as a continuous line of screams left her. His pelvis smacked against her repeatedly, relentlessly, sweat beading on their skin as the inevitable happened, her eyes rolling back as he fucked her open so raw in tandem with his deft fingers.
âThere she is,â he observed, his voice a velvety husk as it trembled with his thrusts. âThatâs it, doll, go dumb on it⊠go dumb on my fucking cock.â
Y/N felt herself slipping fast, vaguely comprehending his fingers working faster on her swollen nub. She could no longer process anything, far too overwhelmed by everything she was feeling. That familiar pressure was at the precipice now, and with another swipe of his fingers along with a deep slam of his shaft into her, her vision blurred as she screamed. She wasnât sure if she heard his words, a muffled âcum for meâ making it past the barrier, but her body naturally reacted to his command. The release came in an overpowering wave, so strong that his cock slipped out of her, her juices flowing out of her in a steady rush. It all slipped over the couch, some of it on him as he marvelled at the sight.
âFuck,â he chuckled, amazed as he smoothed a hand down her thigh. âI swear Iâm gonna keep you over hydrated just to do this every fucking day.â
She breathed heavily, her breasts heaving as she came down from her high, a small smile pulling at her lips as she registered what he said. God help her, she might die from it but what a way to go. She let out a small whine as he pressed his cock into her overstimulated pussy, filling her up once more. He resumed the same pace as before, her limp body immediately reacting as she gripped onto his shoulders. His gaze locked on hers, the smirk never leaving his face as he continued to slam into her, hoping to get another release out of her as he also chased his own.
âYou gonna give me another, Y/N?â he asked, his voice raspy.
She shook her head, tears brimming at her waterline. âI-I canât-â
âWhat did I say about that word, huh?â he warned, clicking his tongue. âCome on, doll, give me one more and Iâll give you this big load youâre so desperate for, come onâŠâ
His hips shifted against hers in long, hard drags as he grunted, the power it took slowly depleting. The rhythm faltered as he felt his cock pulsing inside her, her walls contracting around him again, ready to fall over the edge with him. His fingers moved down to the bundle of nerves, working them over in fast circles, causing a sobbing moan to escape her as she felt the dam burst once more. A few tears rolled down her cheeks, but the tired smile that split her lips told him she was more than okay, as he leaned in and licked the salty substance off her jaw.
âOh, fuck⊠fucking shit, doll, youâre-youâre gonna make me-â
Ben threw his head back, his neck straining and a strangled grunt pushing up from his throat as he felt his cock throb. He groaned as he felt all his muscles relax, ropes of seed spilling out of him and coating her walls. She moaned softly as she felt him filling up, biting her lip when she realized he wasnât lying about a big load; more spurts of his cum rolling deeper into her continuously. Once he gave her everything he had to give, his spent cock pulled out of her, but he made no effort to move off her.
In fact, her legs wrapped tighter around his hips and kept him in place, her arms around his neck as she pulled him close. His large hand came up and brushed her soaked strands away from her forehead, both of them surprised to have worked up such a sweat. It didnât happen often being a supe, but something about it made her feel giddy inside.
âYouâre⊠youâre never fucking teasing me like that again,â she stated through harsh breaths.
He chuckled, shaking his head as he narrowed his eyes. âInteresting that you think you can tell me what to do.â
âWell, maybe you should see what it feels like,â she challenged, lifting an eyebrow.
âOh, you wouldnât get the fucking chance, sugar,â he husked against her lips, nipping the bottom one. âIâll make you a weeping mess in no time and you fucking know it.â
She grabbed onto either side of his face and brought him down, kissing him roughly as her thighs squeezed around him. She never wanted to let go.
âI guess I better give you a breather, but let me tell ya now, doll,â he said, smirking down at her. âYou better be ready for me to fuck you all night long.â
âYouâre incorrigible,â she whispered, a small giggle leaving her as he pinched her side.
He grinned. âYou fucking love itâŠâ
Yeah, she thought as she stared up into his stunning green eyes, ready to only admit it to herself at that moment, I really do.
It was the early hours of the morning, well past midnight. Y/N wasnât sure, but it was possibly closer to 3AM if she was keeping track of the time. Which she most definitely wasnât.
How could she when Ben had made good on his promise of fucking her all night. At some point they had moved from the couch to the floor, with more room for both of them. The coffee table had been pushed to the side, cushions and blankets covering the luxurious rug that provided comfort from the hardwood floors. The fireplace was on, the crackling low and soothing as the reflection of the fire danced across their undulating bodies.
She was on her side facing the fire, his chest pressed up against her back as he held her legs open, one thigh in his tight grip as his hips rolled against her from behind. Her arm was wrapped back around him, fingers tugging at his locks as he kissed along her neck. His other hand snaked under her body, coming up to curl over her throat, adding a firm pressure that had her moaning loudly. The hand on her thigh slipped down further, moving past the thatch of curls and finding her clit. His fingers rubbed hard circles over it, working in unison with the way his cock was splitting her open.
âBen,â she whimpered, turning her head to look back at him, pulling on his hair. âFuck me harder, please⊠I-I need it.â
He leaned in, kissing her breathlessly, hot breath fanning over lips as he pulled away. âI know what you need, doll. Donât gotta tell me twiceâŠâ
The rhythm of his thrusts changed from long, hard rolls to short, hard and fast slaps of his pelvis against her ass. His fingers circled faster too, wanting her to reach that blissful peak quickly. Maybe it was the position, maybe it was the way his hand at her throat, at her clit and his cock all worked in tandem, but it wasnât much longer before she felt herself falling over the edge. She squeezed her eyes shut, a shout of name on her lips as her wetness covered his shaft. Her orgasm prompted his, slamming into her a few more times before he let out a low growl, spilling deep inside her. He had no idea how many times he had by then, but he fulfilled her request of keeping her full of him.
He pulled out of her slowly, a hiss leaving her at the soreness between her thighs, but it was far from a complaint. He turned onto his back, glancing at her as she did the same. As they came down from their high, they breathed heavily as he settled back against the pillows and pulled the blanket over them. She softly rested her head on his chest, her fingers lightly running over his skin, making odd shapes as he pulled her closer into his side. He shifted up slightly and reached over to the coffee table, picking up the pack of her regular cigarettes. He brought the pack to his mouth, his lips closing over the filter of one and slipping it out of the pack. Without any prompting, she moved her hand up and clicked her fingers, the small flame between them burning the end of the cigarette. He took a long drag, blowing out the smoke in small rings between his pursed lips, making her laugh lightly. She poked each of them as they disappeared, accepting the cigarette from him.Â
âSo, Colombia, huh?â she asked, taking a pull before passing it back to him.
âYep. As much of this as we want,â he replied, scrubbing the residue of coke off his hand. His eyes glanced down the length of her body as he brought the cigarette to his lips, taking a long pull. He reached around her, his hand coming down in a hard smack, making her yelp. âAnd as much of this as I want.â
She turned onto her stomach, narrowing her eyes playfully. âNot sure how I feel about sharing your cock with another woman.â
âDonât get fucking possessive, doll. You know your pussyâs the only one that gets me at a full salute in three seconds flat,â he stated, handing the cigarette back to her with a smirk.
âGuess I can make an exception if I get to partake too,â she reasoned, taking a drag before resting the cigarette on the ashtray.
He clicked his tongue, placing an arm behind his head as he looked at her. âSorry, sugar. Afraid I canât allow that.â
âDouble standards, much?â she scoffed, but she was far from offended. It was just another layer to their banter.
âThose are the terms, baby. We already established that little cooch ainât taking any dick but mine,â he said, stroking his hand up and down her arm.
She bit her lip as she slowly leaned in, her lips brushing against his in a whisper. âWho said anything about dick?â
âFuck,â he husked, his grin widening. âNow that Iâd like to see.â
She punched his shoulder, letting out a shriek as he grabbed her wrist and pulled her on top of him. She cackled as he leaned in, sucking a wet kiss onto her neck, nipping at the same spot. She couldnât stop as he continued, purposely running his jaw along her skin, his beard scratching and tickling her.
âBen! Oh my god, stop!â she laughed, trying to push him away.
He grinned when she finally succeeded, punching him lightly again before she sat up, throwing the blanket off. She stood up carefully, her legs weak from all their rigorous activity and made her way out of the living room.
He frowned, leaning up on his elbows as he watched her naked form retreat. âHey, get that gorgeous ass back in here!â
âHold on!â
His brows furrowed as he heard her rummaging around in her cabinets, wrappers crackling, glasses clinking. He sat up properly, leaning his elbows on his bent knees, glancing around her living area. He lifted his eyebrows in surprise at the large flat screen and some of the other things his vintage tastes couldnât really figure out, until his sight landed on something he could definitely get on board with. He stood up, walking over to the record player in the corner, sitting on top of angled shelves housing all of Y/Nâs records. As he heard her still looking for things in her cabinets, he crouched down to flip through them, trying to find something that might feel familiar.
âFucking jackpot,â he muttered, pulling out a Sinatra record and looking at the back of it. He smirked as he straightened up, opening the top of the player and sliding the vinyl out. He placed it on the deck, lifting the needle into it and waited for the soft croon. âNow, thatâs what Iâm talkinâ aboutâŠâ
Y/N walked out of the kitchen, her arms full with two packets of potato chips, Oreos, a bottle of whiskey and two glasses precariously squeezed between her fingers. She blinked a few times in surprise as she heard the familiar opening notes of âIt Had To Be Youâ by Frank Sinatra, slowly sauntering into the living room to see Ben settle back on the floor, sitting back against the couch this time. She didnât even remember she had this record, but as she stepped closer to him, she felt her heart beating faster as saw his eyes closed with a small smile pulling at his lips.
âIsnât this a little cheesy for you?â she asked, unable to resist teasing him.
He clicked his tongue as he looked up at her, shaking his head. âNot cheesy. Classic.â
She settled down next to him, placing everything in her hands down between them. She picked up the bottle of whiskey, pouring a generous amount into each tumbler, before picking them both up. She watched as he took the cigarette from the ashtray and brought it to his lips, taking another puff, handing over one glass to him. They clinked their glasses together, each taking a sip. He took the glass in his left hand that had the cigarette pinched between his fingers, his right arm free to wrap around her. She leaned into him, neither saying a word as they listened to old Frank serenade them.
âDid you know him?â she asked, curious about a past that only he knew was familiar with.
He nodded, snorting a small laugh. âThe guy really knew how to throw a party.â
âWow,â she whispered, taking a sip of her drink as they fell quiet again.
As the song continued, she felt at ease, almost like she had slipped into a dream. Just when she was about to chastise herself for the ridiculous notion, his large hand curled over hers, lacing their fingers together. Her eyes widened as she glanced down at their joined hands briefly, looking back at him to see him gazing back at her. She shifted closer to him, leaning her forehead against his. She closed her eyes, relishing the rare display of affection from him, his nose nuzzling against hers as his thumb lightly stroked over her knuckles.
Ben tilted his head and pressed his lips to hers in a searing kiss, the kind that held more truth than words ever could. The kind that solidified something without having to say it out loud. Slowly, she pulled away but kept her gaze on him, her lips pressing together as her eyes darkened. She felt a wetness trickle down her thigh, causing her to bite her lip. She almost didnât want to say anything and ruin this rare moment, but if anything, she knew heâd appreciate it even more. He looked at her with furrowed brows, unsure of the sudden change.
âYouâre dripping out of me,â she rasped, pressing her thighs together.
His expression morphed as he grinned at her, one of his hands sliding down her torso and between her thighs, making her open them again. He groaned, feeling his cum between her folds. He brought his fingers up for her to see, the creamy white substance leaving her salivating.
âFuck me, doll,â he husked, watching it run down his digits. âOpen upâŠâ
Without further instruction, she dropped her jaw and stuck her tongue out, allowing him to push his fingers in, her mouth closing around them. She softly sucked their shared juices off his skin, his eyes transfixed as he saw how greedily she took the offering. He pulled them back with wet pop, seeing them completely licked clean. Their eyes locked as she gulped hard, smiling mischievously as she swallowed it down.
âShow me,â his rough voice ordered.
She opened her mouth, showing him that it was empty.
He smirked. âGood girl.â
She hummed, loving the warm feeling his praise gave her. She leaned into him, her hand stroking up and down his chest. âSo, this is how youâre gonna spend an eternity?â
âCanât think of a better way,â he replied, taking a sip of his drink. âAnd youâre gonna spend it the same way, if I got anything to do with it.â
She sighed. âBen, Thereâs no more V1.â
âIf there was one dose, thereâs gotta be another,â he stated, firmly as he looked directly into her eyes. âWorth a shot, right?â
âRight,â she nodded, even if she wasnât sure that it was possible.
He cupped her cheek in his solid grip, bringing her in to fuse their lips together, the embrace slow but passionate. She sucked in a deep breath through her nose, her breasts pressing into his chest as she moved closer to him. They had created a little bubble for themselves in this post-Homelander world, and neither one of them was ready to leave it any time soon. Theyâd wait a few days for things to blow over with Vought, before silently taking their leave and heading to Bogota. If anyone had told her decades ago that she would end up here, in the arms of Soldier Boy, she wouldâve laughed in their face. Hell, she probably wouldâve done that even just a few weeks ago despite them reuniting again. As the kiss deepened, their mouths moving rougher against each other, she could barely believe that this man was talking about spending eternity with her.
But she did believe it. Just as something had changed in her, something had changed in him. They may never say it aloud to each other, and that was okay. She felt it. That was more than enough.
âThatâs it.â He abruptly stopped the kiss, placing their glasses on the table and stubbing out the cigarette. He grabbed her by her hips roughly, turning her around. âIâm cuttinâ this sap fest short. Youâre due for a refill...â
She laughed at his choice of words as he playfully tackled her to the floor, causing her to let out a squeal. She pulled him down on top of her as she laid back on the cushions, the kiss resuming once more as she wrapped her legs around him, ready to take whatever he was about to give her.
If a lifetime is what they had to spend together, then at least there would never be a dull moment.
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Ch 1: The Precursory
Read on AO3 || Series Masterlist
Pairing: Dean Winchester x f!rReader
the placenta effect (pla-cen-ta ef-fect), n, a phenomenon in which the mental health of non-committed partners decreases due to inept compliance with at-home pregnancy tests; this can lead to additional delayed or secondary results that negatively affect their physical health, emotional wellbeing, other relationships, employment and personal growth; individuals partaking in the family business should proceed with caution
Tags/Warnings: explicit | smut, angst, fluff & hurt/comfort | friends with benefits | friends to lovers | idiots in love | pining | unplanned pregnancy (pregnancy test, early stages) | monster of the week - vampires | case fic | non-linear narrative | POV Dean Winchester, incl. Dean being a dumbass | 18+only MDNI | chapter word count: 2590
A/N: Chapter one of my @storytellers-contest âs The Jensen Ackles Chronicles. Competition Entry. Beta'd by @kblognar
ONE || TWO || THREE || FOUR || FIVE
precursory (pre-cur-sory), a, dictionaries define a precursory as something coming before something else; in regards to the placenta effect, this is often the event that triggers two individuals, often friends, into becoming non-committed partners
If you had said to Dean that the journey to point B was longer than the one back to point A, he wouldâve agreed with you. Thereâs an excitement in the unknowing, no matter the path you take.Â
It could be physical, it could be emotional, it could even be spiritualâor psychic, which it was in Deanâs case. At least, thatâs how it all started. Dean, you, Jody, Missouri, and her deceased friend Dedeâs quaint little store in Omaha.Â
Though she shouldnât have, âCome on,â Dean said to Missouri, once sheâd thanked him, raising his hands to her and flapping them for one last hug before the three of you hit the road.Â
Buckhead. It sounded more like you were hitting Texas in search of Beavis over somewhere in Georgia. But Missouriâs eyes hardened on him, and that thought went out the window, along with his pride.Â
How could he even joke like that? Missouri was hurting. Dean knew how serious this was. She was family, and that made James and her granddaughter Patience his family, too, and top priority. He needed to protect them, as heâd set out to do when he left the bunker that morning.
So with the strings of Dedeâs beaded curtain still casting their purple haze over his face, and the incense in the air, burning his lungs and eyes, Dean wrapped his arms âround Missouri, and drew her in tight until her bulky necklace dug a hole into his chest.
She squeezed him just as hard. Didnât let him go when he pulled back to say his goodbyes. Her hands moved to his upper arms and gripped him that much harder. Those eyes of hers, more stubborn than his ever were, latched onto him in a death grip as she reached deep into his soul.Â
âDean Winchester.â The rise in the first two syllables of his name held a slight in her tone he couldnât quite understand during the second rendition.Â
He expected her to tell him to hurry. To floor it down the interstate. But those same eyes flicked over you, already out the door with Jody, waiting for him. They softenedâshe smiled like sheâd watched over you her entire life.
It disappeared when they fell back on him again; however, âYouâve had some great losses. Donât you lose her, too,â she said.
All Dean could do was protest. At least he tried to. Typically, Missouri knew it.Â
He opened his mouth to tell her he wouldnât, because of course, he wouldnât. You were family, too. She shook her head and doubled down before his throat had even formed the words.Â
âI mean it. She deserves a man who treats her right. Not one that leaves her out in the cold.â
He wasnât planning on leaving you anywhere. As far as deserving a man who treated you right? Well, he wanted that for you too, he supposed. Wasnât his business. He licked his lips and fluttered his lashes like heâd misunderstood her that time. âLucky weâre just partners then.â Youâd whip his ass if he tried to pull anything on or in you. Â
Missouri frowned. âNo.â She grabbed his right ear and tugged hard enough to make his head lower to her level. âYou look out for her. Even when you feel sheâs done you wrong, you donât let her go.â
She patted his cheek like nothing had happened, glare turning into a warm smile when she tilted her chin. âYouâre a good man, Dean Winchester. Remember that.â
AndâŠwellâŠthatâŠ
His grin reached the crowns of his cheeks, but he hid it by tilting his own chin downward. Arms, letting go of her, shoved his hands deep into his pockets before the moment turned any softer. âMissouri.â He practically bowed. âAlways good to see you.âÂ
And with that, he slinked away, taking his leave towards you and Jody. Missouriâs words clinging to him like sheâd poured milk in his coffee for the first time in years and heâd found the taste much sweeter than he remembered.Â
It sure was new. The conceptâŠinteresting. Not that heâd thought about you like that, because he hadnât. Not really. WellâŠonly in the instances when his body dutifully reminded him you were indeed a woman, and had the parts that made his engine tick.Â
But thanks to Missouriâs words, there were a few extra points on the journey home from Buckhead that stirred the melting pot. It came to a head when you arrived back at Dedeâs shop two days later. Your every movement, word, and the aromas that surrounded you took every piece of his attention.
Jody was closing the door behind her as you slunk into the passenger seat from the back. âThanks for the ride.â She leant on the open window, ducking her head down to see you better.Â
âOâcourse.â Dean swiped his own to the side. Heâd never leave Jody stranded back in Georgia. Not after Samâd called her out here how he had. âYou gonna stop over, or you need us to follow you outta town?â he asked, regretting it as soon as he had. Up close and next to him, whatever fruit-scented concoction youâd last used throughout the day was bleeding into his air again.Â
He knew he didnât have the patience of a saint, but if she said yes to his offer, he needed to find it, and quick, because you were confused and shooting him a narrow stare.Â
Though it failed to compare to the longer exchanges of stifled grins youâd been giving him through the rearview, thankfully, Jody shook her head. âI think Iâm going to drop in on Claire,â she said in that motherly way of hers. Even under their low coverage, the street lamps dusted her face with a warm glow.Â
âWell, send her our love.â You patted her arm, and with one last wave, Dean pulled Baby out of the lot and onto the main drag outta Omaha. The bunker was only three hours away, give or take, and he was in a rush to get her somewhere.
His eyes flicked between you and the road a few times. Heâd been a cocky son of a bitch that morning, but heâd been in his element then. Already under the sheets with you.Â
âWhat about you? You good to keep going?â His right hand moved to the vinyl between you, waiting to see what youâd do.Â
He could drive this path one handed if he had to. Eyes closed, or on you, didnât matter. He knew that road like the scars on his hands, and right now he wanted to trace them over you.
If he thought the effects of Bevillâs blood purifying spell were catching up with him, since the motel, earlier that day in Memphis, his pipes were buckling under pressure. His balls, the bluest theyâd ever been after any of his virginity losses, and nothing, nothing, felt innocent anymore when those exchanges in the rearview had also tested his jaw and the flexibility of his wrist.
While you slid that bit closer to him, brushing your thigh against his fingers, much to his disappointment, âIâm good,â you said. Though you did push his Zeppelin tape back into the deck.
âWoman after my heart,â he muttered.
âI like to please.â The same smile youâd been giving him all day flashed across your cheeks.Â
YeahâŠyou liked to please, alright.
You both settled into a comfortable silence after that as he drove through the last of the cityâs outer limits, not taking long for Baby to ease onto the highway once he got her there. Your lips were mouthing to Levee when Dean opened up her throttle. The roar of her engine suited him just fine, even though his two weeks continued rolling through the back of his mind.
It didnât help that there was a pounding in his chest each time he felt you shift next to him that went against the grain and straight to his groin, either. He had to remind himself that it was nothing. That it wasnât on purpose, because he was running out of ways to get his blood moving. There were only so many positions he could shift his foot on the gasâÂ
âYou think Patienceâll stay out of it?â he asked to break his thoughts.
âDunno.â You considered him longer than he expected you would. The way your finger and thumb ran across your mouth and puckered your lower lip had to be purposeful, âcause it sure backfired on his resolve. âSeems like a waste not to use her gift,â you said.
âHer dad doesnât think so.â And Dean couldnât believe he was siding with James on that, but heâd meant what heâd said to her. There was no joy in hunting monsters. She was better off in calculus and normal, even if Dean didnât see that for himself anymore.
âAnd he didnât pull out those gems when he was desperate?â You clicked your tongue. Dean supposed it was fitting for Missouriâs sake.Â
Holding the family legacy. Helping people the way the Mosley matriarch had done. âNoticed Jody slipped her a card.â
âYeah?â
âSeems everyoneâs fishing for kids now.â He shook his head. Unlike his âwoman after his heartâ comment, he didnât mean for you to take it as seriously as you did.Â
âYou jealous?â And thatâs when you chose to look at him? Because you looked at him like Missouri had done, reaching into his soul, trying to find meaning in something that wasnât there.Â
âNo.â Just because Patience had people âround looking out for her didnât mean he wanted to change his past. Though even he could recognise he was way too defensive with the word.
âYou sure about that?â He nodded, but he wasnât expecting the judgemental scoff that came next. âBecause Jack needs our help, too yâknow,â you said, andâŠwaitâŠwaitâŠ
âWhat?â Luciferâs spawn? Deanâs face screwed up, only for him to blink his way out of it, spluttering a reply he never thought heâd have to say to you of all people. âThat kid needs to be locked in a box and dumped in the ocean.â At least until Dean could find a way to gank him.
âSam thinks heâs innocent,â you whispered, and Dean pulled his right hand, still close to you on the bench and waiting for contact the entire time, away and up to the wheel, curling his fingers tight over the leather.
âHeâs already killed three people.âÂ
âAnd one of them was his mom.âÂ
Your eyes fixed on him again, but Dean refused to look back at you. That just made it worse.
Even when your palm came down to his thigh and squeezed the taut muscle there like youâd done many times of late, he continued to focus on the road and the slow rhythm of Dazed and Confusedâs baseline.Â
Wanted a woman; never bargained for you. The lyrics never felt truer to him than they did now. But as Plant spoke to him through the music; you continued to speak to him in real time. Something about the year being a shit show and things looking up. Dean didnât care.
He huffed and rolled his eyes at the sentiment. He didnât appreciate the kind words no matter how hard you tried until your hand caught his attention by moving higher up his thigh. âLeast, they were.â You squeezed him again.
If that werenât an innuendo or an advance on his interest, he was better off a virginâthere was no way anyone could misconstrue that. Your hand was heading somewhere. Your fingers curved âround the shape of his leg. Dipped into his nether regions. Your fingertips slid up further into that junction his jeans made when he sat down and the fabric billowed.
âWoah.â He swallowedâchuckled even, because heâd been flirting with you all day. Now it was all too real.Â
And when you said his name? The way it rolled off your tongue, sank straight into his gut, where his balls somehow connected, awakened, tingling and warm.Â
âYou asked me if I wanted to keep going.â You said it like he didnât understand what you were doing. Not in that fake way a lot of his previous one-night-stands used on him. No, you played it like you were in control. The same woman heâd known for years, who hustled pool and knew how to wield a blade, coming onto him, all confident and comfortable in her skin.Â
âWellâI wanna keep going.â Your hand moved over him. Fingers curled down and âround, thankfully not as firm as heâd been with the wheel just now.Â
They stroked over the thick layer covering him in much the same way heâd be touching you if he werenât hurtling Baby down the interstate.Â
His eyes snapped to yours, flicking between you and the road for as long as it was safe to do so. âYou sure about this?â Because his dick was betraying him, awakening with an obvious yes, you only had to look down and see.Â
His head, however? The one up top that mattered was hesitant. Like you were confusing him with all that talk of Jack and Kelly Kline.Â
Jamie. The Carmelita. Technically, like you with his morning wood, heâd come onto them first, but they werenât friends in the sense that he knew you. That he considered you family and them, flashes from the scarce headlights of the scarcer lit highway. Maybe it was a good thing Jody had been there last night and all day?Â
Though what the hell was going on with his inhibitions? Heâd been wanting you alone, and here you were. You pressed your body against him. Your other hand, not stroking him, came to his neck with your sweet, sweet mouth. If his blood hadnât already rushed south yet, it was sprinting down his veins to the finish line.
He felt himself twitch. He sure as hell felt your hand twitch in response, moving to cover more of him. To put pressure on and trace the outline of his hardening length.Â
âSo is that your gun?â you whispered into his ear. âCause I think you told me youâd let me see it this time.â
And that did it. That was all it took. Deanâs resolve gone, his charming, slack-jaw ways replacing it with a sudden onslaught of a southern drawl he hadnât quite meant to use.Â
âSâhappy to see you, darlinâ,â he said. His own hand dropped to your thigh and tucked his fingers nice and close to where he wanted to be.
âYeah?â You nibbled under his jaw with soft, but purposeful kisses as he searched for somewhere to pull off the second he was able. You were on him the next.Â
Your jacket removed, your leg thrown over his lap to straddle him. He pulled your core flush against him, moaning as your lips came down on his for the first time. Plush and full of warmth and life; clear in their intentions. You were as receptive to him as any other partner heâd had in the past.Â
Sensual, sexual, it felt way too damn good for someone he was supposed to care about, and maybe thatâs why it did? Â
But it didnât stop there. Nope. Far from it. You became an outlet. He used you; you used him. Like Bob Seiger once said, neither one of you cared, because you didnât seem to have as much to loseâback then.
A/N: Itâs been a while since I posted something. Hopefully, this is a nice comeback as I'm rather proud of this work. Tomorrow's chapter get's us into the non-linear side of things at a little over 10kâŠ. Prepare for more smut, and the start of the case this story centres around! Until then â€ïž
Summary: While on a witch hunt you watch your husband, Dean die. When strange things start to happen around the bunker Sam, tries to convince you that it's partially grief, but you start to think something else is up. Did Dean follow you back to the bunker as a ghost, or is something else happening?
Characters: Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester, Eileen Leahy, Jody Mills, Donna Hanscum, Claire Novak, Alex Jones, Robert Winchester (OMC), Regina Winchester (OFC), Mary Jean Winchester (OFC), reader Y/N "Tally" Winchester
A/N: This fic was written for the @storytellers-contest-tjac
If you enjoy this fic or any others that you find on this wretched site please reblog so others can have the chance to see it too!
A/N 2: The cover image for this fic was created with 3 edited screenshots I took while watching the show plus common use images found on Canva.
A/N 3: Last but not least I want to thank my Alpha reader @mysticdeliciouskitty and my Beta reader @deans-baby-momma You two helped reign me in, keep my POV and grammar in line... THANK YOU bunches!!!
When the next month rolled around I'd had at least a week of moved papers, coffee mugs, and even my laptop. I finally started to notice a pattern - good nights, or the nights that Dean came to me in my dreams I would feel good and not misplace things.
Bad nights happened after something had been misplaced and was followed by a completely normal day without any lost items but usually followed by a second bad night.
I was sitting in the library trying to piece it all together when Sam entered and settled in his usual spot - a pencil rolled off the table.
"Did you do that?" we both asked.
"It was out of my reach," I pointed out as I studied the pencil and where it had been. I even got up from my seat and placed it back in the original position - it didn't move. So I blew on it, fanned it with some paper, and lastly I attempted to walk past it and create a breeze that would make it roll - nothing happened!
The moment I sat down and went back to my task, that damn pencil rolled away.
Sam and I stared at each other for several beats before he called out, "Is there someone here with us?"
"It's a warded magical bunker - nothing is here with us Sam."
He leveled a stare in my direction, "Yeah, and the floor isn't slanted so why is this pencil rolling around suddenly?"
"I don't know but the bunker isn't haunted," I scoffed. "Maybe it was an earthquake."
"It's not."
"And how would you know, Samuel?"
"Because we have all kinds of sensors and alarms in this place and since earthquakes are one of the signs of the Apocalypse that's tracked," he paused, "Have you heard any alarms going off today?"
"No, but you don't have to be such a smart-ass about it."
I knew deep down it couldn't be but for a split second I swore I heard and felt Dean laugh - that full-body happy laugh that I missed so much the past few months.
That was when a niggle of a thought tried to poke into my brain - but I pushed it away - I wanted Dean back but not as a ghost.
I ignored the obvious fact - on purpose - burning whatever was tethering Dean and keeping him from moving on would be the final nail in the proverbial coffin - he'd be gone forever. Although at some point he could become vengeful and then we'd have to cross that bridge.
'Nope it has to be a coincidence - I've been stressed and lost in my grief.'
Dean's POV
I watched her face go through about a thousand emotions before coming to rest at the most neutral expression she could muster.
I wondered if my laughter had caught her - had she felt or heard it? Was she realizing that she had a ghost following her? Would she finally do the right thing and burn my belongings?
I also wondered what exactly it was that was holding me here - if we still had Bobby's flask I'd assume it was that but I never thought I'd be that attached to anything for it to tether me - well shit, there might be one thingâŠ
The thought of her having to burn Baby made my gut churn but if that's what it took to keep her and Sammy safe then they'd just have to do it!
I watched her stand up and go off to her room - I tried to follow but she shut and locked the door. I felt bad being locked out but I couldn't blame her for needing to be alone after she figured it out.
I did try to jiggle the handle but it was locked and I hadn't figured out how to walk through walls or doors yet - I was still just barely able to move things without having to lay down.
I heard a beeping - she was checking her EMF reader - I went back to our room to sit and wait to be found - but I must have fallen asleep because I woke up the next morning and found her and Sam eating breakfast in silence.
She cleared her throat after finishing her eggs, and when Sam looked up at her she said, "I checked the car and the garage, there's no sign of EMF activity there."
"I know," Sam stated.
"What do you mean you know?" she scoffed.
"Well the first few times we had weird things happen after Dean - vanished - I ran the EMF reader in the car, the garage, his room, the rec room."
I could tell by the tiny flinch that she'd taken note of the way Sam said I'd vanished and not died.
"The Dean Cave," she corrected and he rolled his eyes.
"Yeah, in there - nothing. Dean is not a ghost and he's not haunting us."
"You're wrong little brother," I laughed, but of course they didn't hear. "I'm not trying to haunt you but I'm also not very good at interacting with the living."
A little bit after they'd finished eating breakfast I went out to the car to see if I could start it. I thought that perhaps if I could start the car and drive it somewhere they'd get the point or I'd be able to burn her myself.
I sat there for a good hour trying to get the key to turn in the ignition but it wasn't going so well. I leaned back, closed my eyes and took several deep breaths - still nothing happened.
Sam came out looking stressed, looked in the window and yanked the door open.
He reached right past me, grabbed the key out of the switch and muttered, "What the fuck? You're losing it Sam," as he walked back across the garage.
I sat there for another hour trying to regain my strength before I could go back inside.
When the door slid shut and she screamed I thought that would be the end - I also felt a bit faint and made my way to the closest seat. I watched her turn around looking to see where the sound came from - she walked over to the door to inspect it and everything went black for me.
'Guess this is really it,' I thought.
Tallyâs POVÂ
I felt like I was losing my mind - that door had never just opened and closed. I spent ten minutes inspecting it, the garage, and trying to make it slam shut on its own.
I finally gave up and went to my room to cry and pack my bag. At the very least I was going to spend the weekend with Jody and the girls. I finally decided that maybe it would be good if I left the bunker for more than a supply run and eating out - maybe Sam was right and I needed to figure out how to keep living away from the memories that were drowning me.
I called Jody as I randomly tossed things into my bag.
"Hey girly," Jody's chipper voice came on the line.
"Jody?" I whispered, my voice about to give away my mental state.
"What's wrong?"
"Everything!" I sobbed, "I - I - can't anymore," I paused to draw a breath in. "Can I come stay with you for a few days?"
"You can stay with me always for however long you need to."
I glanced at the time and told her, "I'll be there by dinner time," and I hung up and ran for the garage. I took a little old pickup that was there. It wasn't flashy and I could blend in with it.
I didn't want anything that would draw attention to me because I just needed to go and if I took something fancy, Sam would follow it.
When I got to Jody's house I was done with everything. I just wanted to sleep - something Jody took as depression and yeah she might not have been totally off with that line of thought but there was more to it than that.
It was more than sadness - it was despair, frustration, exhaustion, and confusion.
The door flew open and I was pulled inside to three sets of arms.
"I've been waiting for you to come," Jody whispered and kissed my temple.
"You're not that much older than me, don't go acting like you're my mom," I teased.
"Oh you know she's gonna," Claire teased.
"And we're all gonna act like your sisters and hold you and smother you with love," Alex added. "Well for another hour and then I gotta get ready and head to work, I work overnight tonight."
I hugged her and whispered, "Thank you."
"No prob," she smiled at me. "I did make dinner so let's eat, because I'm hungry AF."
We all laughed and I choked down the sadness that it brought to me - Dean loved nothing more than to get these three to laugh and he'd never get to do that again - he'd never hear the sound of their joy and that made my heart crack just a little bit more than it already had.
When Alex went to leave I stopped her, "I have a bad feeling," I told her. "Please be extra safe."
She patted my face, "I will, I promise. I'll see you all around 9 tomorrow."
Jody came back to the living-room, "I thought you got off at 8?"
"I do," she confirmed, "But Jacob asked if he could take me to breakfast and I said yes."
"Is this the hot young doc?" I asked, my eyes going wide.
"Yeah, he's actually pretty hot," Claire laughed.
"He's mine," Alex reminded. "We're going to Casa Patron," she told us.
"They have the best breakfast burritos," Claire told me - like that was the point of all this.
"Alex, how well do you know him?" I asked.
"Well enough," she answered with a clipped tone. "Jody has already given me the talk OK?"
"Just be safe," I reminded and she bid us all one last good-bye as she left.
"I ran a background check, he's fine," Jody assured once Alex was out of the door.
I rolled my eyes because - of course she had.
When Alex hadn't shown back up by 9:05 the next day I was pacing the living-room like a caged tiger.
"When's she gonna ask for one of us to go with her to check this guy out?"
Jody shrugged as I turned to look at them, "I can hear you."
"You're pacing just like Dean," Claire blurted and then covered her mouth. "I am soo sorry," she spat before running from the room.
Jody eyed me like I might burst - if I wasn't so worried about Alex I might have.
"I'm gonna call Sammy and have him track her phone," I grunted.
"Sweetie, I'm sure she's fine."
Appalled at her lack of concern, I crossed my arms and glared at Jody just as Alex stepped in the side door.
"Where have you been?"
"Calm down girl," Alex removed her jacket and shoes, "You are not my mother," she said pointedly, "We got off slightly late because there was an animal attack."
Before Jody or I could say anything about it not being an animal attack Alex held her hands up, "I called Sam - he and Eileen are on their way but I gotta get some rest if I'm gonna help y'all hunt a werewolf," she muttered and headed toward her room.
We spent the afternoon tracking down the target and assessing the area. I couldn't help but feel like Dean would be so proud of us the way we executed it so well. In fact when we got back from the hunt I could have sworn someone put their hand on my lower back when I stopped in the kitchen to get a glass of water. It felt so real that I paused and glanced around the room - Jody was in the dining area and Sam wouldn't have placed his hand that low on my back - he'd have had to bend down and I know he's stealthy but there's no way that moose could have escaped me seeing him that easily.
"You look like you've seen a ghost," Jody told me.
"Yeah, no I'm good," I mumbled. "I just need a shower and some sleep."
"Well, Sam's in the main bathroom but you can use mine if you promise not to use up all the hot water."
"I love that you have two hot water tanks," I grinned. "I just wanna get clean - I don't need a full shower and shave," I told her with a laugh as I headed to her room.
My mind conjured up Dean saying, "You took a beating, honey."
I stepped out of the bathroom as Jody walked into her room, "You OK?" she asked.
"That was my first hunt - since," I looked away - I was feeling far too vulnerable at that moment.
"I know."
"I gotta sleep," I mumbled and headed out to the couch.
I jolted awake the next morning because I felt like someone was laying next to me; the feeling of Dean's hand on my hip still lingering - it gave me pause.
'Would my weird ultra real dreams return now?'
A few minutes later I stood in the kitchen holding a fresh cup of coffee and trying to decide what my next steps were when Sam approached.
'Guess we're having the uncomfortable conversation I was hoping to avoid for a few more days.'
"You wanna tell me why you left without saying good-bye?"
"No - not really," I took a sip and hissed at the burn.
"Why did you just leave like that?"
"I honestly don't know. It just all became too much - it's been months and I feel like I'm stuck. I can't move forward and just when I think I am - weird shit starts happening around the bunker. The door to the garage opened and closed on its own and it kinda broke me. I have checked the entire building and there's never any EMF signal but it's like he's there."
I finally looked directly at Sam, "Dean is there - I don't know if the memories are just that strong or what it is but it's like he's always with me but just out of sight and I," I paused and shook my head because even I knew that I sounded crazy. "He's even here - hand resting on my hip causing me to wake up and feel out of sorts. I thought if I left the bunker I could get away from it and I did - for one night but it's here too. I don't think I can get away from that feeling."
"You were with him for more of your life than not."
"No I wasn't. We didn't become official until-"
"I know," Sam said softly, "But I'm the one that told you both for how many years that you liked each other. I get it when we were younger why you two didn't make it official but then you did and things were great - between you two at least," Sam paused to take a breath, "When he became a demon I wouldn't have gotten him back without you."
"We both know that's not true - you were so calm compared to me."
"It does feel like he's there but I think it's just how connected we are to him - even with him being gone we will always sense him."
"I suppose you're right."
"You have been in love with him since you were 17 âŠ"
"No I wasn't."
"Yeah you were. I had the dumbest crush on you and you looked at me and saw Sammy, Dean's little brother."
I laughed, "Oh Sam, I didn't know."
"I figured. Dean always caught people's attention and he had yourâs hook, line, and sinker," Sam chuckled.
"Do you even get that idiom?"
"I get it well enough," he sighed.
I laughed, "I never understood Dean's need to go fishing," I chuckled. "Wish I'd have taken him to do that rather than that fucking witch hunt."
"Me too," Sam admitted and wrapped me in a hug.
"I know you think I'm too clinical about things - like cleaning up after that hunt or telling you not to bother with the EMF but I was just trying to keep you safe. With Dean gone, you and Eileen are all I got."
"That's not true. We have Jody and the girls, Donna, and Garth and his family."
"Yeah, but none of them have been through it like you. You have been with us the longest of anyone we've ever known," Sam pointed out, "So while it's nice to have them, it does sit differently."
As sad as our little talk made me, it also gave me insight - I wasn't just Sam's sister in the fact that I married his big brother - Sam saw me as a loyal part of his little family and that eased some of the pain in my heart. It would never fix the fact that I'd miss Dean till the day I died but hearing him put it that way softened a little part of me that was growing colder by the day.
I'd been avoiding all things Dean because it hurt so bad but I'd forgotten that everyone else had lost him too.
Before I left the next day I made sure to sit Claire down and tell her that I wasn't mad at her for talking about Dean. I know she wasn't thrilled with the chick-flick moment but she hugged me and explained that she was worried she'd hurt my feelings.
When I left, with plans to meet up at the cabin for a girl's only weekend in a few weeks I felt like some of my cracks were starting to heal up.
I returned to the bunker and the weird happenings that its walls held, but I knew that I was going to hang with the girls for a long weekend soon and it would give me a break from how things had been going.
My super realistic dreams returned when I got back to the bunker but I just thought of it as my body reliving a memory so I could just let it happen and stop stressing.
When I pulled up to the cabin there were two extra cars - one I recognized immediately and rushed inside.
"Donna?"
"Hey girl!" she rushed to hug me.
"I hope it's OK we have two extra guests," Jody said with a grin and tugged Patience from around the corner.
"How'd you get time off?"
"I'm between labs at college," she said with a laugh.
Jody had already worked everything out because she didn't want me to feel uncomfortable sharing a room. I assured that it would be fine if we needed to double up but Claire said she was perfectly fine taking the new pull-out couch in the den because it was still more comfortable than sleeping in her truck.
The first evening was pretty chill - we ate pizza, watched some chick-flick, which I slept through most of, and we went to bed.
I slept hard that night but I do recall feeling like I was being snuggled - I missed the occasional snuggle from Dean at night so I relished in the feeling and tried to ignore the twinge it brought to my heart.
The next day was unusually warm and saw us all hanging out in our swimsuits and splashing in the water between naps in the sun. We really did nothing but mess around and eat all day - it would have been the perfect day if Dean had been there with me. I had to remind myself that it was still pretty wonderful, even without him there.
That night brought a round of melancholy for me and I feigned sleepiness to retreat to my room for an early bedtime.
Jody knocked on the door and asked if I was sick or just having a moment. I told her that I just needed to rest a little - I'd overdone things the previous week as I'd been researching hard-core for another hunter but I thought I'd feel better in the morning.
She accepted it - albeit reluctantly but she let me be for the night.
Once things quieted down in the main part of the cabin, I took a deep breath and stretched out across the bed, closing my eyes. I tried to concentrate and conjure up images of Dean in my mind.
I must have fallen asleep pretty quickly after that because I heard Dean whisper, "Don't close your eyes."
"I'm trying to feel," I whispered back, as Dean's hand ran up my thigh.
I could feel his lips on my neck and I conjured up what he looked like when he got all wrecked and horny looking - it was a very good look on him.
His lips wrapped around my nipple and I clapped my hand over my mouth because I nearly squealed from shock over it.
Letting myself get sucked into the fantasy of it all - I spread my legs further and enjoyed the - memory? Dream? Hallucination - or whatever it was just happened.
Dean wasted no time getting me ready for him before pushing in - the stretch was almost painful and he grunted when he finally bottomed out, as if he was really feeling it.
"We can't go so long next time," he chuckled.
"Its not like my virginity will grow back," I teased quietly.
He shut me up by beginning to thrust into me - the weight of emotions and the force of it knocking the air out of my lungs.
I wanted this so bad - I needed it all so bad that I came over and over for him and then darkness lulled me to a deep slumber.
The next morning Donna nudged me, "Were you OK last night?"
"Yeah why?"
"I swore I heard you makin' sounds in your room."
I must have blushed because she just grinned, "Ahh just a good dream," she waggled her eyebrows at me.
I gave her an eye-roll and went about making coffee.
Before I left the cabin I texted Sam - Leaving the cabin. Be home tonight.
I was leaving a day sooner than I'd planned to because I'd had a realization - somehow Dean's soul was following me around and I needed to figure out what to do.
I started the truck and said, "Dean, I know you're here with me. I'm going to figure out how. I don't know why I didn't realize this sooner but I think you've been interacting with me more during waking hours and I'm going to figure things out."
I threw the truck in gear and headed for home.
About a mile down the road I felt it - I was wide awake and Dean's hand landed on my leg - it was warm and solid just like always, but when I looked down there was nothing. I really expected to see his hand laying on my leg.
"Dean, if that's you give my leg a squeeze."
It happened.
That shocked me and I couldn't say anything for almost an hour.
"I can hear you every once in a while," I finally admitted. "I thought I was going nuts or something, but now I think you might really be there."
He squeezed my leg again.
"I'm going to solve this when I get home."
A few hours later his hand landed on my leg again, and then inched closer to my center.
"Not while I'm driving," I scolded, and eventually the hand retreated.
As I got closer to home I started to worry that perhaps it wasn't Dean but rather something portraying itself as Dean.
When I got to the bunker there was a note from Sam - Had to run. Quick hunt. Vengeful spirit. Be back tomorrow.
I pulled out books on Incubus and Succubus spirits and began to research - just when I started to come to the conclusion that it wasn't something posing as Dean I felt lips on my neck.
"Lay on the table," Dean whispered in my ear.
I can't tell you what made me do it but I stood up, yanked my shorts down and laid on the table.
A moment later I felt Dean's mouth on me - he used that damn sinful mouth to turn me into a shuddering mess not once or twice but three times.
Just like that he was gone - I couldn't feel his warmth or any sensation of him being around, "Dean?"
I called his name a few more times as I hurried to redress and rush to my room, where I shut the door and laid a salt line across the entry - if that wasn't Dean it wouldn't be able to enter my room.
I spent hours searching for any more info I could on incubus and succubus demons. I clearly had picked up some type of attachment because of my loneliness.
I fell asleep some time after 4 am and didn't wake until lunch time.
It took me another two days to get brave enough to try and interact with Dean or whatever spirit was in the bunker with us. Hoping it really was Dean I went to our room, the gold number 11 shining as if it was freshly polished. I stuck my head in the doorway and called out, "Dean are you in here?"
I got nothing but stepped into the room anyhow. I glanced around and pulled a tissue from the box on my night stand.
"I'm willing to try something," I told him. "I'm gonna lay this tissue down on the bed and if you're in here I want you to lift it up."
I forced myself to sit on what was my side of the bed and wait but after about ten minutes I decided he wasn't there so I took the tissue out to the garage.
"Dean? Are you out here?" I called as I approached Baby.
I felt warmth on my right side and smiled hopeful that I was on the right track.
"Dean, I wanna experiment with something," I stated, "Let's walk to the counter," I moved to where he normally worked on things. "I am going to place this tissue on the counter, if you are Dean move the tissue to cover the flat-head screw driver," I directed, adding, "Yes, I know Sam left it laying out and I'll put it away when we're done with this."
The warmth left my side a moment later and the tissue moved to cover the screw driver just like I'd asked.
I couldn't help the sob that escaped me, "Dean?"
His hand came to my lower back - a sure sign he was trying to comfort me.
I grabbed up the tissue and put the screw driver away before reaching my hand out for him to take it. We held hands across the garage but I thought it would look nuts if Sam or Eileen caught me holding hands with nothing as I walked through the bunker.
I was also so scared to lose him again that I didn't want to let go of his hand.
"OK, you're not a child, you can walk through the bunker without getting lost. I want you to go back to our room and wait for me. I'm going to find something to help us communicate."
When I couldn't come up with anything else I grabbed a pen and my notebook and rushed back to room 11. I sat down on my side of the bed and sketched out what was basically a talking board and laid out a thin plastic chip that came from some lost board game and had been laying on my desk for years.
"OK I have a second notepad here to write on. I want you to slide the chip from letter to letter or to yes or no to answer questions as you can.
I pointed, "Yes, no, goodbye and then the alphabet. Do you understand?"
I waited several moments and the little chip slid across the paper to yes.
"Yes, great. Are you Dean?" I asked, sliding the chip between the yes and no.
A few seconds later the chip moved back to yes.
"Did you follow me to the cabin for girls' weekend?"
Yes
"Are you causing my steamy dreams?"
I waited a little longer this time but then it moved to yes and then spelled out 'you not dreaming.'
"I guess not," I grinned. "How are you here?"
Very slowly the game token moved to d-o-n-t k-n-o-w.
"Don't know?"
The token moved to yes.
"Why can't I see you?"
G-H-O-S-T
"You're a ghost?"
Yes
"I see," I replied, but I didn't understand it at all - he wasn't setting off the EMF reader so how could he be a ghost.
"Can't you move on?"
No
"Why?"
I-D-K
"You don't know?"
Yes
"Fuck," I whispered.
Before I could ask another question the token started to move N-E-E-D R-E-S-T
"You need to rest?"
Yes
"OK, I'm sorry. I'll let you rest while I make dinner. I'll come back in an hour or two to check in."
I walked to the kitchen feeling a sense of dread wash over me.
I wasn't sure why Dean needed to rest but all the same worries about him being a ghost - about having to lose him a second time came slamming into me - rather than making dinner I went to my room and cried until I fell asleep.
Sam poked his head in and asked if I needed anything and I probably should have told him about Dean but I just said no and told him I'd forced myself to go in room 11 and it just hurt too much.
He gave me a sad smile and told me he was proud I pushed myself to do something that I knew would be painful and to come find him and Eileen when I was ready to talk. They were chopping the veggies I'd gotten to make chicken soup so he told me to come have some when I was ready.
When I thought I could handle it and that Dean had rested for a good amount of time I returned to our room and tried to talk to him - but it was like he'd vanished.
I plodded to the kitchen and dished myself a small bowl of soup but I remembered the wet laundry and so I set the bowl on the table and left to go deal with the clothes before they smelled of mildew.
When I returned my bowl of soup was half eaten, "Dean? Are you in here?"
I saw no signs of Dean so I ladled a bit more soup into my bowl and returned to room 11.
I set my soup down on my night stand and felt the bed for any sign of Dean but I found the bed to be empty. Since I wasn't sure where he was I grabbed my bowl and took a few small bites, but when a tissue moved on Dean's nightstand I realized he was there - and he was trying to get my attention.
"Hello Dean," I stated softly, as I placed my bowl back on the night stand. "Can we cuddle?" I asked as I laid my head on my pillow.
A moment later I felt the weight of his head on my shoulder and his arm snaking over my midsection. It was so strange that I couldn't feel him or see him until he was close like that.
I started to cry as I thought about all the months where I'd felt him but just thought it was the grief getting the best of me.
After laying like that for quite a while I asked, "Dean, can you hold my hand and give a squeeze for yes and two for no?"
He took my hand in his and squeezed once.
We shifted to a more comfortable position and I told him, "If tapping my hand uses less energy we can do that."
He tapped once.
"OK, did you eat some of my soup?"
One tap.
"Did it help you feel better?"
One tap.
"Good," I smiled at the spot I thought his face would be, "I wish I could see you but I'm very glad we've figured out how to communicate," I told him before asking, "Do you know what has happened to you?"
Two taps.
"You stabbed the witch and were just gone," I stated. "We assumed you were dead and I did everything I could to try and find you but you got in the car and came home with us that night didn't you?"
One tap.
"I'm sorry I didn't notice you sooner," I admitted, "I was so wrapped up in sadness that you were gone and I'm gonna be honest I don't understand what's happened here."
He squeezed my hand.
"What I can't figure out is, are you a ghost?"
One tap.
"But you aren't showing up on the EMF., You don't create cold spots; in fact, it's quite the opposite," I told him, "I can feel warmth when you're close. I just didn't figure it out at first."
We laid in the silence for a bit and I felt a kiss on my cheek.
"Do you think you're in the fae realm?" I asked.
He squeezed my hand.
"Does that mean âI don't know?â"
One tap.
"OK, I can work with that. If I could see you, I'd kiss you!" I squealed, "I'll be right back."
I bolted for the library and grabbed the two books on quantum physics I knew about. Plus three that were about crossing into the fae realm and anything related to the fae in general. Dean and I spent hours pouring over the books but we didn't find anything that seemed to relate.
I probably shouldn't have kept this information from Sam but I didn't want to get his hopes up if he was just going to lose Dean again. So for the next few weeks if Dean and I weren't talking in our coded way I was doing whatever I could to figure out how we'd managed to connect if he wasn't a ghost and we weren't on the same plane of existence.
One evening, Sam came to the kitchen as I was making dinner and announced that he had a question for me. I actually became quite angry at his question.
"Have you started dating someone?"
I spun around, "Have I what? Why would you make such an accusation?!"
"I wasn't accusing," Sam defended, "I was asking because you've been smiling more - you just seem lighter and happier than I've seen you in seven months so I thought I'd ask."
"I am not dating someone, I would never do that to Dean," I argued.
"I-" Sam paused, "What?"
"Dean's not dead Sam," I stated plainly.
"We've been over this, he isn't a ghost," Sam began to argue.
"I know," I sighed. "He's trapped in a different realm or something."
Sam looked confused as I walked over to where Dean usually sat and reached my hand out to him.
"Dean, can you hold my hand?" I asked as Dean's hand engulfed mine - you couldn't see that of course but when I asked, "Can you show Sam that you're here?"
Dean tapped my hand, the skin depressing slightly but enough for Sam to see it.
"We use one tap for yes and two for no," I tapped next to where Dean's thumb rested on my skin.
"Is Sam your sister?"
Tap - Tap
"No, good," I smiled at Sam, "Is Baby your car?"
Tap
"Did you want to date Charlie?"
Tap- Tap
Sam watched intently as Dean's thumb pressed into my skin creating what looked like a small dimple that popped back up as soon as Dean would stop pressing against it.
"I figured out that Dean is not a ghost but that he is still with us. Something about moving stuff in this world wears him out - eating is difficult because he cannot eat enough to fuel himself enough to be able to interact with the food or silverware."
"This is incredible."
"It is but it's also not good, because I don't know how long he can keep going this way," I pointed out.Â
Summary: When the reader is released from captivity by Homelander, she's reunited with a familiar face. Soldier Boy. Her childhood friend. Her true love. The loss of her life. The man she was taken from in 1957. Sixty eight years later and Soldier Boy is baffled not only by her being alive but her young age and apparent powers. Old memories resurface as the pair try to navigate what truly happened all those years ago. New fears emerge as they come to terms with who they now are in a frightening modern world. All the while, Homelander poses a looming threat to not only the two of them but the entire world. Hard truths must be faced. Lines must be drawn. Two fated souls must make an impossible choice. Run or fight. Monster or anti-hero. Soldier Boy or Ben. Alone or together, once and for all...
Pairing: Soldier Boy x reader
Word Count: ~80K
Warnings: spoilers through S4, language, violence, smut, captivity, mention of torture/miscarriage/parental abuse, supes vs. humans, death, illness, adultery, threats of violence against a child, attempted murder/murder, vigilantism, mention of drug use/drinking/WW2 violence and more
Summary: Behind every powerful man is a resourceful woman. He doesnât realize how much he relies on you, until he realizes how much he wants you.
AN: This was originally requested as a birthday fic for a lovely Patreon member, @redhoodieone! It's my first attempt at an office AU with Dean, but I know it's a popular trope for a reason lol. Hope you guys enjoy this little snack of office smut â€ïžâđ„
Word Count: 1.7K
Posted on Patreon: Feb. 7, 2026
Tags & Warnings: (18+) Office politics, power imbalance (but not really), hint of angst, but mostly smut (v. fingering, oral â female receiving)
âDean, youâre driving me crazy!â you snap. âJust read the speech as written. Sam and I worked on it for two weeks. Itâs perfect.â
âYeah, but it doesnât even sound like me,â he grumbles. âWhat the hell does âsolidarityâ mean?â
You utter a sigh as you follow him into his office, shutting the door behind you with your ass. Your hands are fullâwith a large binder of purchase orders that still need to be approved by the very man who canât seem to take anything seriously.
He has the notecards Sam gave him in one hand, a glass tumbler with a generous pour of whiskey in the other. Heâs meant to address the entire company in twenty minutes, and he still hasnât put on his suit jacket or picked out his tie. You laid two options over the arm of his desk chair: black and white pinstripe or burgundy with a tiny triangle pattern.
âCohesion. Harmony. Camaraderie. All the things you want to inspire in your employees after another million-dollar deal thatâs going to make their workloads triple over the next six months,â you say, heaving the binder onto Deanâs large desk. The rest, you mutter under your breath. âAnd something severely lacking between you and I.â
Dean looks up from the small print on the index card, aiming his furrowed brows your way.
âWhatâre you talking about?â he asks, drawing closer. He sets his glass with a heavy clink down on polished wood. He glances down at his still unbuttoned collar and starts closing buttons. âYou and I are one of the most well-oiled machines in this place. By the way, whichââ
You hold up the burgundy tie for his inspection. Deanâs lips twitch at a grin. Itâs like youâre in his goddamn head.
âSee? You already know what I want before I gotta ask,â he says. A small sigh escapes you, but you still start sliding the tie up around his neck and under his collar.
âThatâs because Iâve apparently made a career out of babysitting a grown man. Move your hand,â you say, batting his digits away from doing the tie himself. You know how he likes it, done in a Pratt knot rather than an old-school Windsor.
He snorts. âIâll tell you what, itâs your fault, okay? Before you waltzed your way in hereââ
âBefore you hired me?â you interject.
He smirks. âFine, before I hired you, with barely a scrap of professional experience besides a little college internship and an eight-month stint in an officeâat one of our competitors, I might addââ
He grunts when your hand âslips,â making the knot tight enough to choke him. Amused, but still giving you a censuring look, he slips a finger between the fabric and his neck, loosening it a little as he clears his throat.
âI was entirely capable of running my life without you. I made make-or-break decisions for this company every damn day,â he says. But slowly, his smile slips. The way the green of his eyes roam over your face, your familiar hands, your softly parted lips while you pretend to be concentrated on what youâre doing.
âNow, I donât know,â Dean says. He swallows, his throat sticking. âIâm in a meeting, and I canât get comfortable until I know youâre sitting right there to my left. You donât even need to be taking notes or anything. All you need to do is sit there, and Iâm good.â
You pause, finally meeting his eyes.
âI close on a deal, and Iâm not satisfied,â he says. âNot âtil I tell you about it. Because I know youâve been busting your ass just as much to help make it happen in the first place.â
Your hands begin to release his tie, but he gently grips your arms, keeping you in place.
âDeanâŠâ
âI would say itâs a crying shame that bastard knocked you up before you really got your shot over there at Ashland, but that would mean I wouldnât have the benefits of your many talents,â he says.
You try to ignore the thing thatâs creeping into his tone. The thing that makes your cheeks prickle, and warmth bloom between your legs. You sigh and smile up at him, half exasperated.
âThat might just make you the most selfish man in the world,â you say.
He smirks, his thumbs beginning to brush back and forth against your arms. Even in this little number you got on, a plain white blouse tucked neatly in a long pencil skirt, he canât help his imagination. Heâs fantasized about helping you for a change, with that pointless collection of fabric and buttons on this very floor, and his mouth anywhere you want him.
Anywhere you let him taste you.
âYeah, I wonder if Emma thinks so, seeing as Iâm the one who got her mom a raise so she could go to that fancy private school,â he says, with an arch of his brow. âLooking forward to that little play theyâre putting on. What was it again?â
You laugh, showing off that smile he gets out of you more often than not.
âSheâs kind of nervous about that, actually. But she did ask if you were coming,â you say. Your eyes lower, just like your hands smoothing down his collar, then lying flat against his chest. âGod knows if her fatherâs going to show up.â
Dean releases his hold on you, just so he can take your chin between his fingers and raise your eyes to meet his.
âIâll be there,â he says. Finality and promiseâsomething a manâs never given you.
Dean knows enough to know what heâs doing, what heâs saying. His free hand molds to the curve of your waist, tightening with the edge of possessiveness.
âDean,â you breathe a warning in his name. His lips hover near yours, one decision shy of getting his way. âWeâŠwe canât do this again.â
âSee, I get that, but Iâve been having a hard time remembering why,â he says. All the while, his fingers are toying with the zipper on the side of your skirt. He guides it down, and down, and his practiced hand slips behind the waistband, behind white lace underneath, skimming bare flesh and heat against the palm of his hand, until his fingers find the wet slit of your pussy. A shaky breath falls from your lips.
âYou damn well know why.â
And yet, your hand slips across his cheek, caressing there briefly as your eyes lock with his. Then your fingers sink into his hair, and youâre pulling him into you, tangling your lips and tongue with his in a way that makes you both moan.
The hand thatâs not buried between your legs has a stronghold on your hip. He guides you back against his desk, but youâre the one lowering your skirt further so he has more room to torture your clit. Rough finger pads strum you mercilessly, drawing slick arousal from your entrance.
âOh, fuck. Dean,â you gasp against his mouth. Your fingers curl tighter in his hair. Your hips buck to the rhythm of his hand, begging for more. His lips claim wherever they burn their path, from your jawline to sucking hard against your neck. Youâre not even quite on the edge of his desk, half leaning, half clinging to him for survival as his fingers plunder you deeper.
Until he withdraws his hand entirely. Youâre heaving for breath, uncomprehending, but you donât even really have time to ask him just what the hell heâs doing by stopping. Because heâs already sinking to his knees.
He grabs your thighs and pulls you in, burying his face right between your glistening folds. A gasp and a whimper choke out of you at the pleasurable invasion of his tongue. Your hand flies to his hair as you try to steady yourself on the desk.
âDean! Jesus,â you whisper-shout. Suddenly you remember, worried, that you two havenât bothered to lock the door this time. Heâs supposed to address the entire staff body in exactly ten minutes, and heâs not even fully dressed yet. Now, neither are you.
The man doesnât seem to give a fuck about anything sensible like that, other than devouring your pussy. Your panties are a torn scrap of fabric around your ankles, along with your skirt that you spent thirty minutes ironing this morning. But you canât bring yourself to give much of a fuck either, not when his tongue licks up to your clit, and his lips suck around the swollen bud like itâs butterscotch candy.
His fingers join in, slipping into your hot, throbbing core. By then, it doesnât take more than a few strokes against your sensitive walls to have you coming hard around his fingers. Black and white brittle stars burst behind your eyelids, your mouth falling open in a harsh cry.
You canât even breathe, because heâs still fucking you with his long, talented fingers. Itâs too much. Itâs like pushing you off the edge of the volcano while youâre still falling, still erupting. Still want his cock too.
Your fingers tighten in his hair to stop him.
âDean, Dean, Dean, pleaseâŠâ
Mercifully, he stops. His fingers slip out of you, though his tongue laps at you one more time, just to feel you squirm and shudder against him. But as he pants for breath, he presses a kiss against the inside of your thigh, reverent, an unspoken declaration.
You soften as you look down on him. Your eyes show your conflict and your fondness as you cup his face with both hands, caressing his wet, stubbly cheeks with your thumbs.
âGod, baby, youâre a mess,â you laugh, grabbing a tissue off his desk to wipe at his glistening mouth, nose, and chin. He smirks in satisfaction beneath your hand.
âThere you go, still takinâ care of me,â he teases, rubbing your thighs.
This is a far cry from the cocky asshole you met a year ago.
Dean Winchester, CEO of HunterCorp, who hadnât thought he needed an assistant when you came in for your interview. He hadnât even looked at your resume beforehand and didnât think he was going to remember your name by the end.
Now, that man is on his knees, willingly covered in your arousal. Itâs obscene, but itâs also pulling at your heartstrings.Â
You guide him back up to your lips, where you can stake your claim on him. You donât know yet if itâs going to stick, but heâs finally worn you down.
Youâre willing to try.
AN: Some of my Patreon members suggested I write a Part 2 to this. What did you think of âpart 1â?
And are you thirsty for more CEO!Dean? đ
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summary :: you work nights at a luxury hotel where ben is the violent, rich, permanently drunk guest everyone else refuses to serve. he orders bourbon just to get you at his door, towel low on his hips, voice rough with amusement when you try not to stare. eventually, he stops pretending he wants the drink more than he wants you. [19k]
warnings :: â â millionaire!ben x hotel staff!fem!reader. age gap. power imbalance. hotel sex. toxic tension. rough kissing. arguing. manhandling. choking. oral. spit. gagging. clit rubbing. nipple play. rough sex. dirty talk. begging. praise kink. overstimulation. unprotected sex. creampie. messy sex.
BEN WAS BORN INTO A HOUSE that taught boys to become weapons before it ever taught them how to be loved. His father didnât believe in softness, didnât believe in apologies, and sure as hell didnât believe in raising a son who needed anything from anyone.
The man had money, influence, and the kind of cold patience that made every room feel smaller when he walked into it. Ben grew up under that shadow, learning early that crying got punished, fear got mocked, and weakness got remembered.
His mother was there, technically, but sheâd mastered the art of disappearing while still sitting at the dinner table. She didnât save him from his fatherâs temper, didnât soften the house, didnât teach him that being gentle didnât make him less of a man. So Ben learned the opposite. He learned that if he couldnât be safe, heâd be untouchable instead.
He wasnât a sweet child, and nobody in that house ever tried to make him one. He was angry too young, proud too young, always watching the adults around him like he was studying how power moved through a room.
He noticed which servants flinched when his father spoke, which business partners laughed at jokes they didnât find funny, and which men pretended loyalty because they were scared of losing access. Ben understood all of that before he understood tenderness.
He learned that money made people obedient, but fear made them faster. He learned that charm was useful when violence would be too obvious. He learned that if he smiled at the right time, people called cruelty confidence. By the time he was old enough to leave that house, heâd already become the kind of man his father had wanted, which was exactly why he hated him.
Ben didnât build himself out of discipline as much as spite. Every polished piece of him had been sharpened against something ugly. He wanted more money than his father had, more control than his father had, more women staring, more men stepping aside, more doors opening before he even touched the handle.
He didnât want respect because respect could be withdrawn. He wanted dependence, intimidation, proof that the world would rearrange itself around him if he pushed hard enough.
That hunger made him dangerous long before he had the bank account to match it. He was reckless, but he wasnât stupid, and that was what made him worse. Men who underestimated Ben usually ended up poorer, injured, humiliated, or all three.
The first real money came dirty, though heâd never call it that in a room full of lawyers. Ben invested in private security when everyone else still thought men with guns were just muscle for hire. He saw the future in fear, in rich people needing protection, in companies wanting problems handled quietly, in politicians needing men who didnât ask moral questions.
From there, he moved into shipping, construction, defense contracts, hospitality, clubs, and the kind of consulting firms that existed mostly to make illegal things look like paperwork. He didnât inherit an empire so much as rip one out of the ground with both hands.
He made enemies faster than he made money, but the money came fast enough to make the enemies cautious. Every company had someone cleaner on the letterhead, someone smoother in interviews, someone who looked respectable enough for cameras. Ben stayed behind the curtain when it suited him, but everyone who mattered knew whose hand was around the throat of it all.
Now he was a millionaire many times over, the kind of rich that didnât need to introduce itself. He didnât ask prices because prices were for people deciding whether they could afford desire.
Ben bought buildings because he disliked landlords, bought clubs because he liked watching people unravel, and bought silence because silence was often cheaper than loyalty. He wore wealth like a threat rather than a costume.
Tailored shirts, heavy watches, old boots, gold cufflinks, black cars with tinted windows, and a wallet that could ruin someoneâs whole month before lunch.
Nothing about him looked soft, even when he was trying to appear civil. His hands always gave him away. Scarred knuckles, thick fingers, the faint mark of a man whoâd thrown punches personally even after he could afford to pay others to do it.
People hated Ben because he made it easy. He was rude when politeness bored him, charming when cruelty needed dressing up, and generous only when generosity gave him leverage. He remembered weaknesses better than birthdays.
He knew who drank too much, who owed money, who cheated on their wife, who lied on invoices, who liked being humiliated if the right person was watching. He collected those details the way other men collected art. It wasnât enough for Ben to win.
He liked knowing exactly where to press so the other person understood theyâd lost before the fight even started. That was why businessmen laughed too loudly around him and why powerful men still checked the door when he walked in.
Heâd been called a bastard in boardrooms, restaurants, country clubs, hotel bars, private airports, and once by a priest whoâd regretted the word immediately after saying it. Ben didnât mind. He liked honest hatred more than fake affection because at least hatred knew what it was.
People who hated him still took his money, still shook his hand, still answered when he called after midnight. That amused him more than it shouldâve. Heâd spent his whole life watching dignity become negotiable under pressure.
It confirmed every ugly thing he already believed about the world. Everyone had a number, a fear, a craving, or a secret. Benâs gift was finding it before they realized he was looking.
His temper had become part of his reputation, polished into legend by people who needed stories to explain why they were scared. Heâd broken a manâs jaw outside a private casino because the man had put a hand on his shoulder twice after being told not to.
Heâd fired an entire security detail because one guard smirked when Ben slipped on wet marble. Heâd bought a restaurant after an owner refused him a table, closed it for renovations, then never reopened it.
Heâd had cars towed from spaces that werenât his because he didnât like the color. None of it was reasonable, and Ben knew that. Reasonable men didnât get remembered. Reasonable men waited in lines, accepted apologies, and died with fewer enemies than they deserved.
The hotel was supposed to be another temporary indulgence, but Ben didnât do temporary well. His penthouse was being rebuilt after an incident his lawyers had buried beneath tasteful language and expensive signatures.
Structural damage, theyâd called it, as if Ben hadnât put a man through a glass wall during a dinner that had gone wrong for reasons everyone involved understood perfectly. The marble had been stained, the city had started whispering, and Ben had decided he didnât want to sleep somewhere that smelled like bleach and consequences.
So he took the most expensive suite in one of the cityâs most exclusive hotels and paid for privacy by the month. The management smiled through the decision because his money was obscene. The staff learned his name before he unpacked. Everyone understood quickly that Ben wasnât a guest as much as a weather system.
Now he lived above the city in rooms that werenât his, surrounded by expensive furniture he didnât respect and service workers trained not to react. He smoked where he wasnât supposed to, drank like sleep had insulted him personally, and kept hours that made the building feel less like a hotel and more like a bunker.
He ordered meals he didnât eat, bottles he didnât finish, ice he let melt, towels he didnât use, and coffee strong enough to taste like punishment. He left cash everywhere because money meant less to him when it wasnât making someone uncomfortable.
He could be silent for hours, then impossible for ten minutes and ruin everyoneâs night. He knew the staff hated him. He also knew theyâd keep coming when he called, because rich men didnât need to be liked when the bill was paid in advance.
There was something rotten and restless in Ben that luxury had never managed to cure. Money had given him distance from consequences, but it hadnât given him peace. Power had made him untouchable, but it hadnât made him less angry.
Women had wanted him, men had feared him, lawyers had protected him, and employees had learned to lower their eyes, yet none of it filled the old hollow place his childhood had carved into him. He didnât think of it that way, of course. Ben didnât sit around naming wounds like some sad bastard in therapy.
He called it boredom, hunger, irritation, need, anything but damage. Still, every night in that suite, with the city glittering below him and a glass of bourbon warming in his hand, Ben looked like a man who owned everything except the one thing that mightâve made him stop wanting to destroy it.
You didnât grow up with enough money to romanticize struggle. There wasnât anything pretty about unpaid bills, second-hand coats, or pretending dinner was enough when everyone knew it wasnât. Your childhood taught you how to be grateful for things that still hurt.
It taught you how to smile when adults asked if everything was fine, because telling the truth only made people uncomfortable. You became good at noticing moods before they turned into problems. You knew when to stay quiet, when to make yourself useful, and when to disappear before someone decided their frustration needed somewhere to land.
People called you mature like it was a compliment, but really it just meant youâd learned too early that nobody was coming to fix anything. So you fixed what you could and swallowed the rest.
You werenât raised soft, even if people liked assuming you were. There was something about your face, your careful voice, your neat clothes, that made strangers think you were gentler than you actually were.
They saw politeness and mistook it for weakness. They saw tired eyes and assumed youâd fold if pushed hard enough. You hated that more than you admitted. Youâd spent too long surviving difficult people to let some suited guest, angry manager, or drunk rich man decide you were easy prey.
You werenât loud about your pride, but it was there, stubborn and sharp beneath everything. It lived in the way you kept your chin up even when your hands were shaking.
You learned work before you learned rest. Every job youâd ever had left some kind of mark on you, whether it was sore feet, aching wrists, ruined sleep, or the particular humiliation of being spoken to like furniture.
Youâd cleaned tables, carried trays, answered phones, handled complaints, memorized orders, and apologized for things that had nothing to do with you.
None of it made you fragile. If anything, it made you observant in a way people underestimated. You knew how to read who was lonely, who was angry, who was dangerous, and who only acted cruel because they were bored. That knowledge didnât make the work easier, but it kept you safe. Mostly.
The hotel job came when you needed money more than you needed a life. The listing promised late hours, decent pay, staff meals, and enough overtime to make exhaustion feel almost practical. You told yourself it was temporary because everyone told themselves that about jobs that slowly swallowed them whole.
At first, the place impressed you with its marble floors, brass elevators, chandeliers, and guests who smelled like perfume, money, and entitlement. Then the glamour wore thin.
You started noticing the fingerprints on glass doors, the bruised fruit left on breakfast trays, the housekeeping carts hidden behind service corridors, the staff crying quietly in storage rooms before fixing their faces.
Luxury looked different when you were the person carrying it to someone elseâs room. It looked less like elegance and more like labor with better lighting.
You worked nights because nights paid more, and because the dark had always made more sense to you than mornings. The hotel changed after midnight. The lobby emptied, the music lowered, the bar lights dimmed, and the rich stopped pretending to be civilized.
Night guests were drunker, lonelier, meaner, stranger, and much worse at hiding what they wanted. You learned which rooms ordered champagne after arguments, which businessmen tipped badly after touching your wrist, which couples used room service as foreplay, and which guests needed someone to witness them being powerful.
The night shift made you invisible in a specific way. People looked through you until they wanted something, then looked too closely. You got used to both.
You had rules for surviving men with money. Donât laugh unless you mean to. Donât accept private drinks. Donât let them block the door. Donât let a compliment make you forget the uniform. Donât mistake expensive manners for kindness, because the cruelest men youâd ever met knew exactly how to sound charming.
You kept your voice even, your hands steady, and your expression polite enough to pass as professionalism. You knew when to bite your tongue, but you also knew there were moments when silence made things worse. Some men needed to be reminded there was a person beneath the name tag.
Still, there was a part of you that resented how good you were at enduring things. You hated that you could be tired and still function, upset and still smile, furious and still say, âOf course, sir.â You hated that people praised your reliability when what they really meant was that you didnât make your pain inconvenient.
Some nights, after your shift, youâd sit in the staff locker room with your shoes kicked off and your head tilted back against cold metal, wondering when your life had become a series of hours to survive. Then youâd check your phone, look at your bank balance, and remind yourself why you stayed. Rent didnât care that your body hurt. Bills didnât care that customers were vile. Survival had never been sentimental with you.
You werenât innocent, no matter how easily people projected it onto you. You had your own ugly thoughts, your own hungers, your own temper, your own private little disasters hidden beneath clean makeup and a pressed uniform. You knew what it felt like to want something bad for you and hate yourself for wanting it anyway.
You knew how desire could creep in through irritation, how attention could feel dangerous and addictive when it came from the wrong person. That didnât mean you were naive. If anything, you understood danger too well, which was why part of you sometimes recognized it before choosing to step closer.
You didnât like being controlled, but you liked being seen more than you wanted to admit. That contradiction lived in you quietly, waiting for the wrong room, the wrong man, the wrong night.
The staff liked you because you didnât make their lives harder. You covered shifts without whining, traded favors without keeping score, and argued with managers when they pushed people too far. You were not the loudest person on the night team, but people listened when you spoke because you usually waited until something mattered.
The kitchen staff saved you coffee when service got brutal. Housekeeping told you which rooms to avoid. Security liked that you didnât panic easily, even when guests got aggressive.
The front desk trusted you with difficult deliveries because you were calm, sharp, and just reckless enough to say what everyone else swallowed. You became useful, and in a hotel like that, usefulness was the closest thing to protection.
By the time the city glittered outside the penthouse windows and the rich slept badly above everyone else, youâd already become someone harder than the girl who first took the job. You still looked soft under the warm hallway lights, still wore your uniform neatly, still fixed your lipstick in the elevator mirror before stepping out onto expensive carpet. But there was steel threaded through you now.
It sat behind your polite smile, beneath your tired eyes, inside the way you held a tray like it couldnât weigh more than you did. You had spent your whole life being underestimated by people who thought money, age, power, or cruelty made them untouchable.
Maybe that was why you didnât scare as easily as you shouldâve. Maybe that was why, when trouble finally looked back at you from behind a penthouse door, some reckless part of you didnât run. It recognized him.
The lobby is doing that strange late-night thing where it looks expensive and dead at the same time. Everything shines too much beneath the low golden lights, polished marble floors reflecting the chandelier overhead, brass elevator doors gleaming like nobody has ever touched them with tired hands.
The air smells faintly of lemon cleaner, perfume, old flowers, and the last trace of cigar smoke someone rich enough to ignore rules mustâve carried in on his coat. Youâre standing near the front desk with your tray tucked against your hip, nodding while a guest in a dark coat explains, for the third time, that heâs looking for the private dining room, not the restaurant.
Heâs irritated in the way people get when theyâre embarrassed but too proud to admit theyâre lost. His wife stands half a step behind him, clutching her little evening bag, smiling at you like sheâs sorry for him and too used to being sorry for him to say anything.
You keep your voice soft, polite, steady, pointing toward the corridor past the lounge with two fingers instead of one because the hotel trains even your gestures to look elegant. âJust past the bar, sir, then left at the floral arrangement. Thereâll be a set of double doors, and someone from events will meet you there.â
The man frowns like the corridor has personally insulted him. âAre you sure?â he asks, his tone clipped with the kind of suspicion people use when they donât want to admit they werenât listening. His eyes move past you toward the hallway as if the walls might rearrange themselves just to prove him right.
His wifeâs fingers tighten around her bag, and you can tell sheâs heard this voice a hundred times before in restaurants, airports, and hotel lobbies exactly like this one.
You smile because thatâs what youâre paid to do. âYes, sir,â you say, keeping your face pleasant enough to survive him. You tilt your chin slightly toward the corridor, still patient, still controlled, still acting like this hasnât already been explained twice. âI can see the entrance from here.â
He turns his head, squinting toward the exact place youâve just described, then gives a stiff little nod like heâs decided to allow reality to be correct. âFine,â he says, like the building has finally passed inspection. He adjusts his coat with unnecessary irritation, then looks toward his wife without really looking at her. âCome along, darling.â
His wife gives you another look, smaller this time, a private little thank you tucked into the lift of her brows. You return it with the kind of smile that doesnât show teeth because teeth feel too honest this late at night. They walk off together, his shoes clicking against the marble, her heels softer beside him.
You watch until they disappear around the corner, then let your shoulders drop by barely an inch. Itâs not enough for anyone else to notice, but itâs enough for your body to remember itâs tired. Your feet ache inside your neat black shoes, the waistband of your skirt has started to dig in from hours of walking, and the tiny metal name badge pinned over your blouse feels heavier than it should.
The lobby clock behind the desk says itâs too late for patience and too early for freedom. You pull in a slow breath through your nose and prepare yourself to keep moving because standing still too long only reminds you how badly you want to sit down.
You turn back toward the service station, already reaching for the stack of empty glasses waiting to be carried through to the back, when the front desk clerk says your name. She doesnât say it loudly, but she doesnât have to.
The sound still cuts through the soft lobby music, the hum of the computers, and the distant clatter from the bar being cleaned down for the night. You know before you turn around that whatever sheâs about to say isnât going to make your shift easier.
Not loudly. Not dramatically. Just enough to catch you before you can disappear into the staff corridor. Just enough to make the bellhop near the luggage cart glance up and then immediately pretend he didnât. Just enough to make the night managerâs pen stop moving over the paperwork in front of him. Just enough to make your stomach tighten before you even look at her.
Thereâs a tone in it that makes your stomach tighten before you even look at her. You know that tone by now because everyone who works nights has developed one for him. Itâs half warning and half apology, like saying the wrong thing too directly might summon him through the elevator doors.
The clerk is standing behind the desk with the phone still in her hand, mouth pressed into a line, eyes flicking from you to the penthouse indicator above the private lift. She doesnât need to explain at first. You already know.
You feel it in the little shift of the air, in the way the bellhop suddenly finds something very interesting about his shoes, in the way the night manager pretends to look over paperwork while listening with his whole body. The whole lobby seems to pause around the shape of one manâs inconvenience.
âPenthouse wants whiskey,â she says. Her voice is low, carefully neutral, and so exhausted that the politeness barely covers it. She sets the phone back into its cradle like sheâs placing down something dangerous. Then she looks at you with that familiar expression that says sheâs sorry and grateful and absolutely not willing to go up there herself.
You stare at her for a beat. âOf course he does,â you say, because thereâs nothing else to say that wonât get you written up. Your voice comes out dry enough to make the bellhopâs mouth twitch. You glance toward the private lift, then back at her, already feeling the shift settle over your night. Of course itâs him. Of course itâs whiskey. Of course itâs now.
The bellhop snorts before he can stop himself, then turns it into a cough so poorly that even the lobby plants seem unconvinced. The clerk gives him a warning look, but thereâs no real bite in it. Everyone is too tired for discipline, too tired to pretend the suite upstairs hasnât become the buildingâs least funny running joke.
You step closer to the desk, lowering your voice because guests may be out of sight, but rich hotels are built on the belief that walls have ears and ears have managers. âDid he ask for anything specific?â
She checks the notes like she doesnât already remember every unreasonable preference heâs ever forced into the system. Her finger traces down the screen, even though both of you know sheâs stalling because the answer is irritating. âSingle malt,â she says. âOldest bottle available. Two glasses.â
Your brows lift. âTwo?â The word comes out before you can soften it, too sharp to pass as ordinary curiosity. You look from the clerk to the phone, then toward the lift again. Something about it lands wrong in your chest, not bad exactly, just deliberate.
âThatâs what he said.â She spreads her fingers slightly against the desk, helpless in that very specific customer-service way. Her lips press together again, and you can tell she wants to ask the same thing youâre thinking. She doesnât, because asking questions about him has never made anything better.
The word sits there between you. Two. Not unusual on paper. Plenty of guests order two glasses, even when theyâre alone, because theyâre expecting company, or because they like pretending they are. But with him, nothing feels like paper.
Everything feels deliberate. You glance toward the elevator before you can stop yourself, the private one tucked past the concierge desk with its little gold key panel and silent doors. Itâs ridiculous, the way your body reacts to a closed lift.
The thought of him above you, waiting somewhere behind all that money and trouble, makes something low in your stomach pull tight. You hate that. You hate it enough that you pick up the empty glasses harder than necessary.
The clerk notices, because women who work nights notice everything. âI can send someone else,â she says. She says it like an offer, but both of you hear the lie in it immediately. Her eyes flick toward the bellhop, who suddenly looks like heâd rather climb into one of the luggage carts than be volunteered.
âNo, you canât.â You say it without heat because the truth doesnât need any help being miserable. You set the glasses down with a soft clink and straighten your name badge out of habit. Your feet already ache in protest, like even they know where youâre about to go.
âI can try.â She makes a face like she knows how badly that plan would go. Her hand hovers near the phone as if she could somehow call the problem back and negotiate with it. âSomeone from bar service might still be here.â
âYou can, and then heâll send it back, call three more times, insult the poor person who goes up there, and somehow Iâll still end up taking it.â You stack the glasses neatly beside the desk, your smile dry. âLetâs save everyone the theatre.â
It earns a tiny, strangled laugh from behind the luggage cart, and you donât need to turn around to know who it came from. The night manager hears it too, because of course he does.
The night manager looks up then, because managers have a sixth sense for tone when it might cost them paperwork. âKeep it professional,â he says. His voice is mild in that careful way that always means warning instead of advice. He doesnât look at the lift when he says it, but everybody knows who heâs really talking about.
You look at him. âIâm always professional,â you tell him. Your expression is smooth, polished, and just innocent enough to be annoying. The clerk looks down at the desk immediately, which tells you sheâs trying not to smile.
The bellhop makes that fake cough again. Itâs even worse this time, barely a cough and mostly a laugh with stage fright. He turns toward the luggage cart like it might rescue him from being noticed. The night manager gives him a look so flat it could press flowers.
You donât even look his way. âMostly,â you add. The word sits there, small and dry and perfectly timed. This time the clerk has to turn away fully because her mouth is betraying her.
The clerk bites the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling, but the night manager doesnât find it funny. He never finds anything funny unless a guest says it while spending money. He steps closer with that careful managerial posture, hands folded in front of him, face arranged into concern he probably practiced during training. âHeâs already had one complaint tonight. We donât need another.â
âFrom him or about him?â you ask. Your voice stays pleasant, but the question has teeth. You know exactly how many complaints begin and end with the penthouse these days.
âBoth would be inconvenient.â He says it like inconvenience is the greatest tragedy known to hospitality. His eyes flick toward the lift at last, brief and unwilling. Then he looks back at you, expecting agreement because agreement is easier to schedule.
âThatâs inspiring leadership, sir.â You donât smile this time. You just let the words sit there, polished enough to survive and sharp enough to sting. The bellhop becomes fascinated with the luggage tags again.
His mouth tightens. âIâm serious.â His tone lowers a fraction, not enough to be harsh, but enough to remind you heâs still your manager. He adjusts his cuffs like that might restore authority to the room.
âSo am I.â You take the order slip from the printer, fold it once, and tuck it between your fingers. âIâll take him his whiskey, say good evening, put the tray down, and leave.â You say it like an oath, like something simple and enforceable. You almost believe yourself.
That is the plan. That is always the plan. Itâs a simple plan, professional, clean, impossible to misunderstand. You repeat it to yourself as you turn away from the desk and head toward the service corridor. Take the whiskey. Say good evening. Put the tray down. Leave.
The words march through your head in time with your footsteps, past the linen room, past the staff notice board cluttered with faded memos, past the little break area where someone has abandoned a half-eaten packet of crisps beside a cold cup of tea.
The back corridors donât look like the lobby. Back here, the hotelâs glamour peels away into scuffed walls, humming vents, fluorescent lights, and the sour-sweet smell of coffee thatâs been sitting too long. Back here, everyone is human. Back here, nobodyâs pretending marble floors clean themselves.
The bar is closed to guests, but not to room service. The bartender on late inventory duty looks up when you push through the swing door, sees the slip in your hand, and immediately grimaces. âDonât tell me,â he says. He already knows, but he says it anyway because dread likes ceremony.
âPenthouse wants whiskey.â You hold up the slip between two fingers like evidence at a trial. The bartender shuts his eyes for half a second. When he opens them again, he looks personally offended by the existence of wealthy men.
âCourse he does.â He reaches for the locked cabinet without asking which room. His keys jangle too loudly in the quiet bar. âWhat did he break this time?â
âHopefully nothing yet.â You lean your hip against the counter for one tiny second of relief. Your feet throb immediately, as if grateful for even that much mercy. âThe night is young, though.â
âThatâs optimistic of you.â He unlocks the cabinet and pulls it open carefully. The bottles inside sit in neat rows, each one looking expensive enough to have opinions. He scans them with the grim focus of someone choosing a sacrifice.
âIâm trying a new thing.â You watch him reach for the oldest bottle available. âItâs called not assuming disaster before Iâve even stepped into the lift.â Your voice is dry, but your stomach hasnât unclenched.
He laughs once, quiet and tired, then unlocks the cabinet where they keep the bottles expensive enough to require witness protection. His hands move with practiced care, sliding out a dark glass bottle with a label that looks old, serious, and financially irresponsible. He sets it on the counter like it might bite him.
You watch the amber liquid shift inside as he turns it toward the light, rich and smooth and absurd, worth more than your weekly pay by a margin that makes you want to laugh or scream depending on the angle. âHe asked for two glasses,â you say.
The bartender pauses. âTwo?â His brows draw together, and for a second he looks exactly like the clerk did. Then his gaze flicks toward the ceiling, as if the penthouse might be visible through several floors of luxury construction.
âThatâs what I said.â You cross your arms loosely, careful not to wrinkle your blouse. The words taste strange the second time. They donât get less strange.
âHe got someone up there?â The bartender asks it softly, more curious than judgmental. His hand remains on the second glass without setting it down yet. Even he seems to understand that with Ben, details are never just details.
âDo I look like his social secretary?â You arch a brow at him. Itâs easier to be sarcastic than admit the question made your pulse shift. He snorts and finally sets the second glass beside the first.
âNo,â he says, setting two crystal tumblers onto the tray. âYou look like the only person in this place who tells him no and survives it.â He says it lightly, but the look he gives you isnât careless. Itâs the kind of look that checks for bruises without asking to see them.
You roll your eyes, but the words land too close to something you donât want named. âI donât tell him no.â You smooth a napkin corner that doesnât need smoothing. Your voice stays even, but your fingers give you away by fussing too much.
âYou argue.â He places the ice dish on the tray with careful precision. His mouth twitches like heâs trying not to make the point too obvious. âThatâs not exactly nothing.â
âThatâs different.â You look down at the bottle instead of at him. The dark glass reflects the bar light back at you in warped gold. âArguing is just talking with better posture.â
âHow?â he asks. He sounds amused now, but heâs still watching you too closely. Thereâs a protective edge to it that makes your chest feel tight. âTell me the difference.â
âIt has better pacing.â You lift your chin a little, and this time his laugh is real. It breaks some of the tension, not all of it, but enough to let you breathe. âBesides, if he wanted someone quiet, heâd stop asking for me.â
He huffs a laugh and reaches for the heavy silver tray, arranging everything with the kind of precision the hotel demands from people it underpays. Bottle centered. Glasses aligned. White napkin folded beneath them. Small dish of ice on the side, silver tongs laid just so. He hesitates before sliding it toward you. âNeed me to walk it up with you?â
âNo.â You answer too quickly. You know it the second it leaves your mouth. The bartender knows it too.
âYou sure?â His voice drops. The bar feels quieter around the question. Even the fridges seem to hum more softly.
You look down at the tray instead of at him. âHeâs a guest.â It sounds weak the second you say it, polished and ridiculous. You both know guest is one of those words hotels use when they mean problem weâre being paid to tolerate. Still, it gives you something to stand behind.
âThatâs not what I asked.â He doesnât push past that, but he doesnât let it disappear either. His eyes remain on your face, patient and tired. The concern makes you feel more exposed than Benâs staring ever has, which is annoying in a completely different way.
For a second, the hum of the bar fridge seems louder. You know what he means. Everyone knows what he means. He isnât asking whether you can carry whiskey to the penthouse. Heâs asking whether the man upstairs is more trouble than usual tonight, whether the line between difficult guest and dangerous man feels thinner than it should. Itâs a kind question in a place where kindness usually gets rationed. You soften a little despite yourself. âIâm sure.â
The bartender studies you for another second, then nods. âRadio if you need anything.â He taps the small device clipped near your waist with two fingers, not touching you, just reminding you itâs there. âI mean it.â
âI know.â You adjust the tray in your hands. The weight settles into your palms, cold metal against warm skin. âIâll be fine.â
âAnd donât let him wind you up.â The bartender points at you like this is something you can control through willpower alone. âHe does it because you react.â His face says he knows thatâs exactly the problem.
You lift the tray. âThatâs literally his only hobby.â The bottle shifts, and you steady it without looking. âWell, that and making everyone regret learning his room number.â The bartender laughs again, but it fades before you reach the door.
The weight settles into your hands, familiar and balanced. You carry it out through the service corridor, slow enough not to spill, fast enough not to give yourself time to think too much. The order slip lies folded beside the bottle, his room number printed in black like a dare.
You pass housekeeping on the way, two women pushing a cart piled with towels and sheets. One of them sees the bottle, sees your face, and makes a sympathetic little sound. âPenthouse?â
âUnfortunately.â You keep walking because stopping will only invite more comments and you arenât sure you can keep your face neutral. The tray is steady, but your thoughts arenât. The word two keeps flickering through them like a faulty light.
âTell him weâre out of towels forever.â She says it with the flat seriousness of someone who has seen what he does to hotel linen. Her coworker mutters something in another language under her breath that sounds exactly like agreement. The cart squeaks as they push it past you.
âIâll put that in the guest notes.â You give her a quick smile. Itâs small, but itâs real. Everyone down here survives by turning misery into jokes before it can turn into crying.
âYou joke, but I mean it.â She points one folded towel at you like a warning. âForever. No towels. Not a single one in the building.â Then she keeps moving because housekeeping doesnât get the luxury of dramatic exits.
You smile, but it fades once you reach the private lift. The lobby is quieter now, the lost couple gone, the front desk pretending not to watch you. The night manager looks up from his paperwork. The clerk gives you a small nod, not quite encouragement, not quite apology.
You shift the tray onto one hand long enough to press the lift button with the other. For a moment, nothing happens. Then the doors open soundlessly, revealing mirrored walls, gold trim, and carpet so thick it seems designed to swallow footsteps and secrets.
You step inside. The tray feels heavier in the silence. Your reflection steps in with you from every wall, calm-faced and tired-eyed and holding a bottle worth more than your rent. The doors begin to close before you can change your mind.
The doors close. The lobby disappears into a thin gold line. The last thing you see is the clerk watching you with her mouth pressed tight. Then thereâs only the mirrored lift and the soft mechanical rise beneath your feet.
For the first few floors, you stare straight ahead at your reflection. You look composed because youâve had years of practice arranging yourself into something palatable. Hair neat enough. Lipstick still holding. Uniform smooth despite the long shift.
Name badge straight. Tray steady. Nothing in the mirror says your pulse has changed. Nothing says the words two glasses are still sitting in the back of your mind like a hand on your waist.
Nothing says youâre already thinking about how heâll answer the door, whether heâll be dressed, whether heâll smile like he knew youâd come because everyone always does.
The lift rises too smoothly, the numbers glowing one after another above the doors. Twenty-one. Twenty-two. Twenty-three. The hotel gets quieter the higher you go, as if wealth has soundproofing built into it. By the time the lift reaches the penthouse floor, you can hear your own breathing. You hate that too. You inhale once, slow and measured, then step out when the doors open.
The penthouse corridor is empty. It always is at this hour. Empty doesnât make it feel safer, though. Empty just means there are fewer witnesses.
It always feels different up here. The carpet is darker, softer, the walls lined with muted artwork nobody is meant to actually look at. The lighting is warmer, lower, more flattering, like even the hallway has been paid to keep secrets.
There are no ice machines humming, no children running, no drunk conference guests laughing too loudly near vending machines. Just silence, expensive and deliberate. At the end of the corridor, his door waits beneath its discreet brass number.
You walk toward it with the tray balanced in both hands, each step too quiet to feel real. The whiskey bottle catches the light. The two glasses chime softly against each other once, and the sound makes your jaw tighten.
You stop outside his suite. Your hands donât shake, which feels like a victory too small to celebrate. The music inside reaches you through the door, low and rough and old-fashioned enough to sound like him. You stand there for half a breath longer than necessary, hating that you need even that much time.
For half a second, you do nothing. You listen. Thereâs music inside, low and old, something with a slow guitar line and a voice roughened by smoke. Not loud enough for a complaint yet, but loud enough to tell you heâs awake, restless, waiting. You can smell smoke before the door even opens, not strong, but there, threaded beneath the expensive hallway air. You raise your hand, knuckles hovering near the wood.
Take the whiskey. Say good evening. Put the tray down. Leave.
You knock. The sound is polite, measured, and softer than the way your heart answers it. You lower your hand back to the tray. The glasses whisper against each other again, barely loud enough to count.
Thereâs no answer at first. The silence stretches just long enough to feel intentional. You picture him inside, hearing you, deciding how long to make you wait. The thought irritates you because you know youâre probably right.
Then his voice comes through the door, low and lazy. âCome in.â Two words, and somehow they still manage to sound like an order. They roll through the wood with the kind of confidence that assumes the world has already unlocked itself for him.
You close your eyes for one brief second, because of course he couldnât just open the door like a normal guest. The suite uses a privacy latch unless unlocked from inside, which means heâs already left it ready for you. That knowledge should irritate you more than it warms your face. You shift the tray carefully, reach for the handle, and push the door open with your hip.
The suite is dimmer than the hallway, lit mostly by the city beyond the windows and one lamp glowing near the sitting area. The curtains are open, showing the skyline stretched out beneath the glass, all glittering roads, black sky, and distant lights blurred by a thin mist of rain. The room smells like whiskey already, smoke, expensive soap, and him.
There are papers spread across the coffee table, a jacket thrown over the back of an armchair, a half-empty glass near the windows, and an ashtray that definitely shouldnât exist in a non-smoking hotel. Heâs standing with his back to you near the glass, one hand in the pocket of dark trousers, shirt unbuttoned at the throat like the whole night has been annoying him personally.
âGood evening, sir,â you say. Your voice comes out steady enough to pass inspection. The door closes behind you with a soft click that feels much louder than it is. You keep both hands on the tray and make yourself look at the table instead of at his back.
Ben doesnât turn right away. He lets the greeting sit there. He keeps looking out at the city like he has all the time in the world and half of it belongs to him. The muscles across his shoulders shift once beneath his shirt, slow and lazy, like heâs aware of your eyes without needing to check.
Of course he doesnât. Of course he makes silence do the first bit of work for him. Of course he knows exactly how irritating it is. Of course you refuse to give him the satisfaction of filling it too quickly.
He lets the silence stretch while you step inside, the door closing behind you with a soft, expensive click. Only then does he look over his shoulder. The city light catches the side of his face first, cutting his features into shadow and gold,
all hard jaw, tired eyes, and that familiar mouth that always looks like itâs one bad thought away from saying something unforgivable. His gaze drops to the tray, then to your hands, then up to your face. He looks amused already.
âTook you long enough,â he says. His voice is rough, low, and casual enough to be insulting. He turns just a little more, making no move to help you with the tray. The corner of his mouth lifts like heâs been waiting to see whether youâd bite.
You walk to the table and set the tray down with more care than he deserves. âI was helping another guest.â You straighten the bottle once, mostly because the movement gives your hands something to do. Then you lift your eyes to his, calm and polished and not nearly as unaffected as you look.
âThat right?â His gaze sharpens a fraction. Itâs a small change, but you catch it. He says it like another guest is a personal offense heâs deciding whether to forgive.
âYes, sir.â You fold your hands loosely in front of you. The word sir feels different with him than it did in the lobby. With everyone else, itâs service. With him, it feels like a match being struck.
His eyes narrow slightly, not angry yet, but interested in the ugliest possible way. âMustâve been important.â He moves away from the window by a step. Then another. The room seems to tighten around the sound of him crossing it.
âHe was lost.â You keep your tone neutral. Itâs the same voice you used downstairs, but it feels less useful here. Up here, politeness doesnât feel like armor so much as lace over a bruise.
Ben turns from the window fully now, slow and broad-shouldered, the open collar of his shirt shifting as he moves. âAnd youâre in the business of rescuing lost men?â His eyes drop briefly to your name badge, then lower, then return to your face. He doesnât hide any of it because hiding would imply shame.
You straighten beside the table, smoothing your hands over your skirt because you need something to do with them. âIâm in the business of giving directions.â Your voice stays cool. Your pulse does not.
He smiles then, faint and dangerous. âGood,â he says. He takes one more slow step toward you. âI might need some.â
Ben knew it was a cheap line the second it left his mouth, but he liked the way your eyes narrowed at him anyway. He watched the reaction move through you before you could hide it, the tiny lift of your brows, the faint press of your lips, the way your polite face cracked just enough to show the woman underneath the uniform.
You didnât give him the blush he was aiming for, not fully, but you gave him irritation, and irritation had always looked good on you. Instead of stepping back, you stayed beside the table with your hands smoothing over your skirt like you were physically stopping yourself from saying something rude.
That amused him more than it shouldâve. Most of the staff treated him like a fire alarm that had learned to drink and complain. You looked at him like he was a guest, a problem, and a man youâd happily shove into the service lift if the cameras went out. âTry reception, sir,â you said, your voice neat enough to pass as manners and sharp enough to cut him anyway.
Ben smiled because there it was, that little bite he kept ordering whiskey to hear. He moved closer to the table, slow enough that he could watch whether youâd retreat, but you didnât give him that either. You stood your ground while the city glowed behind him, the tray between you, the expensive bottle catching the lamp light like something sinful and useless.
The way you held yourself was almost funny to him, straight spine, tired eyes, chin up, as if hotel training and stubbornness could count as armor. Maybe on anyone else, it wouldnât have. On you, it worked just enough to make him want to test it.
âReceptionâs been useless all night,â he said, letting his gaze drift over your face with deliberate laziness. âThey keep sending me people who apologize too much.â His mouth twitched when your expression went flatter, because he could practically hear the argument loading behind your teeth.
âYou do make people feel like apologizing,â you said, reaching for one of the tumblers and setting it down with careful precision. Ben watched your fingers because heâd started doing that lately, watching the small competent movements you probably didnât think twice about.
You opened the bottle without asking whether he wanted you to, and something about that confidence pleased him in a way he didnât bother naming. The soft glug of whiskey filled the silence between you, dark and smooth, and he let the sound stretch before answering. âThat your professional opinion?â he asked.
You poured just enough, not too much, not too little, because of course youâd learned his preferences despite pretending he wasnât worth remembering. âItâs my unpaid emotional observation,â you said, setting the bottle down again. Ben laughed under his breath, not because it was polite, but because he hadnât expected you to say it that cleanly.
He liked you better when you forgot to be careful, and that was becoming a problem. Careful you was polished, measured, and irritatingly good at leaving before he got what he wanted from the conversation.
Uncareful you looked at him like heâd personally shortened your lifespan, and Ben found that version far more interesting. He picked up the glass but didnât drink from it, only turned it once in his hand while watching you watch the movement.
âYou always this mouthy with guests?â he asked. You glanced at the glass, then back at him, and your smile was so small it barely counted. âOnly the ones who mistake staff for entertainment,â you said. Benâs eyes sharpened because that one landed closer than you probably intended, and he liked it too much to pretend otherwise.
âIf I wanted entertainment, sweetheart, Iâd pay for better lighting,â Ben said, gesturing vaguely at the dim room. He expected you to roll your eyes, maybe mutter something under your breath, but you only looked at him with that calm, unimpressed face that made him feel like he was the one being handled.
You reached for the second glass, the unused one, and shifted it slightly away from the edge of the table like you didnât trust him not to break that too. He noticed, of course he noticed, and the corner of his mouth pulled higher.
âWorried about the glass?â he asked. âIâm worried about the paperwork,â you replied. âThe glass can be replaced.â Ben tipped his head, studying you over the rim of his drink, and decided your kind of honesty was more dangerous than the polite fear he usually got.
He took one swallow of whiskey and let it burn slow, not because he needed it, but because it gave him time to look at you. Your uniform was still neat despite the hour, but he could see the small evidence of a long shift if he cared to look, the faint crease at your waist, the tired set of your shoulders, the slight smudge near the edge of your lipstick.
Ben did care to look, which annoyed him. He preferred wanting things simply, cleanly, with no stray details catching on his attention afterward. You were not simple, and that made him feel almost inconvenienced. âYou look tired,â he said, and it came out rougher than he meant it to. âThat your attempt at concern, sir?â you asked. âNeeds work.â
Benâs laugh came quicker that time, low and surprised, and he saw your mouth twitch like you hated giving him even that much. He stepped closer again, close enough now that the table no longer felt like a boundary, only furniture.
You looked up at him without moving, and that stubborn little refusal to be intimidated worked under his skin like heat. âYou got a comment for everything?â he asked. âOnly when inspired,â you said.
âAnd you find me inspiring?â he asked, voice lowering around the word because he couldnât help himself. You gave him a look that wouldâve humbled a better man. âI find you repetitive.â
That shouldâve irritated him, but Ben had always enjoyed being challenged by someone who meant it. He was used to people performing defiance for a few seconds before remembering who paid for the room, who tipped too much, who could complain loudly enough to make managers sweat.
You didnât perform it. You simply looked at him, tired and bright-eyed and done with his nonsense in a way that made him want to drag another ten minutes out of you. âRepetitive,â he repeated, tasting the word like an insult he might keep.
âYes, sir,â you said. âWhiskey, complaints, smoke, impossible hours, unnecessary comments, and making everyone downstairs wish the private lift would break.â Ben smiled slowly, because hearing you list his sins with that service-trained voice of yours was indecently satisfying. âYou been keeping track of me?â
Your face shifted for half a second, just long enough for him to know heâd caught something. Not embarrassment exactly, but awareness, the hot little second where both of you understood there was a difference between noticing a difficult guest and knowing his patterns.
You recovered quickly, because of course you did. âItâs hard not to when you make yourself the buildingâs main emergency,â you said. Ben set his glass down with deliberate care, then braced one hand on the table, leaning just enough to make the air between you smaller.
âMaybe I like knowing youâre paying attention,â he said. Your eyes dropped to his hand, then returned to his face. âThat sounds like something you should discuss with a professional.â
Benâs grin widened, but something in him tightened too, because you kept slipping out of the shapes he tried to put you in. He wanted you flustered, but you turned sharp. He wanted you obedient, but you turned formal. He wanted you honest, but you gave him sarcasm polished so smooth the hotel couldâve served it on a silver tray.
âCareful,â he said, softer now, because softer usually made people listen harder. âYou talk to every man like that, youâre gonna get yourself in trouble.â
You stared at him for a beat, and he knew before you spoke that heâd nudged too close to something real. âNo, sir,â you said, your voice colder than before. âOnly the ones who think trouble is a personality.â
For a second, Ben almost admired the restraint it mustâve taken not to say worse. He could see it in you, the little storm gathering behind your eyes, the way your fingers flexed once at your side. It made him want to push, because Ben had never been good at leaving a bruise alone once he knew where it was.
âThat what you think I am?â he asked. You leaned down to pick up the tray, your movements controlled, but your patience had started to fray at the edges.
âI think youâre a guest who ordered whiskey,â you said. âAnd I think my job is done.â Ben looked at the tray, then at you, and because he was cruel when curious, he said, âRunning away already, sweetheart?â
You stopped so quickly the tray gave a soft metallic shift in your hands. Ben saw the exact second your temper burned through the last thread of professionalism holding it back.
It was beautiful in the worst way, your eyes bright, your jaw set, your whole tired body suddenly alive with the kind of anger money couldnât buy and manners couldnât bury. You set the tray back down, slowly enough that he knew heâd won something dangerous and stupid.
âDo not call me that like you know me,â you said. He shouldâve backed off, but Ben had never known when to stop touching the stove. âI know enough,â he said, voice low, smug, and one shade too intimate. Then you stepped right into his space, lifted your hand, and poked him hard in the chest.
Your finger lands against his chest, and for the first time all night, Ben doesnât immediately have something to say. He looks down at the place where youâve touched him, not because it hurts, but because the nerve of it hits harder than pressure ever could.
There are very few people in his life who would put a hand on him without permission, and fewer still who would do it while wearing a hotel uniform and glaring like theyâre personally offended by his existence.
Youâre close enough now that the scent of your perfume threads beneath the smoke and whiskey in the room, soft, clean, completely at odds with the fury in your face. Benâs gaze lifts slowly, and when he meets your eyes, he sees the exact thing that keeps pulling him back to you.
Not fear. Not obedience. Not the polished little smile everyone else gives him when theyâre trying to survive the conversation. Just you, angry and breathing too fast, looking like youâve decided heâs not too rich, too dangerous, or too much of anything to be told off.
âDid that make you feel better?â he asks, voice low, amused, and a little rough around the edges.
You donât take your hand back right away, which Ben notices because he notices everything about you when he shouldnât. âNot as much as Iâd hoped,â you say, your finger still pressed to the open part of his shirt.
Your voice is steady, but thereâs heat under it, frustration youâve been swallowing since the lift doors closed behind you. âYou have a very irritating face, sir.â
Benâs mouth twitches, not quite a smile, because thatâs new. Heâs been called worse by men with guns, lawyers with ulcers, and women who knew him well enough to mean it, but from you, it sounds almost intimate.
âMy face?â he repeats. You finally lower your hand, only to point at him again like heâs evidence in a case youâre determined to win. âYes. That thing you do with it.â
Ben should let you leave, but the thought is so brief it barely counts as restraint. He watches you try to recover the shape of professionalism, watches your shoulders pull back and your chin lift, watches you reach for composure the way some people reach for a weapon. Youâre good at it, but not good enough tonight.
He can see the anger still bright in your eyes, the pulse at the side of your throat, the way your lips press together like there are five worse things trying to get out. He likes that too much. It irritates him that he likes it.
Every time you come up here, he tells himself heâs only bored, only playing, only enjoying the one member of staff who hasnât learned to lower her gaze when he speaks. Then you look at him like that, and Ben remembers boredom has never once made him feel this awake.
âYou always this dramatic over a drink order?â he asks.
You laugh, sharp and disbelieving, and take one step back like distance might help you keep hold of yourself. âA drink order?â you repeat, staring at him like heâs just said something deeply stupid.
âYou call upstairs at nearly two in the morning, ask for a bottle that costs more than half the staffâs rent, request two glasses like youâre hosting some tragic little midnight ceremony, then act like Iâm the dramatic one.â Benâs eyes narrow with interest at the word tragic, because you donât throw it carelessly.
You donât speak like the others, all careful hospitality phrases and rehearsed apologies. Your annoyance has thought behind it. Your sharpness has aim. âThatâs a lot of judgment for someone still standing in my room,â he says.
You should leave then, and the knowledge of it sits in the room like a third person. The door is behind you, unlocked, silent, perfectly available. The tray is empty except for the bottle, the glasses, the neat little napkins arranged like this is still service and not whatever this has turned into.
You could pick it up, say goodnight, and go back downstairs before the night manager gets anxious enough to check the cameras. You could return to the lobby, make some dry comment to the clerk, pretend nothing about this man has gotten beneath your skin.
Instead, you stay where you are, hands flexing once at your sides. âBecause Iâm still on shift,â you say. Ben tilts his head. âThat the only reason?â
The question lands exactly where he wants it to, and you hate him for how easily he finds the seam. Your face doesnât collapse, but it changes, just enough to tell him heâs touched something real. The worst part is not that heâs arrogant, or that heâs smug, or that he wears entitlement like a tailored jacket.
The worst part is that it shouldnât work on you. Men like him usually make you bored within seconds, all money and posture and the same dead-eyed hunger for control.
You know how to handle them. You know when to smile, when to step aside, when to go still until they lose interest. Ben doesnât make you go still. Ben makes you want to argue until your throat hurts, and somehow that feels more dangerous than anything else.
âYou really think highly of yourself,â you say.
âIâve got evidence,â Ben says.
You glance around the suite, taking in the expensive furniture, the glass walls, the ruined ashtray, the whiskey, the scattered papers, the obscene quiet money has bought him. âYouâve got receipts,â you say. âThatâs different.â Ben laughs before he can stop himself, and the sound seems to annoy both of you.
It annoys you because you donât want to amuse him. It annoys him because he doesnât want you to be funny. He steps closer again, and this time thereâs no table between you. You donât retreat, though your eyes flick briefly to his chest like you remember exactly how warm he felt beneath your finger. Ben sees that too.
There is something about your refusal to fear him properly that gets worse for Ben every time. At first, it entertained him because he thought it would break eventually. Everyone broke a little around him, even the brave ones, because money and temper and reputation worked like pressure over time.
But you kept coming back with that tired, stubborn face, answering him like he was nothing more than a difficult line item on a shift report. It angered him in ways he didnât expect.
It made him want to provoke you, corner you conversationally, drag out every spark until you had no choice but to show him what lived beneath your neat uniform and softer voice. It also impressed him, and that was harder to forgive. Ben did not like being impressed by people he was trying to unsettle.
âYou should be smarter than this,â he says, quieter now.
Your eyes sharpen immediately. âSmarter than what?â
âStanding this close to someone you claim you canât stand.â
Your breath catches, barely, but Ben is close enough to catch it. That small sound goes through him like the first pull of a lit match, quick and dangerous and impossible to ignore.
You look away for half a second, toward the window, toward the city smeared with rain beyond the glass, like the view might remind you who you were before you stepped into his room.
When you look back, your expression is colder, but your cheeks are warmer. âI donât claim anything,â you say. âIâm simply trying not to say something thatâll make your guest profile even longer.â Ben smiles slowly. âNow that sounds worth hearing.â
You take a step toward him, not away, and it shifts everything. Itâs supposed to be confrontational. It is confrontational. But proximity doesnât care about intention, and suddenly the space between you is small enough for heat to pass through.
You lift your hand again, not quite touching him this time, your finger hovering close to his chest as if youâre threatening the gesture more than repeating it.
âYou donât get to keep pushing people just because everyone keeps deciding your money is worth the headache,â you say. Ben looks down at your hand, then back at your face. âAnd you donât get to pretend youâre only here because of the job.â The words hit, and your hand finally lands against him again.
This touch is different from the first one, less sharp, more accidental in the way neither of you believes. Your palm flattens against his chest for one second before you seem to realize what youâve done. Ben feels the heat of it through the thin gap in his shirt, feels your fingers tense like youâre deciding whether to shove him back or keep him there.
He could move away. You could move away. Neither of you does. âDonât,â you say, but the word has lost some of its edge. Benâs gaze drops to your mouth, and when it rises again, his voice is lower. âDonât what?â
You donât answer quickly enough. Thatâs the problem. Youâve got a dozen sharp responses ready when he irritates you, but now the silence catches, thick and charged, because the argument has stopped being only an argument.
You can feel it in the way heâs standing, close enough that his shirt brushes your knuckles every time he breathes. You can feel it in yourself too, in the heat spreading beneath your skin, in the humiliating pull low in your stomach, in the way anger and want have started borrowing the same pulse.
It infuriates you because youâre not some reckless idiot undone by a rich man with a pretty mouth and a terrible attitude. Except Ben is looking at you like he sees the lie before you can fully build it. That makes you want to hurt his feelings. That makes you want to kiss him worse.
âYouâre enjoying this,â you say.
Benâs eyes stay on yours. âSo are you.â
âNo.â
âBad answer.â
Your laugh is quiet, furious, and breathless. âYouâre unbelievable.â The word comes out less like an insult and more like an accusation against your own judgment.
Ben leans in a fraction, close enough that you notice the faint shadow of stubble along his jaw, the tired darkness under his eyes, the controlled way he holds himself like heâs one decision away from doing something neither of you can undo.
âYou keep saying things like that,â he murmurs. âStill havenât left.â Your fingers curl against his shirt before you catch yourself. Ben feels it. Of course he feels it.
He lifts one hand slowly, giving you time to stop him, and closes his fingers around your wrist again. Not hard. Not trapping. Just enough contact to make your body go still in that sudden, aware way that has nothing to do with fear. His thumb rests over your pulse, and the fact that itâs beating fast does something ugly to his self-control.
Benâs own temper has changed shape, no longer just irritation, no longer just amusement. You make him angry because you answer back. You make him curious because you donât crumble after. You make him want because you stand close enough to be touched and still look at him like touching you would cost him.
âYour pulse says youâre lying,â he says. Your eyes drop to his hand around your wrist. âYour hand says youâre overconfident.â
His mouth curves. âMaybe.â Your gaze lifts again, fierce and bright. âDefinitely.â
The exchange should be ridiculous, but thereâs nothing ridiculous about the way the room has gone quiet around you. The rain strokes lightly against the windows, the music hums low from somewhere near the sitting area, and the whiskey sits abandoned like it was never the point.
Benâs fingers loosen, but he doesnât let go completely, and you donât pull free completely either. Your free hand rises between you, not as a shove this time, not as an accusation, but because the space is too small and your body needs somewhere to put the feeling.
It lands against his shoulder. His jaw tightens. You notice, and something in your expression shifts with sharp, unwilling satisfaction. âOh,â you say softly. âYou donât like being handled either.â
Benâs eyes darken. âWatch it.â
You smile then, small and dangerous, because now youâve found something too. âThere you are.â
The words hit him cleanly, and for a second, Ben understands exactly why you keep getting under his skin. You donât just resist him. You study him back. You catch the little reactions he normally buries beneath money, threat, and practiced arrogance.
You see the places where he isnât as untouched as he likes pretending to be, and you donât look away once youâve found them. That should make him furious. It does make him furious. It also makes him want to hear his name in your mouth without that polished little sir attached to it. âYouâre getting bold,â he says.
âYouâre getting predictable,â you answer.
His hand shifts from your wrist, his fingers brushing the inside of your forearm before he catches himself. Itâs barely anything, but barely anything feels obscene when both of you are pretending not to notice. You inhale, and your chest brushes his for one brief second. Benâs eyes flicker. Your mouth parts like youâre about to tell him off again, but no words come out fast enough.
The closer you get, the less useful language becomes, which is deeply inconvenient for two people whoâve been using it like a blade all night. He leans in, and you donât step back. You tilt your chin up instead, stubborn to the end, even when the end is his mouth almost touching yours.
âYouâre impossible,â you whisper.
âYou like impossible.â
âI like peace.â
âNo, you like winning.â
Your eyes narrow, but thereâs no real distance left for the anger to travel. âAnd you like being difficult enough that people mistake it for depth.â Ben huffs a quiet laugh, his breath brushing your lips this time, and the contact is so slight it makes your whole body tense.
âThat one almost hurt,â he says. âI can try harder,â you answer. âI know,â he says, and the way he says it is quieter than anything before it. Itâs not mocking this time. Itâs almost admiring, which somehow feels worse.
Ben looks at you then, really looks, and every argument heâd planned dissolves into the unbearable closeness of your mouth. He thinks about the first time you walked into his room and didnât flinch when he spoke too sharply. He thinks about every glass you poured, every dry response, every time you left before he was done watching you.
He thinks about how you anger him because you make him feel denied without ever offering him anything in the first place. He thinks about how badly he wants to ruin that composure and how much he wants you to keep fighting him while he does.
Your palm is still on his chest, and his hand is still at your arm, and the contact feels less accidental with every second neither of you breaks it. âYou should go,â he says, even though he doesnât move. âYou should stop giving orders you donât mean,â you answer, and your lips almost brush his on the last word.
Neither of you knows who kisses who first, because thereâs no clean beginning to it. One second, your mouth is hovering too close to his, your last warning trembling between you like a wire pulled tight. The next, Ben is kissing you, or youâre kissing him, and both versions feel equally guilty.
His mouth crashes against yours with the same arrogance he uses for everything else, hard, hot, and completely unwilling to ask permission from the tension youâve both been feeding all night. Your fingers curl into his open shirt, dragging him closer even while your body swears youâre still angry.
Ben makes a rough sound into your mouth when your nails catch his skin beneath the fabric. The kiss tastes like whiskey, smoke, and the kind of mistake you can feel getting worse with every second. His hand clamps at your waist, pulling you in until your body hits his with a force that steals your breath. You hate that the first thing you think is that he feels exactly as solid as he looks.
âArrogant,â you breathe against his mouth, but youâre kissing him again before the word has any chance to land. Benâs laugh scrapes over your lips, low and satisfied, and the sound makes you want to bite him just to wipe it away.
âSharp little mouth,â he mutters, his teeth catching your lower lip like heâs testing how much youâll let him take. You shove at his chest, but your hand stays there, palm spread over hot skin and muscle beneath the half-open shirt.
âDonât compliment yourself through me,â you snap. He kisses you harder for that, one hand sliding up your back while the other digs into your hip. âStill talking,â he says, voice rough against your mouth.
âStill annoying,â you shoot back, and the words smear into the next kiss until they barely sound like words at all. The argument doesnât stop so much as turn physical, every insult pressed between lips, every breath caught against teeth.
Benâs shirt is the first thing to lose the fight. You grip the open sides of it and drag him forward, fabric pulling tight across his shoulders as your mouth moves messily against his.
He reaches for your blouse at the same time, fingers finding the buttons with more impatience than care. You slap his hand once without breaking the kiss, and he actually laughs into your mouth.
âThatâs uniform property,â you say, breathless and furious. âThen stop wearing it in my room,â he says, like thatâs an answer. âItâs literally my job.â âBad career choice,â he mutters, and you yank his shirt harder in retaliation. One button slips loose, then another, and Benâs chest starts to appear under your hands like something youâve been trying not to imagine since the first night he opened the door.
He gets your blouse open more slowly after that, not because he suddenly finds manners, but because he wants to watch. His fingers work each button free while his mouth keeps finding yours, your jaw, the corner of your lips, anywhere he can reach without looking away for long.
The air touches the center of your chest first, cool against skin made too warm by kissing and anger. You feel the fabric part, feel the hotel uniform stop feeling like armor and start feeling like something being peeled off you by a man you still havenât stopped glaring at.
Benâs eyes drop to your bra, to the soft weight of your boobs held in place beneath simple fabric, and his grip tightens for half a second at your waist. âDonât look so proud of yourself,â you say. âIâm not proud yet,â he says. Your breath catches despite yourself, and he notices because of course he does. You shove his shirt down his arms before he can say anything worse.
His bare chest is hot under your hands, all hard planes, old scars, and arrogance made physical. You drag your palms over him, then your nails, slow enough to feel every shift of muscle beneath your touch. Benâs jaw tightens when your nails rake down from his chest toward his stomach, leaving red lines in their wake.
The marks rise quickly, bright against his skin, and the sight makes something satisfied and vicious bloom inside you. âThat all youâve got?â he asks, but his voice is rougher now. You scratch him again, harder, watching his abdomen tense under your fingers.
âYouâre very demanding for someone getting improved for free,â you say. He grabs your hip and pulls you flush against him, swallowing your next breath with another brutal kiss. This time, when his cock presses against you through his trousers, the hard line of it makes your thighs tighten before you can stop them.
Ben feels that little shift and smiles against your mouth like a bastard. One hand slides down your side, over the crease of your waist, to the hem of your skirt. His fingers push beneath the fabric, slow and deliberate, grazing bare thigh first, then higher.
You go still for half a second, not from fear, but from the sudden, sickening awareness of how badly your body wants him to keep going. He pauses there, giving you the chance to move away, and somehow that annoys you almost as much as if he hadnât.
âDonât get considerate now,â you breathe. His eyes flicker, dark and amused. âWouldnât dream of ruining the mood,â he says. Then his fingers brush over the front of your panties, and every sharp thing in your head briefly goes quiet.
The fabric is wet beneath his touch, embarrassingly wet, and Ben feels it the same second you do. His fingers drag slowly over the damp patch, tracing the cling of it where your panties press against your pussy lips. Your face burns hot, but your body betrays you by leaning into the touch, hips shifting by a fraction before your pride can stop it. Benâs eyes lock onto yours, hungry and far too pleased.
âAll this from arguing?â he asks. âAll this from being irritated,â you snap, but your voice has lost some of its bite. He presses two fingers more firmly against the soaked fabric, not pushing inside, just rubbing over the wet cotton until your breath stutters.
The pressure makes your trimmed bush rub lightly against the lace beneath, the neat curls already damp where your arousal has spread. You hate that he can feel how turned on you are before heâs even properly touched you.
You answer by reaching down between you and palming him through his trousers. Benâs reaction is immediate, a sharp inhale through his nose and a rough tightening of his hand at your hip. His cock is thick and hard under your palm, straining against the fabric, hot even through the layers.
You stroke him once through the front of his trousers, slow and mean, just to watch his expression falter. The smugness doesnât vanish completely, but it cracks enough to make your pulse jump. âWhatâs wrong?â you ask, looking up at him through your lashes. âNo comment?â His mouth presses into a hard line before curving again. âKeep that up,â he says, voice low, âand Iâll give you plenty to comment on.â
Your fingers find his belt before he can make good on that threat. The leather is warm from his body, the buckle heavy and expensive under your hands, and you hate how much you like undoing it.
Ben keeps kissing you while you work at it, his mouth moving down your jaw, then your throat, then the sensitive place just below your ear. You fumble once when he bites there, and he laughs softly against your skin.
âFocus,â he murmurs. âStop distracting me,â you say. âNo.â You get the buckle open and pull the belt free in one sharp motion, the sound of leather sliding through loops cutting through the room. Benâs hand moves beneath your skirt again at the same time, fingers stroking over your wet panties like heâs memorizing the damage.
The room narrows to hands and mouths and fabric giving way. You push his trousers down his hips, and he helps only when impatience wins over pride. His underwear follows halfway, enough for his cock to spring heavy against the lower part of his stomach, flushed and hard and already slick at the tip.
You donât even mean to stare, but you do, and Ben watches you do it with heat burning through his expression. He reaches behind you and unclips your bra with surprising ease, then drags the straps down your arms one at a time.
Your boobs spill free into the cool air, heavy and soft, nipples already tight from the room and his attention. Benâs hands come up immediately, palms covering you, thumbs brushing over your nipples until your back arches into him. âStill irritated?â he asks. âDeeply,â you breathe, and the answer turns into a gasp when his mouth closes over one nipple.
His mouth is hot on your chest, rougher than careful but careful enough to make it worse. He kisses over the swell of your boobs, bites lightly at the soft skin, then soothes each mark with his tongue like heâs apologizing only to do it again.
Your hands go into his hair, pulling hard enough that he groans against you. The sound drops straight through you, settling between your thighs where your panties are clinging wetly to your pussy. You can feel every step of your own arousal in real time, the slick heat spreading, the fabric sticking, your trimmed bush damp beneath the ruined lace.
Benâs fingers slip under the waistband of your panties, then pause. His eyes lift to yours, and the pause feels more obscene than a touch. âSay something,â he says. You tug his hair until his mouth comes back up toward yours and answer, âTake them off before I change my mind.â
He takes them off like heâs been waiting all night to do it. His fingers hook into the sides and drag them down your thighs, slow enough for the wet fabric to pull away from your pussy in a way that makes your whole face heat.
Ben looks down as the lace slides past the neat, trimmed curls between your thighs, and his expression turns darker, quieter, more focused. You step out of them, feeling exposed, slick, and furious about how much you like the way he looks at you.
Your pussy is bare except for the trimmed bush above it, wet and swollen from the kissing, the touching, the stupid argument neither of you could walk away from. Benâs gaze lingers there for one heavy second before dragging back up your body, over your thighs, your stomach, your boobs, your mouth.
He looks less amused now. Hungrier. You shove at his chest again because if he keeps staring like that, youâre going to forget how to breathe.
Ben falls back onto the bed because you push him and because he lets you. The mattress dips beneath him, expensive sheets rumpling around his hips as he lands with a short, rough laugh. His cock lies hard against his stomach, thick and flushed, the tip glossy with precum under the low suite light.
The red lines from your nails mark his chest, some shallow, some brighter, each one moving slightly as he breathes. You stand at the edge of the bed for one second, naked in front of him, your boobs rising and falling with every uneven breath, your thighs parted just enough for the slick shine of your pussy to catch his eyes again.
Ben looks at you like he wants to devour the whole fight out of you. You climb onto the bed before he can speak, knees sinking into the mattress between his legs. âDonât start,â you say. His smile is slow and dangerous. âHavenât even opened my mouth.â
You kneel between his thighs, biting your lip as you look up at him, and for once Ben doesnât look entirely in control. His cock is right there in front of you, long, thick, and heavy, twitching once as your gaze moves down it. You can see the veins along the shaft, the darker flush at the head, the slick bead of precum gathering and catching the light.
Your mouth goes dry at the sight of him while your pussy gets wetter, open and aching between your thighs, slick gathering against the trimmed curls above it and smearing along your inner thighs when you shift.
Benâs eyes move over you with the same intensity, taking in your bare boobs, your tight nipples, the marks his mouth has left on your skin, the shine between your legs.
His hand rests near his hip, fingers flexing once against the sheets like heâs forcing himself not to grab you too soon. That restraint makes heat pool even heavier inside you.
You lean forward slightly, close enough that your breath touches his cock, and his stomach tenses hard beneath the marks you left. âStill got that much to say?â you ask, voice low, mouth curved around the challenge.
You donât answer him with words. You let your eyes stay on his for one more second, long enough to watch that smugness tighten into something hungrier, then you lower your mouth to him. Benâs breath catches before he can hide it, and that tiny fracture in him makes your thighs press together on instinct.
You start slow at first, kissing the head of his cock, letting your lips drag over the flushed skin while your hand wraps around the base. Heâs hot and heavy in your palm, already slick with precum, the taste of him spreading over your tongue when you lick him once, deliberately, just to hear what kind of sound he makes.
Benâs jaw clenches, his head tipping back against the pillows for half a second before his eyes snap back down to you. He looks furious about how good it feels already. That makes you smile against him.
âDonât look so pleased with yourself,â he mutters, voice rough.
You glance up at him, lips parted around the head of his cock, and hum like youâre thinking about it. The vibration goes through him immediately, his stomach tightening beneath the red lines your nails left behind. You drag your tongue along the underside of him, slow and wet, then spit into your palm and wrap your hand around him again.
The slick sound of your fist stroking him fills the room, obscene and intimate against the low music and rain tapping the windows. Ben watches the spit slide over his cock, watches your hand twist around him, and his expression turns darker by the second.
You can feel your own pussy throbbing between your thighs, wetness slicking your inner skin, your trimmed bush damp from how turned on you are. Every time his cock twitches in your hand, your clit pulses like your bodyâs answering him. You hate how much you like having him like this, hard and breathing wrong because of your mouth.
You take him deeper on the next pass, lips stretching around his thickness, tongue pressing flat beneath him as you ease down. Heâs big enough that you have to concentrate, big enough that your jaw aches almost immediately, big enough that your eyes water before youâve even taken all of him.
Benâs hand moves before he seems to think better of it, fingers threading through your hair, not yanking yet, just holding. The gesture makes your pussy clench around nothing. You look up at him through wet lashes, mouth full of him, and his control visibly slips.
âFuck,â he breathes, and the word sounds like it costs him. His fingers tighten in your hair, careful at first, then less careful when you hollow your cheeks and suck harder. You give him another inch, then another, letting him feel your throat resist.
The gag catches you when you take him all the way down. Your throat tightens around him, eyes watering properly now, spit gathering at the corners of your mouth and sliding down over his shaft. Ben swears under his breath, hips jerking up before he stops himself, one hand fisting the sheets while the other stays tangled in your hair.
You pull back coughing softly, strings of saliva connecting your swollen lips to his cock, and the sight nearly ruins him. He looks at you like he doesnât know whether to praise you or wreck you.
You spit on him again, messier this time, letting it drip over the flushed head before spreading it with your tongue. âJesus,â he mutters, voice low and strained. You smile like youâve found the one way to make him shut up. Then you take him back into your mouth.
This time, Ben guides you. His hand stays in your hair, fingers flexing against your scalp as he sets a rhythm that starts slow and quickly turns rougher. You let him, because the weight of his hand there sends another hot pulse through your pussy, because the low sounds heâs making are better than any insult heâs thrown at you, because you like knowing heâs fighting for control and losing anyway.
His hips start to lift into your mouth, shallow at first, then deeper when you donât pull away. You gag again around him, throat fluttering, and Benâs whole body tenses like the feeling goes straight through his spine. âThatâs it,â he says, the praise sounding reluctant, almost angry. âGood girl. Fuck, look at you.â You whimper around his cock, and the sound comes out wet and muffled, making him curse even harder.
The praise hits you harder than you expect. Your pussy throbs so sharply you shift on your knees, trying to get friction from the mattress beneath you. Slickness smears along your thighs when you move, and the empty ache inside you only gets worse with every rough drag of him over your tongue.
Ben sees the way your hips shift, and even with his cock in your mouth, he manages to look unbearably satisfied. âYouâre getting off on this,â he says, breath ragged, fingers stroking once through your hair before tightening again.
You glare up at him, which would probably work better if your mouth werenât stretched full around him. He laughs, but it breaks halfway into a groan when you swallow around the head of his cock. âYeah,â he grits out. âThat mouthâs still trouble.â
You pull off just enough to breathe, hand replacing your mouth immediately, slick fist stroking him while you press messy kisses along the shaft. Your lips are swollen, spit-shiny, and you can feel how ruined your mouth must look from the way Ben stares at you.
You lick over the head, tasting the salty bead of precum, then take him down again before he can say something thatâll make you want to bite. He fucks up into your mouth harder now, unable or unwilling to keep still, his hand guiding your head while his hips meet you in short, rough thrusts.
The room fills with the wet sound of your mouth on him, your soft gags, his harsh breathing, the filthy drag of spit and tongue and need. You can barely think past the ache in your jaw and the pulsing heat between your legs.
Your whole body feels tuned to him, to the way he twitches, the way he groans, the way his fingers tighten every time your throat takes him deep. It should feel like surrender, but it doesnât. It feels like winning something out of him.
Ben gets close faster than he wants to. You know it by the way his thighs tense beneath your hands, by the way his rhythm starts to break, by the rougher edge in every breath he drags in. His head falls back for one second, mouth open, chest marked and heaving, and the sight makes your pussy clench again, desperate and empty.
You take him deeper, trying to pull him over the edge just because you can, but his hand tightens suddenly in your hair. âStop,â he says, voice wrecked. You donât understand at first, too dazed, mouth still wet around him, until he pulls you off with a rough gentleness that makes you gasp.
Spit breaks between your lips and the flushed head of his cock, leaving your mouth empty and aching. Ben looks down at you with his jaw tight, eyes dark enough to make your stomach flip.
âNot in your mouth,â he says.
You blink up at him, breathless, lips slick and swollen. âWhat?â
He reaches for you before the word has fully settled. âI wanna come inside you.â
The way he says it should sound like another arrogant demand, but thereâs something ragged underneath it, something almost desperate, and it makes heat tear through you so fast your thighs shake. Ben grips under your arms and hauls you up onto the bed like you weigh nothing, manhandling you over him with a strength that makes your breath catch.
You land against his body, knees on either side of his hips for a messy second before he rolls you beneath him. The sheets twist under your back, cool against your overheated skin, while his cock drags wetly against your thigh.
Your pussy is slick and aching, trimmed curls damp, clit throbbing from how long youâve been turned on without being touched properly. Ben braces one hand beside your head and grips your hip with the other, his mouth finding yours in a filthy kiss that tastes like him. He kisses you hard enough to make you forget the argument, then pulls back just far enough to look at you.
âSay yes,â he says, voice low.
You stare up at him, chest rising fast, boobs brushing his marked skin with every breath. His cock presses against your wet pussy, sliding through the slickness without pushing in yet, making both of you shudder. For all his roughness, all his arrogance, he waits.
That waiting makes you feel even hotter, even more ruined, because you can feel how badly he wants to stop waiting. You wrap your legs around his waist and drag your nails lightly over the marks you left on his chest.
His jaw flexes, eyes locked on yours. âYes,â you breathe. âBen, yes.â Then his control snaps, and he drags you closer beneath him like heâs been starving for exactly that.
Ben hears the yes and feels it go through him like something breaking loose. It isnât enough to make him gentle, but itâs enough to make him pause in that narrow, dangerous space between restraint and losing his mind. Youâre under him with your legs around his waist, mouth swollen, eyes bright, skin flushed from arguing, kissing, and having him in your mouth.
His cock is still slick from your spit, wet and heavy in his hand, and the sight of you looking up at him like youâre still trying to win makes his control feel almost laughable. He drags his gaze down your body slowly, over your parted lips, your throat, your boobs rising with every breath, your stomach tightening when he shifts.
Then lower, to where your thighs are spread around him and your pussy is slick, swollen, and open for him beneath the low hotel light. The trimmed bush above it is damp and neat, darker with arousal, framing the glossy heat of you in a way that makes his jaw flex. Ben thinks, with a rough little pulse of satisfaction, that you look exactly as ruined as heâd imagined and somehow twice as defiant.
He wraps one hand around the base of his cock and drags the head down through your slickness without pushing in. The first slide makes both of you breathe differently, your wetness mixing with your spit and the precum already smeared over him. He taps the head of his cock against your clit once, not hard, just enough to make your hips jolt beneath him.
Your mouth opens on a sharp inhale, and Benâs eyes lift to your face like he wants to watch the reaction before he earns the next one. He does it again, slower this time, dragging the flushed head over your clit before tapping it there, smearing everything messily over that sensitive little place until your thighs tremble around his hips.
The slick sound is obscene, soft and wet and impossible to ignore in the quiet room. His thumb tightens around himself when he sees your pussy clench at nothing, the entrance fluttering like your bodyâs already trying to pull him in. âLook at that,â he mutters, voice rough with want. âAll that attitude, and your bodyâs begging before your mouth does.â
You glare up at him, but it doesnât land the way you want it to because your breath is already uneven. Ben likes that, likes the contradiction of you, the sharp look in your eyes and the soft, helpless way your hips keep trying to chase his cock. He drags himself down again, letting the head catch lightly at your entrance before sliding back up to your clit.
Not inside. Not yet. Just enough pressure to make you tense, to make your fingers twist into the sheets, to make your knees tighten at his sides. His free hand moves between your thighs, not to push them wider because theyâre already open for him, but to touch the trimmed curls above your pussy.
He runs his fingers through them slowly, feeling how damp they are beneath his touch. The intimacy of it does something ugly to his chest, makes him feel too focused, too aware of the fact that this isnât some nameless body under him. Itâs you, and that makes the tease feel sharper.
His fingers curl lightly into your bush, tugging just enough to make sensation spark through your body. Your reaction is immediate, a little broken whimper that sounds like pain and pleasure braided together. Ben stills for half a second, eyes locked on your face, reading you with the same sharp attention he uses when men lie to him across tables. The sound you make isnât fear. It isnât refusal.
Itâs startled, needy, furious with itself, and the way your pussy clenches again tells him enough to make his mouth curve. âThere she is,â he says softly, and his voice has gone darker now, less teasing and more affected than he wants to sound.
He tugs again, barely harder, his knuckles brushing the wet heat beneath the trimmed curls. You arch into it and then curse under your breath like you hate that you did. Benâs cock twitches against your clit, smearing more precum over you, and he has to grit his teeth to keep from shoving in.
He teases you until the room feels smaller around both of you. The head of his cock slides over your clit, down to your entrance, back up again, slow and wet and mean. Every pass coats him more, your arousal making his hand slick where he grips himself, your pussy shining under him each time he looks down.
He lets the tip press against your opening, lets it push just enough to make you gasp, then pulls back before your body can take him. Your nails drag over his shoulders, then down his arms, leaving heat in their wake, and Benâs restraint thins with every mark. âBen,â you say, and his name comes out like a warning.
He nearly laughs, but it catches in his throat because hearing you say it like that is almost worse than praise. âWhat?â he asks, dragging himself through your wetness again. âUse that sharp little mouth youâre so proud of.â
You try not to give him what he wants, and Ben can feel the fight in you even like this. Itâs in the way you bite your lip instead of begging, the way you grip his arm instead of pulling him closer, the way your glare keeps returning even while your body rocks up beneath him.
He admires it, which annoys him. Heâs hard enough to ache, slick enough from your mouth and your pussy that every glide feels like torture heâs stupidly chosen for himself. He could end the tease in a second, could push in and finally find out whether you sound as good around him as you did with him in your mouth.
But he wants the surrender from you because it wouldnât be real if he simply took the silence and called it permission. He wants you to say it because youâve spent the whole night acting like words can protect you.
He taps his cock against your clit again, then rubs the head there in a slow, tight circle. Your hips jerk, and the whimper that leaves you is sweeter than heâs prepared for.
âStop teasing,â you breathe, and Benâs eyes sharpen.
âThatâs not asking,â he says.
You look like you might actually bite him for that, and the thought makes him lean closer instead of away. His free hand leaves your bush and slides up your stomach, over your ribs, to your boob, where his palm closes around the soft weight of it.
He rolls your nipple beneath his thumb while his cock keeps sliding through your slick folds, never entering, never giving you enough. Your body arches into both touches at once, and Benâs breath turns rough against your mouth.
He kisses you then, not to soften the moment, but because he wants to feel the sound you make when he presses the head of his cock against your entrance again. You gasp into his mouth, and he holds there, right on the edge, your pussy fluttering around the barest pressure of him. âSay it,â he murmurs against your lips. âTell me what you want.â
For a few seconds, all he hears is your breathing. Itâs fast, shaky, furious, turned on beyond pride, and every part of Ben locks onto it. Your thighs tighten around him, heels digging into his lower back like you want to force him forward even while your mouth refuses to cooperate.
He pulls back just enough to see your face, to watch the exact moment stubbornness starts losing to need. Your eyes are wet-bright, your lips swollen, your boobs marked from his mouth, your pussy slick and trembling beneath the slow grind of his cock.
He tugs gently at your trimmed bush again, just enough to send another sting of pleasure through you, and your whole body jerks. âBen,â you whimper, and his name is almost enough. Almost. He holds himself at your entrance, unmoving, his jaw tight enough to ache. âBeg.â
The word breaks something in you, or maybe the teasing finally does. Your hands grab at his shoulders, nails biting into skin as your hips lift desperately toward him. âFuck me,â you breathe, but it comes out too ragged to sound like a command. Ben doesnât move, and the restraint almost kills him.
âAgain,â he says, voice low, wrecked around the edge. You stare up at him, furious and needy and too far gone to pretend youâre not. âPlease,â you finally gasp, the word catching like it costs you. âPlease, Ben, fuck me already.â
Benâs expression shifts at that, the smugness cracking under a wave of hunger so blunt it makes the air change. He grips your hip harder, lines himself up properly, and drags his mouth close to yours. âGood,â he says, almost breathless. âThatâs what I wanted to hear.â
Ben doesnât give you a soft entry this time. He hears the yes, sees the way your legs tighten around his waist, and whatever patience heâd been pretending to have finally tears loose. His arm braces beside your head, forearm sinking into the mattress, caging you beneath him with his chest pressed hot against yours.
His other hand wraps around your throat, firm and possessive, not stealing your air, but holding you still enough that your whole body understands the shape of him above you. Then he pushes his cock into you in one slow, heavy drive that makes your mouth fall open under his.
He feels you stretch around him, slick and tight, your pussy taking him with that wet, clinging heat that nearly knocks the breath out of him. Your nails bite into his shoulders, and he groans because the sting only makes it better.
He watches your face as he fills you, watches the shock melt into pleasure, watches your stubborn expression crack around the feeling of him inside you. âThatâs it,â he says, voice rough near your mouth, âfeel that?â
You do feel it, too much and not enough at once. His cock is thick enough to make your pussy ache around him, stretching you open with every inch until your body has no choice but to make room. He feels heavy inside you, hot and solid, dragging against every sensitive place when he pulls back just to thrust in again.
The angle is already deep, but Ben is not satisfied with deep. He grabs your thigh, pushes it higher, then hooks one of your legs over his shoulder like heâs deciding exactly how much of you he wants to ruin. Your hips lift helplessly with the motion, and the new angle makes him hit so much deeper that your whole body jolts beneath him.
His hand tightens slightly around your throat when you gasp, not cruel enough to hurt, but rough enough to make your pulse beat against his palm. Ben feels that pulse and curses under his breath. Your pussy clenches around him at the sound, and his eyes darken like heâs just found another way to make you betray yourself.
He starts fucking you in hard, controlled strokes, each thrust driving you up the bed until his arm by your head is the only thing keeping him from fully crushing you. The sheets twist beneath your back, slick skin sliding against expensive cotton, your boobs pressing and bouncing against his chest whenever he drives in.
Your leg stays over his shoulder, bent open for him, making you feel exposed in a way that sends heat crawling up your throat beneath his hand. Ben looks down between your bodies and sees your pussy stretched around his cock, wet and swollen, your trimmed bush damp where his pelvis grinds against you. The sight nearly makes him lose rhythm.
Your slick coats him every time he pulls back, shining on his cock before he shoves back in and buries the mess deeper. âFuck,â he grits out, jaw tight. âYouâre taking me like you needed this.â You try to glare at him, but the next thrust breaks it apart into a moan.
Your hand slips between your bodies because the pressure is too much to ignore. Ben feels your knuckles brush his stomach, then sees your fingers find your clit, already slick from how wet heâs made you. The second you start rubbing yourself, his whole rhythm gets rougher.
He watches your fingers move in tight, desperate circles while his cock keeps pounding into your pussy, and something about the sight makes his hand flex around your throat. âLook at you,â he says, voice low and mean with need. âCouldnât even wait.â Your lips part around a shaky breath, and your fingers press harder against your clit.
The pleasure doubles instantly, his cock dragging deep inside you while your own touch sparks sharp and hot through your nerves. You hate that heâs watching, and you hate even more that being watched makes you wetter.
Benâs body presses you into the mattress, all heat, weight, and force. His arm stays braced beside your head, muscles tense, veins standing out under his skin as he holds himself over you. The hand at your throat keeps you pinned in place while his hips do exactly what they want, rough and steady and unforgiving.
Your leg over his shoulder gives him a perfect angle, and he uses it mercilessly, fucking into you so deep that you feel him in your stomach. Every thrust makes your pussy flutter around him, clenching tight as your fingers keep circling your clit.
The wet sounds between you get louder, filthy and slick, filling the room under the low music and rain against the windows. Benâs cock feels like itâs splitting you open in the best way, thick pressure and dragging heat and that heavy stretch that makes your thoughts scatter. You canât hold onto a single insult long enough to say it. Ben notices and smiles like a bastard.
âNothing clever now?â he asks. His mouth is close enough to yours that the words brush your lips. You try to answer him, but he thrusts in hard before you can shape anything useful. Your nails dig into his back, leaving new marks over the ones already there. Ben groans, rough and low, and fucks you harder for it.
âThatâs better,â he mutters. âUse your hands if your mouthâs useless.â The insult should make you angry, and it does, but your pussy clenches so tightly around him that it turns the anger into something humiliatingly sweet.
Your fingers on your clit falter for half a second, overwhelmed by the way he fills you. Ben notices, grabs your wrist briefly, and presses your hand back down. âKeep rubbing.â
You do, because your body wants it too badly to pretend otherwise. Your fingers slide through your own slick, circling your clit faster now, matching the brutal rhythm of his hips as best as you can. Ben watches the way your stomach tightens every time you touch yourself, watches your boobs bounce with every thrust, watches your face crumple when he hits the angle that makes your voice break.
He feels your pussy pulsing around him, and itâs almost too much. Every tight squeeze drags at his cock, wet heat gripping him like your body is trying to keep him buried there. He shifts his weight, pushes your thigh closer to your chest, and drives in again with a force that makes the headboard knock softly against the wall.
Your mouth opens in a soundless cry. His hand stays around your throat, thumb brushing your jaw like a filthy little mockery of tenderness. âThere,â he says, breath harsh. âThatâs the spot, isnât it?â
You canât deny it because your body answers for you. Your hips jerk up, your fingers press harder against your clit, and your pussy tightens so sharply that Benâs rhythm stutters. He laughs under his breath, but itâs wrecked at the edges, less controlled than he wants it to be.
âYeah,â he says, voice rough with satisfaction. âI felt that.â He fucks into that same spot again and again, each thrust deep, punishing, precise enough to make pleasure start spreading through you in hot, unbearable waves. Your leg trembles against his shoulder, and your other thigh tightens around his hip.
The hand at your throat makes everything feel sharper, every breath, every moan, every pulse of your clit under your fingers. Benâs cock drags inside you with a thick, slick pressure that leaves you feeling full even when he pulls halfway out. When he thrusts back in, you feel claimed by it, stretched by it, undone by it.
Ben is losing control, and he hates how badly you can probably tell. His thrusts turn rougher, less perfectly timed, his hips grinding into yours at the end of every stroke like he canât stand even the smallest distance.
Your pussy is too wet, too tight, too hot around him, and your fingers rubbing your clit make you clench in little helpless pulses that keep dragging him closer. He lowers his mouth to yours, not quite kissing, just breathing there while his hand holds your throat. âYouâre gonna cum,â he says.
You shake your head, stubborn even now, and the denial is so ridiculous he almost smiles. Then he thrusts in hard, grinds deep, and your fingers slip over your clit in one frantic circle. Your whole body jolts. Benâs eyes lock onto yours. âDonât lie to me.â
You try to hold it back, but the pleasure is already too big to swallow. It gathers low and hot inside you, fed by his cock pounding into you, by your fingers on your clit, by his hand around your throat and your leg trapped over his shoulder. Your pussy starts fluttering in quick, desperate squeezes, and Ben feels every one. âThatâs it,â he grits out, almost angry with how good it feels. âCum on my cock.â
The words shove you over the edge. You cum with a broken moan, body arching hard beneath him, fingers still rubbing your clit as the orgasm tears through you.
Your pussy clamps down around his cock in wet, pulsing waves, milking him so tightly that Benâs arm nearly buckles beside your head. He swears into your mouth and keeps fucking you through it, rough, deep strokes dragging out every last shudder.
Your orgasm feels like it splits you open from the inside. It pulses through your clit first, sharp and bright under your fingers, then spreads deeper until your whole pussy is clenching around him. Your thighs shake, your leg slipping slightly over his shoulder before Ben grabs it and holds it there, refusing to let the angle break.
You feel full of him, filled and stretched and overwhelmed, each thrust making the aftershocks hit again. Your trimmed bush is slick against his skin whenever he grinds close, your wetness smeared everywhere between you.
Benâs hand loosens at your throat just enough for his thumb to stroke once along your jaw, but the rest of him is anything but gentle. He looks down at you like heâs watching something he caused and canât stop wanting. âGood,â he says, the praise torn out of him. âFuck, thatâs good.â
Ben is right on the edge now, and your pulsing pussy makes it impossible to pull himself back. He keeps your leg over his shoulder, grips your hip hard with the hand that had been at your throat, and braces himself above you as his thrusts get messy. His cock throbs inside you, thick and desperate, the head dragging deep with every stroke until heâs grinding into you more than thrusting.
Your body is still fluttering around him, still sensitive, still wet enough that every movement sounds obscene. He looks at your face, flushed and ruined, then down at where heâs buried in you, and the sight breaks the last of his control.
âInside,â you breathe, barely above a whisper, but he hears it. Benâs jaw clenches, and his hips drive in once, twice, then hard enough to pin you completely beneath him. âYeah,â he says, voice wrecked. âInside.â
He cums buried deep, his whole body locking over yours as the first pulse tears through him. His cock throbs inside your pussy, spilling hot and heavy while he grinds into you like he wants to press every bit of it deeper.
The sensation makes you gasp, still too sensitive, still clenching around him in weak little aftershocks as he fills you. Ben groans against your throat, rough and broken, his hand gripping your hip so tightly you know youâll feel it later.
Each pulse of cum inside you feels obscene and intimate, warm pressure spreading deep while your body keeps milking him without meaning to. He shudders once, then again, breath ragged against your skin. The room feels impossibly quiet around the sound of both of you falling apart. Rain taps the windows. The whiskey sits untouched on the table like it was never the point at all.
For a while, Ben doesnât move. He stays buried inside you, chest pressed to yours, one arm still braced beside your head while the other hand slides slowly from your hip to your thigh. Your leg slips down from his shoulder, trembling as it hooks loosely around his waist instead. His cock softens gradually inside you, but he doesnât pull out yet, and your pussy flutters faintly around him with the leftover ache of it all.
Youâre both breathing too hard, skin damp, bodies marked, the sheets twisted into a wreck beneath you. Ben lifts his head just enough to look at you, and for once, the smugness doesnât fully make it back onto his face.
You stare up at him with swollen lips, messy hair, and your fingers still resting near your oversensitive clit like your body hasnât remembered how to let go. His thumb brushes the side of your throat where his hand had been, softer now, almost absent. âStill hate me?â he asks, voice rough, and even then, even with him still inside you, you manage to glare.
Bad Performances and Bending Light - Chapter 7: hazy
âŠRead on aO3! - Series Masterlist - Main Masterlist - Chapter SixâŠ
âŠsummary: dean has a visitorâŠ
âŠwarnings/tags: friends to lovers, modern!au, roommate!dean, canon divergence, angst, fluff, pining, drama, no use of y/n or reader descriptionâŠ
âŠauthor's note: fave trope: introducing freinds and they go "ahhh. i know about you"âŠ
You are very bad at saying no to Dean.
The first chance you get is the very next day. Dean asks you to come out with him, to meet Benny.
A little voiceâthat sounds a lot like Charlieâwhispers in your ear.
No. Just say no. Youâre busy. Youâre tired. No.
âOkay.â
Dumbass.
Dean grins. Itâs hard to be that made at yourself because of it. His stupid, charming smile is like a shot of euphoria into your bloodstream.
Benny is a lovely man. You understand why heâs Deanâs friend. Theyâre both ooze the same kind of confidence. The same strange combination of laziness and sheer dedication to everything in the world.
âLook at you.â Benny drawls when he shakes your hand. âDean downplayed your beauty, my lady.â
You smile. Itâs just nice to think Dean would talk about you at all. âHe downplayed yours as well.â
Benny laughs, and Dean clears his throat behind you.
âAlright, thatâs enough hand shaking. Youâre gonna pull each otherâs freakinâ arms off or something.â
He pulls you back, and Bennyâs eyes gleam.
âI was just gettinâ to know her, Dean, no need to start barking.â
âI do not bark-â
âYes, you do.â You giggle. âYou pant, too. And wag your tail when I give you head pats.â
Benny smirks. âHeâs such a good boy, isnât he.â
You hum an agreement, still smiling, and Dean narrows his eyes.
âGlad you two get along.â He grumbles. âCâmon, giggles. Sit down.â
You let him pull you across the barâanother place you couldâve said noâand Benny follows with an amused smirk.
âHave you trained him yet?â Benny teases once your in the booth. âHe is a big fan of treats and⊠other rewards.â
Benny wiggles his brows, and you flush furiously.
âBenny.â Dean uses his deeper, rougher voice. The one that means heâs serious about something.
Heâs only used it on you once. When you walked home through the southside after a hookup at midnight, and he barked that you damn near gave him a heart attack. Ordered you to never do it again. Youâve never been afraid of him, but that had been the closest.
Less fear of him, though. More for him. It had been like he was opening up his chest and demanding you see how much youâd freaked him out by doing that.
Maybe heâs never used the voice on you, then. Thereâs no raw vulnerability, when he snaps at Benny.
And Benny doesnât seem bothered by it at all. Not in the way youâd been guilty for days over scaring him.
âSorry, brother. Just givinâ the lady some ideas-â
âShe doesnât need your ideas.â
âTheyâd be rather helpful-â
âNo.â Dean looks at you, and you could swear his eyes soften in a second. âTell him about work. And the purple dog.â
Your lips twitch. âIt was a dinosaur.â
âRight.â He gives Benny a dramatic, obvious look. âIt was a dinosaur.â
You stomp on his foot. He makes a big show of being wounded, and that was another spot where you couldâve said no to him.
But you couldnât. Youâre not sure you know how.
âDean is very fond of you.â Benny hums when Dean goes to get drinks. âI understand why.â
âI- huh?â
âYou are quite charming.â
âUh- Thanks?â You swallow. âYou too?â
Benny nods, watching you strangely. Like heâs trying to find something youâve hidden from his sight.
âYou are close. With him.â
âUh, yeah. We live together?â
âHm. That you do.â
You didnât know Dean enjoyed the company of men who speak in riddles. Youâre seconds from demanding just one straight word when Dean gets back with the drinks.
âYou wanna split fries with me, sweetheart?â He asks, looking directly at you. Like Benny isnât there at all.
And this would be a very good time to practice saying no. Itâs something small. Inconsequential.
But you also know Dean sometimes doesnât get a chance to eat at work. And that he wonât add something to the tab unless youâre sharing with him.
âYes, please.â You smile, and Dean grins back. Â
God. Youâre horrible at this.
Itâs not like youâre bad at saying no in general. You go out with Charlie a week later, and run into one of the dads from work. Heâs single. Cute. Insists on buying you a drink with no expectations, and is rather charming. His son is a delight in class, and heâs humble about it.
âSorry if this is too forwards.â He says at the end of the night, while you wait for Charlie to come around with the car. âAnd I was serious when I said no expectations, but- Youâre beautiful. And I had a great time tonight. Would you want to go on a real date sometime?â
God. You wish you could.
But it wouldnât be fair. Not to yourself, or to this lovely man who would just end up with his heart broken.
In another life, you dream you say yes. That he takes you out, and youâve already forgotten about Dean by the end of the night.
But in real life, youâre already comparing them. Youâve been shivering in the cold for a few minutes now, and Dean wouldâve given you his coat. In the bar youâd slipped, and Dean wouldâve caught you.
The halo of the streetlights doesnât make this man look like an angel.
It just makes him look like more of a man.
âIâm not allowed to date parents.â You say apologetically, and he laughs it off.
âWell, maybe when Finn is in first grade then.â
You smile, and donât say a word. Itâs a real rule.
You wouldâve broken it for Dean.
âI need a favor.â
You look up from your cereal the next morning, the spoon already in your mouth. âHuh?â
A little milk dribbles down your chin and you scramble to wipe it, face burning with embarrassment. Dean watches with a smirk, raising his brow when your eyes meet, and your hand slips. The spoon falls into the bowl, splashing over your face. More cereal escapes your mouth, and you whine like a child, trying to wipe with your hands.
âSon of a- Jesus, woman.â Dean passes you a napkin, shit-eating grin on his face. âDonât hurt yourself.â
âIâm not trying to.â You grumble, wiping your shirt. âAnd no being mean, you said you needed a favor.â
âWell, Iâm rethinking it now-â
âDean.â
He just grins under your glare. Leans forward and laughs like youâre not actively planning his murder.
âYou still got something.â He points to your chin, and you stick your tongue out at him as you dab it. He snorts. âYou know Iâm helping you, right?â
âFuck you.â
âNot with milk on your face- Fuck-â
His hand had slipped. Landed right in your bowl, sending it flying right at his face. You burst out laughing as heâs drenched in milk and soggy cereal, a sour expression on his face thatâs a little less effective than he probably wants it to be. You can see him fighting the smile.Â
âShit.â He groans, running a hand down his face then flinching when he sees the damage on his hand. âGoddammit, this shit is gonna take forever to get out-â
âItâll be fine.â You push to your feet with a shrug. âCome on, I can wash it.â
You start down the hall, and donât realize that Dean isnât following until youâre at the bathroom door. You look back, and heâs just standing in the kitchen. Mouth in a tight line, milk dripping from his hair, eyes wide.
You frown. âDean, the longer you let it sit the worse itâs going to be.â
He just stares. âUh-â
âCome on.âÂ
You wave him forward, and itâs like you tugged on an invisible rope. He stumbles forward, hands dropping awkwardly to his side, and follows you with an oddly nervous expression.Â
Youâre not sure whatâs going on with him. Itâs just a bathroom.Â
âSit.â You point to the floor next to the tub. âPut your head back, and take off your shirt. Iâll wash it later.â
Dean nods, giving you that strange look before pulling his shirt slowly over his head. He drops it on the closed toilet lid and lowers himself to the floor just as you asked. You kneel at his side, turning on the shower with a sigh. You have shampoo, and a removable shower head. This really shouldnât be that hard.Â
It only hit you when you look back to him. What a massive mistake you made.
Deanâs shirtless. Close enough that, if you just stretched your fingers, youâd be able to touch his chest. His skin, smooth and soft looking. The muscles that shift as he breathes heavily. When your eyes lock onto his, you almost gulp.Â
Heâs staring at you under hooded eyes. His jaw is clenched, his arms stiff at his side.Â
Waiting for you to touch him. Clean him up. Youâre supposed to be cleaning him up.Â
You take a deep breath, and force your body to move. You wipe the milk off his face while the water gets warm. Rinse his hair, then steel yourself as you rub in the shampoo. Itâs so painfully close. So intimate. You feel like youâre invading on yourself. Like youâre doing something so strangely dirty, just by washing his hair.Â
Youâd been right, every time you dreamt about it. It is soft.Â
When your fingers brush against his scalp, his whole body shudders, then relaxes. When you repeat the motion, his hands flex.Â
You canât keep looking at his body. Itâs dangerous. You clear your throat, and try to think of anything else to say.Â
âWhatâs the favor?â You mumble, and Dean grunts.
âItâs- Uh- Nothing. Never mind.â
You pause, fingers stilling in his hair. âDean. Whatâs the favor.â
âI said never mind-â
âDean Winchester.â
He sighs, long and labored. Opens his eyes just enough to examine you through his eyelashes, then closes them again. âYou canât get pissed. If you donât wanna do it, just- Say no. And weâll forget it. Okay?â
You bite your lower lip, but nod. âOh- Okay.â
âSo.â He coughs. âYâknow how Sammyâs gettinâ married?â
âMhm.â You focus on his hair, even as your fingers start to shake for no reason at all. Heâd called you after his trip to California to help Sam with the ring. Excitedly shown you all the photos after the proposal. Youâd been thrilled for him, then sat in this very same tub for an hour, trying not to cry about how that was never going to be you and him. âYou want me to water the flowers?â
He chuckles softly. âNot exactly. And those are your flowers, sweetheart.â
âYou bought them.â
ââCause you were sad about not gettinâ a cat, and- Never mind.â He takes a deep breath. âMy thing is- itâs next month. The wedding. I gotta go home for it. And, uh- I was wondering. Just- A thought. Nothinâ you gotta commit to right now, but- Thought Iâd ask, even if you didnât wanna-â
âDean.â You snap him gently out of the rambling, and he coughs.Â
âRight. Sorry. Just- Hereâs the deal.âÂ
He takes a deep breath, and you stop massaging his hair. He looks so painfully tensed, his whole body seized up, his pretty lips in a tight pout. Heâs dragged his eyes open again, and theyâre fixed so nervously on yours. Heâs grabbed your knee with one hand. Like heâs worried youâre going to kick him, or run away.Â
âMy whole familyâs gonna be there.â He mutters, searching over your face with every word. âTheyâll all be on my ass, about Sammy already settling, and me- Not doinâ that.â He coughs. The red from his ears spreads over his cheeks. âAnd I just figured, if they thought I was gonna settle, maybe⊠The whole thing would be easier. For everyone.â
You stare at him, the words slowly falling into place in your head. It takes a moment. His hand squeezes on your knee, and it almost knocks them into you. Forces all the meaning into place.Â
Your mouth falls open. âAre you asking me to-â
âYeah. But- Only if you want to.â He gives you a small, boyish grin. âBut Iâd owe you. Big time. Like- Iâd pay the whole rent for two months big time.â
You shake your head. âDean, donât-â
âIâm serious, I really need this-â
âI know but, thatâs so much money, and-â You sigh, brow furrowing in a tight line. âI donât know. I donât know how to do⊠that.â
He squeezes your knee again. âWeâd figure it out. Together.â Another charming smile. âHow about one favor. Whatever you want. No questions, no expiration. You could use it to get a cat.â
You laugh weakly, and he squeezes your knee again. Heâs giving you almost puppy-like pleading eyes. You donât know how youâre going to say no, but-Â
All you want is him. A cat would be nice, but all youâve craved, for so so long, is Dean.Â
And that might be limit of his favor. A limit that might outweigh the toll it comes with.Â
Pretending to be Deanâs girlfriend, for a week, with his family. Having everything you want, and making it all play. All a lie. All fake.
âWhy me?â You ask softly, looking back to his hair. Itâs filled with suds. You should probably start washing it soon. âI mean, thereâs Charlie. Or- An actress, or Pam from work, sheâs nice-â
âMy mom already knows you.â Dean cuts you off with low words. âEasier sell, than some random chick sheâs never heard of.âÂ
A lump forms in your throat. âYour mom knows me?â
âYeah. I talk about you.â
You flush. Itâs an impressive feat, the way you manage to force your voice into something teasing instead of confused and hopeful.Â
âAw, you love me-â
âShut up.â He grunts, pinching your knee in the spot he knows makes you squeal.Â
âDean-â
âSorry.â He grins up at you, and he doesnât sound it. Stupid, perfect asshole. âBut- Please, sweetheart. Please. One favor. Anything.â
You really shouldnât agree. You shouldnât. Itâs going to backfire. The love thatâs been gnawing at you since that day on the ice is going to finally grow sharp enough to eat you alive.Â
Youâre supposed to say no. Say no. Say no. Say no. Say-
But he said please.
âOkay.â You mutter, and he grins.Â
You canât find it in you, to regret agreeing.
It made Dean smile.
âŠChapter EightâŠ
âŠEnd note: they're both too down bad someones gotta do something âŠ
âŠIf you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3âŠ
âŠBuy me a coffee!âïž (and get early access!)âŠ
Summary: Working a case with Colter leads the Shaw brothers to a shadow organisation. An organisation that wants Russell to handle one last job for them. With no choice but to do what they want, Russell has to make a call to you.
Word Count: 1238
Warnings/Tags: Tracker season 3 spoilers, established relationship. Mentions of a hit man, some slightly spicy thoughts (Russell), slight angst, mentions of a shadow organisation.
A/N: My first Russell fic! Inspired by the scene pictured above from Tracker 3x22 The Best Ones. Reader has a Special Ops background like Russell.
Dividers by @firefly-graphics
Stopping a few feet away from the government issue black SUV waiting for him, Russell dropped his holdall and fished his phone out of his pocket.
His thumb hovered over your contact information. You weren't going to be happy about this call. To tell the truth he wasn't happy about having to make it either. He had hoped the next time he spoke to you it would be to tell you he and Colter had wrapped up the job involving the Chrono Stasis project their dad had been involved in, and he was on his way back. But when was he ever that lucky?
No. Instead of a call to say he was coming home, he now had to tell you he was going away again, on a job he couldn't tell you about, and he didn't know how long he'd be gone for.
Taking a deep breath he taps his screen and raises the phone up to his ear. You answer on the third ring, and he can hear the relief in your voice when you do.
âRussell.â
âHey sweetheart.â
âYou good? It all worked out?â You asked.Â
The concern he heard in your voice made him feel even more guilt over the news he was about to give you.
âOh, yeah. Yeah, it always does.â He answered, trying to inject some levity in his voice. âUh listen I need you to do something for me.â
âOkay,â you answered tentatively. âYou sure everything's ok?â
âYeah, yeah. It's justâŠâ He peered over his shoulder lowering his voice, to make sure those waiting in the car couldn't hear him. âYou need to really cover your tracks on anything you looked into for me connected to Dorix Logistics. Make sure you've covered your footprints on this, okay?â
âRuss. You know I'm always careful.â
He pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration. âNo⊠I need⊠I need you to really listen to me,â he said, trying to keep his voice calm. âThe DoD has a âdon't ask, don't tellâ agreement with them. It's a covert DoD program. Deep black, USAP. Unacknowledged.â
âOh shit,â he heard you breathe out.
âYeah, so please⊠make sure you've covered your tracks.â
âYeah, yeah. Of course. Russell. Are you ok?â
âYeah, I'm good,â he tried to reassure you.Â
âRuss. Seriously, what aren't you telling me?â
He shouldâve known youâd hear it in his voice; he was holding something back.
Sighing, he knew how you were going to react to this. He glanced behind him again to make sure he was still alone.Â
âOk. Don't freak out, I'm fine butâŠThey, uh, they took out a contract on us. Colter and I got a⊠a hit put out on usâŠâ
âWhat?!â You practically shouted down the phone. âOh my God, are you serious? Why didn't you call me sooner? I couldâve helped you.â
âI'm fine. I promise. We took care of it. For now at least. But, um,â he continued, âIâm sorry. I've got to go away for a while.â
He heard the telltale sign, that sharp intake of breath that meant you were about to argue with him on this, so he carried on before you had the chance.
âThe head of the operation. Of the Dorix Logistics programme. He has a problem that needs fixing. If I do it, it'll put Colter and me in the clear. You know how this works, if I don't I'm gonna be looking over my shoulder for the rest of my life. And so's Colter.â
And so will you once they learn of your connection to Russell, if they don't already know.Â
âWhat sort of problem?â You ask him after a beat.
He knew you wouldn't let this go easily.Â
âYou know, it's one of those things. The less people that know, the better.â He tells you glancing over his shoulder again.Â
âI don't like the sound of this babe.âÂ
He smiles gently to himself, picturing you on the other end of the line. Your lips pressed into a thin line, fingers massaging your temples, as you start to pace around the room, no doubt trying to come up with a plan. You always looked so sexy to him when you were thinking of a plan.Â
âI know. I don't either. Believe me I wish I was ringing to say I was coming home⊠but I've got no choice. I need to do this⊠and I need your help with something. I know Colter's gonna start asking and poking around, but...he can't know why I've gone. I've already spoken to Reenie and asked her to distract him, but I know he's gonna work his way to you, so I need your help to keep him out of this. Please. WhenâŠâ he pinched the bridge of his nose again. âWhen I get clear of all this, I'll- I'll give you all the details I can, ok. We got a deal?â
âOk. Deal," you reluctantly agreed. "But I need you to do something for me.â
âAnd what's that sweetheart?â He asked, arching his brow. His voice deepened to the tone he knew did something to you, especially when he was using it to tell you all the dirty things he wanted to do to you.
âNot that,â he heard you chuckle down the phone. âAlthough⊠I wouldn't say no to you making it up to me that way,â you tease, and he has to hold back the moan building in his throat.
âOh that I can definitely do,â he agreed.
âI'll make sure to hold you to that,â you tease, and he can so clearly see that twinkle in your eyes and teasing smile.Â
God he missed you.
He's pulled from his thoughts as you start speaking again.Â
âI need you to promise me that you are gonna be careful. And none of that I'll be careful and then run into danger, crap. I need you to really be careful. Come back to me in one piece.â
âYes ma'am,â he said smiling.Â
âRussell,â you snapped. âI'm serious.â
âYeah, I know you are,â he sighed. âI promise,â and he really meant it. âNo unnecessary risks.â
âThank you. One more thing,â you add. âIf you get into trouble, or in over your head. Call me. Let me come and back you up.â
âCopy that,â he said.
In reality he had no intention of dragging you into his mess anymore than you already were. He just wasn't going to let you know that. And if telling you heâd let you back him up should he need it, made you feel even the tiniest bit better about the situation then that's what he'll do.
âListen sweetheart, I've gotta go now, they're waiting for me⊠I love you.â
âI love you too Russ.âÂ
âI'll see you.â He said as he hung up.
Sliding his phone back into his pocket he took a deep breath to steady himself before turning round to face the SUV.Â
Letting out a sigh he grabbed his holdall and cap and headed towards the vehicle. Tossing his bag in the back, he tapped its side and watched it start to close.
Pulling his baseball cap on he took one last look around before reluctantly climbing into the front passenger seat. Reaching for his seat belt as the driver slowly pulled away.Â
Looking out of the window, Russell's jaw was tightly clenched. He hoped he'd make it back to see you again.Â
A/N: Thank you for reading â€ïž Hope you enjoyed it!! I would love to hear what you thought đ
This has been the first story I've been able to write from beginning to end for a while. Season 3 of Tracker seems to have sparked some inspiration. Hopefully there will be more Russell to come.
Series Summary: Despite the blood in your veins painting a glaring-red target on your back, John Winchester once left you alive and kept you hidden for a reason. But when his two grown sons drag their muddy boots onto your crime scene one day, the first meeting is anything but cute.
You have a regular job and a carefully constructed, somewhat normal life built on just enough lies to keep the supernatural at bay, cleaning up messes no one else wants to see. And you definitely never advertise the fact that your magic comes from a bloodline ancient enough to make demons jitter.
Dean Winchester, on the other hand, doesnât even flinch. He sees a witch and reaches for a weapon â no questions asked. You lie to survive. Dean judges to cope. The rules of this world dictate the two of you are supposed to hate each other for eternity, but somewhere along the road, something glitches in the cosmic machinery of fate.
That glitch is you.
Warnings: 18+ language, canon-level violence, canon-divergence, set after 2x02, enemies to friends to lovers, super slow burn, eventual smut, mutual pining, idiots in love, fluff, angst, hurt/comfort, mystery, reader is also a CSI, tons of witchy vibes (tarot, auras, herbalism, spells...)
Word Count: 100k and counting...
A/N: My first full canon-divergent, non-AU series thatâs been ten years in the making đ€ Itâs my little attempt to fix canon (aka making Dean happy). The goal is to eventually cover all 15 seasons in various shapes and forms, but each season is kind of its own "book." Iâll also try to keep it as OG as possible, only brushing past canon as far as it allows and focusing more on bonus content than episodic rewrites. Ready for an epic adventure with the Winchesters? đđ
Written for @storytellers-contest-tjac . Beta-read by @zepskies - thank you so much, Alex! And thank you to my bestie, @jensensgotyoudean - for your advice and ever-present support! Love you, mah Liz! đ Quotes on the header and at the end of the fic are lyrics from Silver Springs by Fleetwood Mac. Dividers by @firefly-graphics.
Reenie Green is a close friend, and when you end up in a dangerous situation through no fault of your own, she calls the Shaw brothers, Colter and Russell, for help. Russell has always worked under the self-imposed rule that you do the job, then walk away. But since he met you, he's having a hard time letting this one go.
Russell helped himself to another beer, plopping down next to the small table in Colterâs trailer. He leaned back against the wall, stretching his long legs out on the bench seat with a sigh. Personally, he didnât know how his brother spent so much time in this tin can, but to each his own.
Colterâs phone began to ring, and Russell craned his neck to peer over at the screen. Reenie. He grinned to himself and grabbed the phone, swiping to put her on speaker. âReenie! Howâs it going?â
âRussell? Why are you answering Colterâs phone?â
âWell, he happens to be in the shower at the moment, and I saw it was you, so â figured youâd want to say hi, anyway, right?â
Reenie could picture the cocky smirk on his face clearly, but she didnât have time for their usual back and forth. âThis is serious, Russell.â
He sat up straight, his demeanor immediately shifting. âOkay, got it. What do you need?â
âMy client is in big trouble. Well, my friend â havenât convinced her yet to be my client. Not the point.â She took a deep breath to calm herself before she went on. âThe point is, sheâs been kidnapped. Her brother called me a few minutes ago. Heâs a computer whiz â a former hacker, actually â and some very bad people have been trying to recruit him. Heâs been staying clear of them, but last night they took his sister, and theyâre threatening to hurt her or kill her if he doesnât do what they want him to do.â
âDoes he know where theyâre keeping her?â
âTheyâre holding her at his house. Heâs afraid if he shows up there, theyâll force him into doing what they want and kill them both.â
Russell nodded, teeth worrying at his lower lip. âHeâs probably not wrong. Can you send us the address?â Colter was out of the shower now, listening with a concerned frown as he stood there, towel around his waist.
âI will. Can you help?â
Colter looked at his brother, then nodded. âYeah. Send us whatever info youâve got. Weâre on our way.â
Your eyes opened reluctantly, drifting closed again a few times before you managed to keep them open. Your head was pounding, your body ached, and â you were cold. Awareness slowly seeped in, and you managed to hold your head up, taking in your surroundings. Your pulse began to race as you realized you had no idea where you were.
You tried to move, but your arms were bound behind you, around the pole that you were propped against. It felt like a zip tie, and it dug painfully into your wrists as you tested it. The light was dim, but you could see that you were in a large, mostly empty room with a concrete floor. It was chilly against your legs, and you realized you were wearing the camisole and shorts that you had gone to bed in. No wonder you were cold.
The thought of shouting for help crossed your mind, but you quickly discarded it. The foggy memory of rough hands dragging you from your bed and covering your face with a rag told you the response wouldnât be a friendly one. You could faintly hear male voices upstairs, and the sound of a TV. You bit your lips together, fighting panic and the tears that threatened. You needed to try to stay calm, be observant, and do what you had to do to make it through whatever was happening.
As your eyes adjusted to the darkness, you made out the shape of a bike against the far wall. Back in the corner was an old foosball table, a baseball bat leaning against it. It seemed familiar â and your eyes widened as you realized where you were â in your brotherâs basement. You rested your head back against the pole and closed your eyes, a sinking feeling in the pit of your stomach. So Grant was in trouble, and you were obviously bait â or leverage.
You sat there for what seemed like forever, no indication of the hour, no windows to give a hint of what time of day it was. You had tried to work your hands free, but your wrists were rubbed raw and you had finally given up. No one had even bothered to come down and offer you water, or to take you to the bathroom. You had an awful feeling that they werenât planning on keeping you alive.
A loud knock from the floor above startled you from the doze you had slipped into, and a loud, cheerful voice joined the other male voices you had heard previously. âHey, is Grant around? Thought he might wanna join me and my brother to watch the game and have a few beers. Hi, Iâm Russell, I was Grantâs roomie in college. I could tell you some stories.â
Your head hit the pole behind you with a dull thud, disappointment sinking the hope that it had been a rescuer knocking at the front door. A tear slipped down your cheek as you closed your eyes. Maybe Grant was already hurt, or dead. MaybeâŠ
Your eyes flew open wide with panic as a large hand covered your mouth, and you began to struggle, terrified. âShhhhh!â A whisper next to your ear made you freeze, your body trembling with fear. âIâm not gonna hurt you, okay? My nameâs Colter. Iâm here to help you. But you have to stay quiet. If they hear usâŠâ You nodded, your heart pounding in your chest as his hand moved slowly away. âIâm gonna cut you loose.â
You felt the tension loosen on the zip tie around your wrists, and Colter moved around in front of you. âDo you think you can walk?â You nodded again, reaching for his hand as he pulled you to your feet, letting you stand for a moment to get your bearings. âWeâre going up the back stairs and out the door. You get in the back seat of the pickup and lie down so no one can see you.â He gave your hand a squeeze. âJesus, youâre freezing.â He stopped, taking off his jacket and helping you slip your arms into the sleeves. It was huge on you, but the warmth felt like heaven.
âThank you,â you whispered hoarsely.
âOkay, here we go. Whatever happens, you go straight to that truck and get inside, right?â You nodded in reply, and he took hold of your hand again, leading you through the room with the help of a tiny flashlight. You recognized the short flight of steps up to the back door, and you followed him out, the grass cool on your bare feet as the two of you made your way to a large black truck. He opened the back door and helped you inside, and you laid down on the seat as he had directed, nervously waiting for what would come next. After all, as much as you appreciated the rescue, you didnât know this man any better than the ones who had abducted you in the first place.
He climbed into the driverâs seat, sending a couple blasts of the horn into the otherwise still night, making you jump. âRussell, come on â weâre gonna miss kickoff!â he shouted out his window, then lowered his voice to speak to you again. âMy brother is inside, he was our distraction. Weâre friends of Reenieâs, she sent us to help you.â The mention of Reenieâs name sent a wave of relief through you, and you began to breathe a little easier.
A couple of minutes later, another man climbed into the pickup, turning his head to glance into the back seat as he closed his door. Colter spoke your name quietly. âThis is my brother, Russell. Weâre gonna take you to the motel, your brotherâs there waiting for us.â
âYes â okay â thank you,â you managed to say as the truck started up, and you headed down the road.
After a few minutes, Russell turned around to peer into the back seat. âYou can sit up now if you want. Weâre clear.â You raised yourself up slowly, wrapping the borrowed jacket tighter around you with a shiver. Russell looked at his brother, his voice a little impatient. âTurn up the heat, man â sheâs freezing back there.â Then he turned his attention your way again, reaching across the back of his seat to hand you a bottle of water. âHere.â He flashed you a quick smile when you thanked him, and he watched as you drank, your eyes closing in relief as the cool liquid soothed your parched throat. âBetter?â
You nodded, putting the lid back on the bottle. âThank you. Thank you both.â
âAre you injured? Did they hurt you?â He asked softly, and you shook your head. His eyes never left you as he spoke, and you couldnât help but notice how attractive he was, even in the dim light â dark hair, a neatly trimmed beard, beautiful eyes. âI know youâre scared, but I promise youâre gonna be okay. The police will meet us at the motel, and they said theyâd contact your husband, let him know where youâll be.â
His brows drew together at the expression on your face, the expression you were too tired and traumatized to disguise. âEverything okay?â
You took a shaky breath. âYeah. Yes, Iâm fine. Itâs just â heâs going to be so angry.â
Russell studied your expression, taking a beat before he responded. âIâm sure he is, but youâre safe and Iâm sure thatâs the most important thing to him, right?â
You let your gaze slide away from his, staring out the window as you gave a vague nod in answer. Russell shot a perceptive glance over to his brother, silent communication between the two of them.
You had just dozed off in the back seat of the pickup when it pulled up in front of the motel. You yawned, letting Russell help you out of the truck. âWhere are we?â you asked, still disoriented as he escorted you to the door with a gentle hand on your back, pulling keys from his pocket.
âMy motel room. Your brother is inside.â He let you into the room, fairly large with a worn hide-a-bed couch on one wall, a king-size bed and the usual tiny table with two chairs next to a counter with a coffee maker and mini fridge.
As soon as you stepped inside, Grant jumped up from the couch and grabbed you in a hug. âAre you okay?â Grant was shaking as he held you, his voice breaking as he spoke. âThis was because of me, Iâm so sorry. They were trying to force me to hack into some companyâs financials, I⊠I never thought theyâd involve you. Iâm so...â Russell draped a blanket around your shoulders as you moved back from your brotherâs embrace, wiping tears from your cheeks as you interrupted.
âNot your fault, Grant.â You sat down next to your brother, pulling your legs up underneath you and pulling the blanket tighter around you as he put an arm around your shoulders. Russell left the two of you to talk quietly, heading over to make a pot of coffee.
A couple of hours later, you headed back to the couch after being questioned by the local police. You let your head drop back, your eyes squeezed shut as you wished for the ordeal to be over. Reliving everything for the police was bad enough, and Vince, your husband, hadnât even gotten there yet. You were dreading that, already knowing what his mood would be when he arrived.
âYou doing okay?â Russellâs voice made you open your eyes and sit up straight, inhaling and expelling a deep breath. He was hunkered down in front of you, his eyes watching you closely.
âHanging in there. Just wish this was all over.â
He gave you a kind smile. âYeah, I get that, youâve had a rough day. Your husband should be here shortly, and once the cops talk to him, he can take you home.â Russell watched as you tried to control your expression. âListen â none of my business, but I noticed you havenât been too excited at the thought of your husband showing up. If you need help â just say the word. We can get you somewhere safe.â
You looked into his eyes, yours welling with tears that you managed to keep from spilling over. âThank you, but Iâm fine. Just really tired, and not looking forward to his temper when he hears about all this. I didnât mean to make you thinkâŠâ
Russell shook his head. âNo problem, I get it. But if you ever do need help â call Reenie and let her know. She knows how to find me.â He put a warm hand over yours in your lap and gave it a squeeze, then rose to his feet and walked away. And the next moment, the hurricane that was your husband blew through the door.
âYou!â Vince pointed an accusing finger at Grant, who was sitting at the table with an officer. âThis is all your fault!â He stormed directly over towards his brother-in-law, who rose to his feet.
The police officer stood up as well, stepping forward with a hand out. âSir! Iâm gonna have to ask you to calm down and stop where you are.â
Vince glared at him defiantly. âThis piece of shit got himself in a bind, and got my wife kidnapped. Lucky she wasnât injured! Or killed! You stay the hell away from us from now on. Stay away from her, you understand me?â He turned on his heel and came towards where you now stood near the sofa, shoving a bag at you. âHere, get some clothes on. Iâm taking you home.â
You took the bag and headed into the bathroom to change, your gaze never leaving the floor. Russell took a couple of long strides forward, his eyes narrowed in anger. âHey â Vince, is it? You might want to take it easy on her. Sheâs been through hell in the last 24 hours.â
Vince turned to look at him, his jaw raised as he stared back at Russell with contempt. âAnd just who the fuck are you?â
âMy brother and I are the ones who found her and got her away from her kidnappers,â Russell said quietly, crossing his arms across his chest.
Vince sighed. âOh. I see. So how much?â
âHow much? We werenât working for you. Grant hired us to find his sister.â
Vince let out a derisive snort. âYeah, like he has any money. Whatâs the bill, Iâll pay it.â
Russell sighed. âNo thanks â weâre good.â
Your husband took a step closer, an insolent expression on his face. âWell, then, Mr. Weekend Merc, maybe you shouldnât try to tell me how to take care of my wife.â
Russellâs eyes went cold, a humorless smirk curving his lips that would have sent a chill up the spine of any man with half a brain. Colter moved forward, putting a hand on his brotherâs shoulder. After a second, Russell gave a barely perceptible nod, sucking his teeth as he turned and walked back towards the coffee pot. Colter looked impassively at Vince, then turned away and joined Russell.
A moment later, you walked back into the room, dressed and with Colterâs jacket folded over your arm. Vince grabbed your arm, growling, âCome on, letâs get the hell out of here.â
âJust a minute,â you said softly, pulling away.
âTime to go home,â he argued, and you looked at him, snapping a reply.
âGive me one minute!â He glared after you as you walked towards the Shaws, handing Colter his jacket. âThank you.â Colter nodded with a smile, and you turned your attention to Russell. His expression softened as he looked back at you. âThank you both.â
Russell looked steadily into your eyes. âRemember what I told you.â You bit at your lip with a nod, finally pulling your gaze from his as you turned to join your fuming husband at the door. He practically shoved you out, the door closing hard behind you.
Russell turned to look at Colter, his jaw working. âThat guy is twelve kinds of wrong.â
Colter nodded. âYeah, youâre right. But thereâs nothing we can do unless she wants help, Russell. And you always tell me, when the jobâs done, walk away.â
âYeah. I know.â Russell grabbed the coffee and filled his cup. He could still see the look in her eyes â the attempt at courage failing to completely mask her apprehension. She was afraid, trying to pretend that everything was fine. And in spite of his usual self-imposed rules, he was going to have a hard time walking away from this one.
Russell sat next to his campfire, enjoying the warmth of the sun, a bottle of his home-brew in his hand. He stared into the fire, his inner voice reading him the riot act for still sticking around. It had been three weeks, and you hadnât reached out to Reenie for help. Colter had given him a hard time as well, and he knew he had it coming, but he couldnât seem to get you out of his mind. There was still the nagging feeling in his gut that you were in trouble, and that his particular set of skills might come in handy.
And then there were the dreams. The first time, he dreamed he was back in the motel room the night theyâd rescued you. Only this time he was comforting you, sitting with his arms around you, and you were crying softly on his shoulder. After that, there had been another, starting the same way. Only this time it changed â his lips on yours, his hands roaming, your skin soft and warm under his touch. He woke up breathing hard, his heart pounding, his cock hard and throbbing, and he had jacked off imagining sinking deep inside you and making you come, hearing you cry out his name.
His phone rang, Reenieâs name flashing across the screen, and he shook his head to clear it before answering. She barely gave him time to say hello before she blurted out, âRussell â she just called. She overheard â never mind. She ran, sheâs in trouble, you need to pick her up. South of you, mile marker 132 on Highway 39, sheâs hiding in the trees. Go pick her up, Iâll meet you back at your campsite with some clothes and things.â
âOn my way,â he responded, ending the call and stuffing the phone into his pocket. He tossed water over the fire, ditching his beer in the trash can on the way to the car, sending gravel spitting from the tires as he took off.
There had been nothing but trees for a couple of miles when he reached the spot Reenie had indicated, and he pulled over, stepping out of the car, eyes scanning the area. He called your name softly, watching. âItâs Russell Shaw. Reenie sent me.â
You peered carefully from behind a tree, then ran towards the car, looking over your shoulder as you reached it. âGet in,â Russell said, âweâll talk later.â You nodded, climbing inside, and he looked around carefully for signs that youâd been followed before getting behind the wheel. He looked over at you, his brows drawn together in concern. âYou okay? Youâre not hurt?â
You glanced his way, clasping your hands nervously in your lap. âIâm okay.â He nodded, turning to make sure the way was clear and making a wide turn to head back to his campsite.
Russell pulled to a stop and got out of the car without a word, heading straight to his tent to break it down and pack up his belongings. By the time Reenie pulled in, he was loading everything into his trunk, still without saying a word, and you were wondering if youâd done the right thing calling for his help.
Reenie pulled a large suitcase out of the back seat of her BMW, pulling it behind her to Russellâs car. âBrought you some clothes and essentials to get you by. Russell, you keep her safe.â
Russell closed his trunk, coming around to take the suitcase and shove it into his back seat. âYou know I will.â He climbed back behind the wheel and gave Reenie a nod. âIâll be in touch.â You hugged her, whispering your thanks, and got in the passenger side, trying to stay calm in spite of not knowing what was coming next. Russell waited for Reenie to head down the drive, then followed behind, turning in the opposite direction on the highway. âOkay,â he said, glancing over your direction, âtell me what happened.â
Several miles and two small towns later, Russell reached for a remote and pulled into a small garage attached to a modest-looking ranch-style house, the door smoothly lowering behind you to hide you from the world.
You had told him about the phone call you had overheard, Vince on the phone with someone, you didnât know who. âYeah, the kidnapping should have worked, but I guess Grantâs more stubborn than I gave him credit for. Stop worrying, I found somebody else. Weâll have that money by the end of next week. No, she has no idea I was behind it, donât worry about her. She believes what I tell her, and she does what sheâs told. I already took care of those two fuck-ups, they wonât be talking to anybody.â
Russell had listened intently to everything you said, nodding quietly once in a while as you told your story. You had overheard that conversation and you knew you had to get away. You had sneaked back upstairs, put on your shoes and a jacket, grabbed the burner phone Reenie had given you for emergencies, and gone down the back staircase and out the back door. It was a couple of miles through the woods to get to the highway, and you ran until you were out of breath, then slowed to a hurried walk, determined to escape the man you thought you knew.
âHeâs not the man I married, I know that. But I never thought he wasâŠâ
âAn abusive murdering asshole?â You had shot Russell a sideways glance, and he had cleared his throat uncomfortably. âSorry.â
âDonât be. Itâs true.â Tears stung your eyes as you looked down at your hands. âI feel like such an idiot. Reenie has been trying to convince me for months that I needed to leave him, but I just...â
âNone of this is your fault. You know that, right?â
You hadnât answered him, just stared out the window for the rest of the ride. Russell was quiet after that, his focus on the job ahead. And this was a job, he reminded himself â he needed to keep his head on straight. The last thing she needed right now was to get involved with someone like him, so whatever feelings were invading his subconscious, he needed to ignore them.
Russell led the way into the house, dropping your borrowed suitcase near the couch and doing a quick walk-through before coming back to the room. You looked at him, confused, and he let out a rather sheepish little chuckle. âSorry, itâs a habit to make sure the house is clear. Which it is. So, get settled in â Iâm heading out to get some supplies, but Iâll be right back.â
You nodded, and he headed back to the garage. You stood there for a moment, unsure of what to do. Your whole life had been turned upside down in the space of a few hours, and you had no idea what was coming next.
You finally took a deep breath and ventured into the next room. You explored the small house â a bedroom, bathroom, cute little kitchen with a breakfast nook, living room with a huge sofa, recliner on one end and chaise lounge on the other. There was a medium-sized flat-screen TV, a few DVDs on a shelf below.
You took the suitcase Reenie had brought into the bedroom and opened it â she had been very generous. It was bulging with clothes and lingerie, along with some toiletries, a few mystery/thriller novels, a deck of cards â everything you would need to get you by until you could get your own things. Whenever that would be. You felt a clutch of panic at the thought of your unknown future, closing your eyes to fight it back. You were safe for the moment, thatâs all that mattered.
A little later, your phone pinged with a message from Russell that he was back with the groceries. You met him at the kitchen door, relieving him of one of the bags in his arms. He thanked you with a smile, and the two of you unpacked and put away the food he had purchased. âThis is â a lot. I mean, how long do you think weâll be here?â
He glanced your way, then went back to putting milk and eggs in the fridge. âHard to say for sure. It depends on how long it takes the cops to finish getting the evidence they need to put Vince away.â
You stopped what you were doing and braced your hands on the counter, your eyes filling with tears as the weight of everything that was happening suddenly hit you like a blow to the chest. Russell closed the fridge and put a hand on your shoulder, speaking softly. âHey.â
You looked up into his eyes, a tear overflowing and trailing down your cheek. âI canât pay you. I â I donât have anything. Everything belongs to him. I donât know how Iâll pay for you for all of this,â you said, sweeping your hand, thinking of the house, the groceries, Russellâs time.
He gave your shoulder a gentle squeeze. âDidnât ask to be paid. I told you if you needed help to call. Iâm just here to help.â He was really looking at you now, not the barely glancing, distant contact youâd had with him since he picked you up. The kind look in his eyes made you suddenly feel not so alone. âSo are we good?â
You took a breath and blew it out slowly, finally nodding. âYeah. Weâre good. Thank you, Russell.â
His lips curved in a soft smile. âGood. So, Iâm starved, and I got us one of those giant frozen pizzas with cheese in the crust â sound okay?â You nodded with a slightly watery smile and went back to unpacking the groceries as he turned on the oven.
You spent the rest of the evening mostly in companionable silence, eating pizza in front of the TV with a How I Met Your Mother marathon serving as background noise. Russell thumbed through the old magazines you had found in a drawer of the TV stand, and you started in on one of the books Reenie had included in the collection of treasures she had sent.
When you were yawning and reading the same paragraph over and over again, you finally gave in and headed for bed. You said a quiet goodnight and walked to the bedroom, closing the door behind you. You didnât think youâd be able to sleep, but you dozed off almost as soon as your head hit the pillow.
You woke suddenly, a feeling of dread in the pit of your stomach. The room was pitch black, so you grabbed your phone, the screen lighting up the space, your heart lurching in your chest as you spotted a figure standing near the foot of the bed. You lit the flashlight on your phone and aimed it that direction, then screamed in terror. Vince was standing there, a sneer on his face, a gun in his hand.
âHey, hey!!â The light went on and a hand grabbed your shoulder, shaking you. Russellâs voice was calling your name as you scooted yourself up as close to the headboard as you could, your feet scrambling to try and push you farther, your eyes wide with fear. âYouâre okay, it was a nightmare.â You stared at him, shaking, whimpering and pointing.
âHe was right there! He was going to kill me!â
âI promise you, thereâs nobody here but you and me. You were having a nightmare. Youâre safe, I promise you.â He reached out take hold of your hand. âThereâs no way in hell he will ever get close to you. I wonât let him, trust me. You trust me, right?â
You nodded, trying to calm yourself, still trembling and your heart still trying to escape your chest. Russell sat there with you until your quaking subsided, and you looked up at him as he ducked his head to peer into your eyes. âYou okay?â
You nodded again with a sigh of exhausted relief. âIâm sorry. It was so real.â
âNothing to be sorry for.â
You looked at him again, feeling embarrassed as you spoke again. âI feel like a child, but I donât think I can sleep in here. I donât want to be alone.â
Russell smiled as he looked down at you. âI get it. Why donât we grab your pillow and you can sleep on the sofa. Iâm sleeping in the recliner, so Iâll be right there in case you get spooked. Sound okay?â
He helped you gather what you needed, and soon your bed was all set up on the couch. You settled yourself on your pillow, wrapping yourself in the blankets and yawning as your body finally calmed itself. âI usually leave the TV on with the sound real low, will that bother you?â he asked as he took his seat in the recliner again.
âNo, it might actually help me sleep,â you said. âThank you, Russell.â
âAny time.â
The next morning you woke to the smell of fresh coffee brewing and bacon frying. Apparently Russell was an early riser. You got up from the couch and gathered your bedding, heading for the bedroom to get dressed. A pair of leggings and a big sweater seemed cozy, and after hitting the bathroom and combing through your hair, you made a beeline for the kitchen and the coffee pot.
âMorninâ,â Russell greeted you as you filled a mug with the steaming brew, holding it to your nose appreciatively.
âGood morning. Thank you for making coffee. And breakfast, I guess â do you want some help?â
He shot a smile over his shoulder. âGot it covered here, but you could make some toast, if you want. Scrambled or fried?â
The two of you sat in the breakfast nook to eat, Russell scrolling on his phone and you back to your paperback mystery. When you were finished, you chased him out of the kitchen, refusing to let him help with the dishes. âYou cooked, Iâll clean up.â
âIâm used to doing both, ya know,â he protested, but finally gave in and left you to it. You heard his phone ring as you finished up, and you were drying your hands as he walked back into the room.
âThat was â uh â the FBI.â
Your eyes widened in surprise. âThe FBI?â
âYeah. Apparently theyâve been investigating Vince for a while now for shady investment practices. They want to send an agent to talk to you, about the phone call you overheard and anything else you might have seen or heard that might help their case. Are you okay with that?â
You bit at your lip, but nodded in agreement. âI guess so â I donât know that Iâll be much help, but if it helps put him awayâŠâ
âColterâs in the area, said heâd bring her here this afternoon. I donât want you out in public if we can avoid it, not until heâs locked up.â You glanced at him nervously, and he put a calming hand on your shoulder. âIâm not trying to scare you â I just want you safe.â
âI know. Thanks.â
When the doorbell rang that afternoon, you watched nervously as Russell motioned you to stand back, then grabbed his gun from the end table and went to answer it. He peered through the peephole, then lowered his weapon and unlocked the door, opening it and stepping back to allow Colter and a woman in a dark pantsuit to enter. Colter spoke up to introduce you and Russell to the woman, who held out a hand to shake both of yours in turn.
âThank you for agreeing to meet with me,â she said, aiming her comment at you.
Russell stepped forward. âCan I get a minute before you do your thing?â The agent nodded, following him into the next room. Even though he kept his voice low, you could hear him, insisting that she keep in mind that you were innocent and that you not be treated like a criminal just because you were married to one.
You glanced over at Colter, blushing a little. âHeâs been very protective,â you said softly, and Colter smiled.
âYeah â thatâs no surprise. Heâs been doing it since we were kids. He stood between our dad and me â or dad and our little sister, Dory â so many times. Dad had â well, he had some mental issues. Russ took the brunt of a lot of his crap.â
Russell came through the door just then, giving you a quick smile and nodding towards the kitchen. âSheâs ready for you. If you need meâŠâ
You gave him a grateful smile in return. âIâll be fine. Thank you.â He moved to the side to let you walk by, watching until you took your seat across from the agent.
âHowâs she doing?â Colter asked quietly as his brother turned to face him.
âSheâs scared.â Russell gnawed at his lip a little, glancing over at Colter as he took a breath and exhaled with a short nod. âBut sheâll be all right.â
A couple of hours later the interview was over, and you said your goodbyes to Colter and the agent shortly after. You dropped down on the sofa with a sigh of relief, and Russell sat down nearby.
âSo â howâd it go?â
âShe asked about the phone call I overheard, wanted word for word as well as I could remember. Then she asked about people Iâd seen at Vinceâs parties, anything I might have heard in passing about specific things that maybe didnât mean anything to me but might help their case.â You took a deep breath. âShe said when they arrest him, theyâll seize all of his assets. But she said they found one account that was started in my name before we were married that he hadnât touched, and she said that will come to me. I remember right before we got married, I pulled my 401K from my job at the bank and had him invest it for me â he must have forgotten all about it. Itâs been sitting there for the last 10 years, slowly growing. So maybe Iâll be able to repay you for all of this after all.â
He sighed sharply. âI told you, I didnât ask to be paid. Youâll need that money to start over.â He lowered his head and looked at you from under raised brows. âI know itâs hard to believe, but Iâm not hurtinâ for cash. So I donât wanna hear another word about you paying me, okay?â
âRussell, I justâŠâ
âI mean it. Vince gets put away and you get a clean start. Thatâs payment enough for me.â You looked up into those captivating green eyes, his expression dead serious.
âOkay, okay, subject dropped,â you answered, and he allowed himself to smile.
âGood. Goddamn, youâre stubborn.â
You laughed softly, rising to your feet. âYou have no idea. Okay, Iâm going to go take a shower â if thatâs allowed?â you teased, laughing again as he blew out a disdainful breath.
âSmartass.â
The rest of that night was spent much as the first, eating in front of the TV, and Russell borrowed one of Reenieâs mystery thrillers to keep himself occupied. If he was being honest, he just wanted a distraction to keep his eyes from constantly wandering over to you as you read, occasionally trapping your lower lip between your teeth as you got engrossed in a passage. He started to read, but found his eyes drawn back again to the wisps of hair curling against the gentle slope of your neck. Luckily you were an avid reader and didnât notice his staring, but he mentally shook himself. This was a job, he was there to protect you, and that was all. He forced his eyes to the pages in front of him, determined to keep focused there, even though he would occasionally make sarcastic comments about how unrealistic it was.
Yawning, you finally laid your book aside and laid down, saying a soft âGood nightâ to Russell as you settled in. You slept well that night, the sound of the TV in the background and the knowledge that Russell was close giving you the peace of mind you needed to rest.
The next day you were going a little stir-crazy, feeling cooped-up and bored. You aimlessly wandered around the house, looking through closets and cupboards, letting out a happy cheer when you found an abandoned crossword puzzle book in a drawer in the kitchen. You settled on the couch, your legs crossed underneath you, glad to have found a distraction. âWho played Angel Eyes in The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly?â you asked, a thoughtful frown on your face as you chewed at your pen.
âLee Van Cleef,â he answered. âHow do you not know that?â
âYouâre the old movie buff. I only know the big ones â Casablanca, stuff like that.â
âSo you donât like westerns.â
You looked at him, an offended expression on your face. âI like westerns! I love John Wayne.â You filled in the answer and read another clue. âClint Eastwood western?â
Russell let out a mock impatient sigh. âObviously you need help.â He moved to plop down beside you, looking down at the page. âWhere does it go? Ok, got it â A Fistful of Dollars.â
The two of you worked your way through the apparently western-themed puzzle together, Russell teasing you about your lack of knowledge on the subject and laughing when you excitedly shouted the answer to an actual clue involving John Wayne. You finished putting the last answer in place and grinned up at him, your smile slowly fading as you looked into his eyes. The air suddenly seemed charged around you, your gaze traveling down to his lips as his tongue swept over them. Before you had time to think, he pushed up from the sofa and stood. His abrupt movement away from you broke the spell, and you swallowed hard, your heart pounding.
âIâm gonna go grab us some take-out. Chicken sound good?â He asked, not looking back as he headed for the door. You agreed, taking a relieved breath as he closed the door behind him, leaving you alone.
You took a shaky breath as you put a hand to your face, your fingers cool against your flushed cheek. âWhat the hell was that?â you asked yourself out loud. Whatever it felt like, it couldnât be, that was for sure, you told yourself sternly. Tossing the book on the end table, you determinedly marched to the kitchen to mix up some brownies. Chocolate. You just needed some chocolate.
After lunch, Russell spent most of the afternoon out in the garage, saying he needed to do some work on the car, and you were honestly a little relieved. The last thing you wanted was to embarrass yourself with the man who was protecting you. It was probably just a reaction to him saving you, a rescue crush. And it didnât help that he was so aggressively good-looking. He was tall and lean, broad-shouldered, handsome as hell. That dark beard made his smile seem that much brighter, enough that it made it hard to breathe normally. And those mesmerizing green eyes â looking into them was just downright dangerous.
You spent the afternoon channel-surfing, did another puzzle and read your book for a while. Russell was in and out, keeping himself busy with something, you didnât know what, but you were sure he was avoiding you. Towards evening you headed for the kitchen, thoughts of searching for what to make for dinner on your mind. The blinds on the patio door were open, and you could see Russell adding wood to the fire pit, the flames already started. You watched him for a moment, completely unaware of the fond smile on your face. He looked up as you stood there, motioning for you to come out and join him.
You went to the closet and grabbed your jacket. Surely there was enough space outside that it would be safe to be around him, you thought to yourself, then slipped out the patio door, sliding it closed behind you. âMissing the great outdoors?â you asked and he grinned.
âI do love a good campfire and some fresh air.â He reached into the cooler sitting beside him. âAnd a cold beer â want one?â
âOoh, yes, please.â You breathed in, then searched for where the delicious aroma tickling your nose was coming from. âWhat smells so good?â
âOh, I threw a couple of steaks on the grill, and some potatoes. Hope that sounds okay.â
âSounds great â smells wonderful.â
His shoulders shook with a silent little laugh. âReminds me of that time my brother and I tried to cook over the campfire when we were kids. Almost burned the damn forest down.â He launched into the story, and before you knew it, you were both talking and laughing, relaxed with each other again. Russell was a great storyteller, and the time passed pleasantly as you ate together.
When you finished eating, you set your plate beside you on the bench with a satisfied sigh. âThat was delicious. Maybe you should be a chef when you retire from working security â or whatever it is that you do when youâre not being my guardian.â
He huffed out a laugh. âA chef - that was never on my list of things I wanted to do when I grew up. More like astronaut, firefighter, rock star, pitcher⊠the usual. Now â Iâm still searching. I thought about opening a craft brewery, sell my beer and have barbecue, so I guess thatâs close. But now? I donât know. After working with Colter, Iâm kind of thinking of going more that direction. Helping people. Who knows?â He took a swig from his beer and looked at you. âSo what do you want to do when you get back to your life?â
A log cracked in the fire, and you watched thoughtfully as a spray of sparks floated upwards into the darkening sky. âI used to dream about opening a book store and gift shop, with a coffee counter in the front. A couple of tables, and a few little reading nooks tucked in here and there. That would be nice.â You glanced back at him, then looked off into the distance. âBut what I really want â I just want to be able to go for a long walk without my paranoid husband sending security guys after me. I want to be able to eat a meal without someone criticizing me because I might gain weight. I want to be able to wear what I want when I want, and not hear a lecture about how Iâm ârepresentingâ him. I want to dance because I like the music, not because Iâm bait for lecherous old men who might be potential clients.â You stopped your tirade, letting out a deep breath. âSorry. I guess thatâs been bottled up inside me for a while.â
Russellâs eyes were warm and supportive as he responded. âNo need to apologize.â
You nodded, unable to continue looking at him, a little embarrassed. Russell watched you for a moment, then pulled his phone from his pocket. A fast country beat filled the air, and he set the phone down on the bench beside him, standing up and reaching out a hand. âOkay, letâs go â you wanna dance? Letâs dance.â
You looked up at him, unable to keep the shy smile from your face as you saw the grin on his. âYou dance?â
He scoffed with a little laugh. âDo I dance? Get up here.â
You never would have guessed it, but the man could dance. Before long he was swinging you around the patio, twirling you out and back, both of you smiling and laughing together. You danced your way through that song and the next, but then the music shifted to a slow ballad, and you both came to a stop, looking hesitantly at each other. Russellâs eyebrow lifted, his expression asking without words, and you gave a little shrug. He smirked, shrugging in reply, and pulled you closer, taking your hand in his and holding it close to his chest as his other hand rested warm on your lower back. You draped your arm over his shoulder, your hand resting at the back of his neck as you swayed together to the music.
The song began to fade away, and you realized you were resting your head on his shoulder, your fingers fidgeting with the soft hair that fell over his collar, and your face grew warm with a blush as you both stopped moving. You took a step back, grateful that it was evening and he hopefully wouldnât notice the color in your cheeks. âI â um â guess I should take these dishes inside,â you mumbled. You stepped away from him, gathering the dishes and turning to walk towards the patio door.
âYeah, I gotta take care of this fire, Iâll be inside in a minute,â he answered, his voice sounding just as strained as yours was. Maybe he was just as affected as you were? You chased that thought away with denial as you stepped inside, turning to close the door behind you. He had been polite and kind to you from the beginning, but never more than that. You watched him for a moment as he stuffed his phone into his pocket, then grabbed the bucket of water he had set nearby to put the fire out, his back facing towards you the whole time, and you finally turned away.
You headed for the living room, then turned back, going to the fridge for a bottle of water, your mind reeling with conflicting thoughts. You were attracted to him, you had been from the first moment he looked into your eyes and asked if you needed help. But that was just the trauma, right? You had gone through hell and he was being kind to you, thatâs all it was.
You were completely in your own head as you finally closed the door to the fridge and turned, rushing towards the living room, focused on your own thoughts. As you neared the doorway, you ran into a solid wall of man, the bottle of water in your hands flying to the floor and rolling away.
Russell grabbed your arms to steady you as you both spoke at the same time. âShit, Iâm sorry!â and âAre you okay?â and you wished you could just disappear from view.
He was close â so close. He smelled like wood smoke and cinnamon gum, beer and something masculine and warm that was just him and had your skin tingling. He looked down at you, his tongue darting out over his lips, his eyes steadily searching yours. He raised his hand, his fingers tracing the line of your jaw gently before he slipped them into your hair, and he leaned in slowly, giving you plenty of time to push him away â but you had no desire to do that. His well-trimmed beard brushed against your cheek, softer than you expected, but you didnât have time to think about that because when his lips connected with yours, your brain ceased to function. You could focus on nothing but your heart pounding, your nerves buzzing, you could barely breathe. There was a throbbing between your thighs that made your knees weak, made you want him to throw you down and take you right there on the floor.
It all happened in a matter of seconds, and when he stopped suddenly, his hands dropping to his sides, your head was spinning at the sudden lack of his touch. His breathing was labored, his arms flexed as though they were fighting him to reach for you. He stared at the floor, taking a few breaths before he spoke, his voice husky and quiet. âThis is â I shouldnât have done that. Itâs a bad idea.â He tilted his head, a rueful little smirk flitting over his lips. âActually great idea for me. Very bad idea for you.â
You stared back at him, still stunned and silent. He stepped away, going to retrieve your bottle of water and bringing it back to you. You took it from him with a whispered âThank you,â and he gave a short, quick nod before turning to walk away.
You heard the bathroom door close, and finally started breathing again. So he was feeling it, too. He had slammed the brakes pretty hard, but he had said it was a bad idea for you. Unanswered questions filled your head â was he really just holding back because he thought youâd get hurt? Or was there something in his past he was worried about you finding out? He seemed like a good man, but you had a feeling there was a history there that he couldnât easily share. In spite of how you were feeling, you needed to try to get past it and get back to normal, or as normal as things could be for you at the moment. You glanced into the living room, making sure he was still out of sight, and headed quickly for the bedroom, closing the door. Youâd just get ready for bed, try to put it out of your mind, and move on. It wasnât going to be easy, since you could still feel his lips on yours, his fingers twining through your hair.
You changed into a t-shirt and shorts to sleep in, and after a few minutes battling with yourself, you finally grabbed your pillow and blanket and headed out to the couch. Russell was already settled in the recliner, searching for the classic movie channel he liked to leave on at night. You wrapped your blanket around you, snuggling down in your pillow. âReady for lights out?â Russell asked softly, and you mumbled a âYeahâ in reply. He turned off the lamp next to him and left you both in the flickering light of the TV.
You laid there, staring at the glowing images on the screen, pretending to be trying to go to sleep. You were wide awake, unable to stop thinking about that kiss, craving more. It was infuriating, really, that Russell had just walked away like it was nothing and you were left wanting something he was apparently not willing to give, whatever his reasons.
You fought the urge to toss and turn, acutely aware of how close he was, probably watching whatever it was that was on the screen. But your imagination was merciless, showing you the possibilities, teasing you with images and thoughts of erotic touches, of his lips on your skin, of his calloused hands in places that ached for him.
He cleared his throat, shifting restlessly in his seat, and your resolve to act as if everything was fine crumbled. You threw back the blanket, your heart pounding as you crawled down the length of the sofa and straddled Russellâs lap. His eyes went wide, your fingers on his lips cutting off his startled âWhatâŠ?â
You stared down at him, slowly removing your hand and resting it on his chest, your voice hushed as you spoke. âI donât care if itâs a bad idea.â You could feel his heart rate rising beneath your hand, his eyes fluttering shut just before yours did as you leaned down into him, your lips landing on his in a soft kiss.
His hands drifted up to rest on your back, his cock steadily swelling underneath you. You moaned softly, grinding down into him, and he drew back, panting for air as he looked up at you. You kept your eyes on his, sliding back off his lap as he raised the recliner upright, and you took hold of his hand to lead him with you back to the couch. You spread the blanket out as Russell came up behind you, his hands moving to your hips as you straightened back up. âTold myself I wasnât gonna do this,â he said softly as you leaned back into his chest. âYouâre making me a liar.â
You couldnât help smiling a little before you turned to face him. âYou need to know â I donât have any expectations. I know, when this is all over, that youâre going to leave, move on to your next job, and Iâll be going back and try to start my life over again. But Iâm not askingâŠâ For some reason your eyes began to sting with tears, and you blinked hard to chase them away. âIâm not asking for anything more than you want to give.â
Russell stared down at you for a second before his arms wrapped around you, the last shreds of his resistance evaporating as he pulled you close. His lips landed soft but decisive on yours, his tongue teasing at your lips, and you opened to him, a whimper in your throat as you slipped your arms around his neck.
After a moment or two, he parted from you one more time, one hand rising to drag a thumb across his mouth as he cleared his throat. âI â uh â donât have a condom.â
You reached for his hand. âItâs okay. Weâre good.â
âYou sure? Because if youâd rather not...â The tip of his tongue peeked out, pulling his bottom lip between his teeth for a moment. âIâd be more than happy to take care of you some other way.â His thumb brushed over the top of your hand, his words invoking images in your mind that sent a flash of heat through your body.
You finally found your voice, although it was a little breathless and stammering. âI promise weâre good â but⊠Well, that sounds â umm â amazing, too.â His lips curved in a one-sided smirk as he stared into your eyes. He reached for the hem of your shirt, pulling it up over your head, then did the same with his before he pulled you back into his arms and kissed you again. You buried your fingers in his hair as you leaned into him, breasts crushed to his chest, your pulse racing.
He moved you backwards until your legs ran into the couch, then slid his hands down your sides to your hips, pushing your shorts down until they fell to the floor. You stepped out of them and let him lower you down to the sofa, stretching out with your head on your pillow. He put a knee down between your legs, sliding his palm up the outside of your thigh and guiding it up to his hip as he lowered himself down over you.
He kissed you, deep and hungry, rutting his still-clothed erection gently against your thigh, and the combination was driving you insane in the best possible way. He propped himself up on one elbow, his other hand beginning to roam, and he moaned in appreciation as he brushed a palm over your breast. He gave each one a little attention as he moved his lips across your jaw to your pulse point, then steadily moved down your body, his destination clear.
Your stomach muscles quivered as his lips traveled over your soft skin. Your entire body tensed, frozen in anticipation of what was about to happen. He splayed his fingers over your hips, his thumbs pulling gently at your mound to give him easier access to your swollen clit. He leaned in close to place soft, lingering kisses over your pussy before exploring you thoroughly with his tongue, finally dipping it inside you and then dragging it up and over your clit.
He teased you that way until you were rearing your head back into your pillow, one hand behind your head gripping the arm of the couch and the other clutching at his hair. Then he pulled your clit between his lips, his tongue brushing over it as he worked two fingers inside you, curling them to rub against your walls. When you gasped, he hummed his approval, stroking over that sweet spot heâd been searching for, your grip on his hair tightening as he gave your clit a hard suck.
He raised his eyes to look at you, your eyes half closed in bliss, your other hand now tugging and twisting at your nipples. âJesus,â he swore, watching you for a moment longer before he nuzzled his face against you and sucked hard, pulsing his tongue with the movement of his fingers. Your back arched as you let out a cry, your cunt clutching at his fingers as you came undone, your hips bucking into his thrusts as you rode out your climax.
You watched him through half-lidded eyes as he slowly pulled his fingers free, making you shiver. He sucked them clean, then grabbed a corner of the blanket and scrubbed it over his face before moving up to nibble at your lips. âTold you Iâd take care of you,â he teased, and he grinned as you blinked slowly and gave him a faint smile.
âMmmm-hmmmm,â you agreed between his soft kisses.
âThis doesnât have to go any further if you donât want it to,â he said quietly, and you opened your eyes to stare up at him.
âDonât tell me youâre quitting on me.â The corner of his mouth quirked a little, those green eyes shining down at you even in the dim light.
âOnly if you want me to,â he answered, pausing as he waited for your response.
âI donât,â you said, pulling him down with a hand on the back of his neck to kiss him, a nip to his bottom lip making him grunt a little. âSo stop teasing already.â
His chest vibrated against you as he chuckled, then raised up to his knees, shoving his clothes down to free himself. He slipped one arm beneath your knee, lifting it to open you up further for him as he settled back between your thighs. He took his time, pushing inside you slow and steady, giving you time, watching your face closely. Your breath was frozen in your lungs as you adjusted to his generous size, finally able to exhale when your bodies were flush and he stopped moving, bending to nuzzle his face into your neck. âMmmm, you feel amazing,â he rumbled, his lips roaming over the soft skin there.
âGod, so do you,â you managed before he began to move, melting your words into a moan. The slick drag of him inside you lit every nerve on fire, and you clutched your arms around his middle, digging your fingers into his back. He took his time, in and out slowly, barely inching out at first and building up until he was pulling almost all the way out before gliding smoothly back in to the limit. When you finally relaxed, adjusted to him, he began to ramp up his speed and drove into you faster, harder, until your nails were digging into his back and you wrapped your leg tight around him.
He shifted his hold on your other knee, tilting you back a little farther, your sweet spot now a bullseye with every stroke. He let out a low groan as your cunt began to clench around him, letting go completely and fucking into you hard, wanton sounds forced from you with every thrust. He let out a soft growl, a sound that sent you careening over the edge, your back arching up beneath him as you came with an unearthly howl of his name.
He joined you with a loud groan, cursing under his breath as he fucked you through your orgasm and his, finally collapsing on top of your quivering body. You breathed helpless little whimpers into his shoulder, your arms going limp as he slipped his arm out from under your knee and hugged your thigh to his side. It was some time before either of you moved, spent and contented to stay right where you were.
You had actually started dozing off when Russell moved, and you shivered as he slipped free from you and stood up. He tossed his sweats over his shoulder, shuffling his way to the bathroom, and you let out a sleepy sigh and sat up, reaching down to the floor for a shirt. It happened to be his, but you didnât mind. When he came back, you stood up to head to the bathroom, but he put his arms around you and kissed you softly, pausing your trip for a few welcome minutes.
You cleaned up and went back out into the living room, smiling as you saw him spreading a clean blanket on the couch. You grabbed your shorts from the floor and slipped them on as you waited, and he turned to look at you with a faint smile as he finished. âWant me to go back to the recliner?â he asked quietly, and you shook your head.
âNo. Stay with me â I mean, if you want.â
His smile broadened, and he plopped down, his back to the back of the couch. âCâmere, you.â
You laid down beside him, and he pulled the blanket from the back of the couch to cover you both before he slipped one arm underneath your neck, the other around your waist to hold you close as he curled himself around you. Warm and happy, you fell asleep in his arms, the most peaceful youâd felt in years.
You woke up the next morning, reluctant to let yourself drift into full consciousness. But the tempting aroma of brewing coffee finally prompted your eyes to open, breathing deep as the sleepy daze cleared from your brain. Russell was humming a little off-key as he worked on whatever breakfast he was concocting that morning, and you smiled to yourself.
You stretched, feeling the ache of muscles you hadnât used in a while, but it was a good feeling. However, before you went to the kitchen to join Russell, you definitely wanted to take a shower. You threw the blanket off and headed for the bathroom. The mirror was still a little foggy, so Russell had obviously already been in there. Happily, you found a scrunchie in Reenieâs bag of toiletries, and you put your hair up before climbing into a hot shower.
You dried off, refreshed and fully awake, wrapping a towel around yourself so you could make your way to the bedroom and get dressed. You stepped out into the hallway, a cloud of vanilla and jasmine steam billowing out behind you. Russellâs voice calling your name stopped you in your tracks, and he stepped through the kitchen doorway into the living room, still talking.
âI made breakfast, sausage and stuff, if youâreâŠâ he stopped in mid-sentence, his mouth open as he stared at you. âHungry,â he finished, then snapped his mouth shut, his lips pursing and brows bunching in a contemplative expression before he dropped the spatula he was holding to the floor. âYeah, it can wait.â
Before you could react, he had you pinned between the hallway wall and his body, his lips crashing down on yours in a ravenous kiss. You blinked up at him, stunned, as he raised his head, his eyes burning into yours. âI told you this was a bad idea,â he rasped, closing his eyes for a beat before he went on. âYou are playing hell with my impulse control.â
You kept your eyes on his as you reached for the snap on his jeans, popping it loose before pulling his zipper down. âLosing control once in a while isnât such a bad thing,â you said, watching his upper lip twitch as you shoved his clothing out of the way and wrapped your hand around his hard cock. He grabbed a handful of your towel and tugged hard, pulling it free where you had it tucked in between your breasts. He tossed it to the side and scooped you up, his hands under your thighs, lifting you to his waist. You gasped as his hot length was trapped between his stomach and your already leaking pussy, your arms wrapped around his neck as he rutted against you, coating himself in your juices. Then he lifted you a little, holding you with one arm while he positioned himself at your entrance.
âYou ready?â he rumbled, his eyes on your face as he waited.
You nodded, clinging tight to his neck as he lowered your body, impaling you fully, a breathless, silent moment before he began to move. Then his fingers dug into your hips as he fucked into you, forcing sounds from you with every powerful thrust as your bodies slammed together. His forehead rested on your shoulder as he focused everything on driving you both over the edge, hard and fast.
He came first, and you followed close behind, resting your cheek on the top of his head as you both panted like you had run a marathon. He finally straightened up, then bent his head to kiss you, slow and deep, before lifting you up and lowering you to the floor. You still clung to him, your legs a little shaky, for a long moment, then gave him a coy smile. âNow I need another shower,â you said, and he grinned.
âMe, too â so how about we go clean up, and then we can eat. Donât know about you, but Iâm starved.â
âSorry you went to all that work, and now itâs probably all cold.â You reached up to stroke his cheek with your fingertips, and you smiled as he leaned into your touch.
âNope. I stuck it all in the oven to stay warm.â
âSmart man!â
âIâve been known to have an occasional flash of brilliance. Until you come walking out dressed in nothing but a little towel, and all the blood leaves my brain,â he teased, and you laughed as he herded you into the bathroom for yet another shower.
The next couple of days were amazing. The freedom of being able to be yourself without a filter, without judgment or disapproval â it was like you had been set free from years of confinement. The common sense part of your brain knew that this was all temporary, that it would be gone in the blink of an eye when the time came, but you chose to ignore that nagging voice and live for the day.
Russell had lightened up considerably since you had first met him, too. Maybe it was good for him to have a little time away from gunfire and commando tactics. You talked, and laughed, watched movies together, cooked and ate, drank beer by the fire outside, and even danced again.
And you had sex that you knew youâd never equal with anyone else. He stopped you in the middle of cooking dinner once, plopping you up on the counter top and stripping your pants off so he could go down on one knee and make you his appetizer.
He pulled you over onto his lap during a movie, taking off your shirt and bra and leaning you back against his chest, teasing and tugging at your nipples. He whispered in your ear in that sinful voice, sweet and dirty, until you were a whining mess, begging him to fuck you.
He kissed you awake in the early morning, the two of you making out like teenagers, the sex slow and lazy and perfect.
But late that evening, his phone rang, and you felt your stomach drop. It was over.
He hung up and turned towards you, teeth denting his lower lip before he met your eyes. âThey just arrested Vince. Heâs being charged with murder and your kidnapping, along with all the financial shit. They found the bodies of the two that grabbed you buried in the woods north of your brotherâs house. Heâs never getting out.â He sighed, watching your face. âYouâre free. You can finally live your own life.â
You dropped down onto the sofa, nodding, your voice barely audible. âYeah. I guess so.â
He sat down beside you, reaching for your hand, which was trembling a little. âYou okay?â
You blew out a breath, still afraid to look at him again, your emotions too close to the surface. âI will be.â
âWeâre supposed to meet Reenie and that FBI agent at the house tomorrow at nine. Your brotherâs coming, too. Theyâll help you get your stuff together before the FBI seizes Vinceâs property.â
You nodded, then sighed, raising your head to look up at him. âOkay. Back to reality.â
He pulled his hand away, putting it to his chest in mock offense. âLike Iâm not real?â he scoffed, and you smiled in spite of yourself.
âRussell, youâre the realest thing thatâs happened to me in the last few years, trust me.â
He grinned, standing up. âWant a beer before we crash for the night?â
âYeah. I could use one.â
You watched him walk to the kitchen, an ache blooming in your chest. He was right. It had been a bad idea. But it was too late, and this was going to hurt like hell.
Russell came back with beer for the two of you, and you did your best to act like everything was fine as you talked and laughed half-heartedly at the sitcom on the TV. It was already late, and you wished you could just start the day over again. You took the empty bottles and carried them to the trash in the kitchen, stopping to stare out the patio door for a moment.
You felt Russellâs presence behind you before he spoke. âShould have had a fire tonight, huh? Didnât knowâŠâ
âThat we wouldnât have another night.â You sighed, and he put a hand on your shoulder.
âDo you want me to sleep in the recliner tonight? I mean, making a clean break mightâŠâ
âMake it easier?â You looked up at him. âOr maybe we should just enjoy the one night we have left.â
His eyes were shining, soft in the dim light as he looked down at you. âNot gonna lie, I was hoping youâd say that.â His arms surrounded you, pulling you close as he bent to kiss you, your hands clenching fistfuls of his t-shirt as you leaned into him.
At least youâd have one more memory to take with you.
You woke early the next morning, reluctant to open your eyes and face the day. Russell, of course, was already awake and had coffee going, so you forced yourself to get up, grab your clothes, and take a shower. Every task was an effort of will â all you really wanted to do was roll up in your blankets and refuse to move.
You stood beneath the hot spray, eyes closed as you washed your body, remembering every moment of the night before. You had taken things slow, exploring each other as if you were sharing secrets no one else would ever know. You had memorized every tattoo, every scar on Russellâs body, reveled in the sensation of the muscles in his back rolling and straining beneath your fingertips as he fucked into you, riding the waves of pleasure he invoked with his touch. He had sent jolts of white hot fire through your veins as he marked you, sharp teeth and soothing tongue, on your breasts, the soft flesh of your lower belly, and the one he made on your inner thigh right next to your pussy had almost made you come. You hung up your towel and ran your fingers over the bruises as you stood in front of the mirror, wishing you could make them stay forever.
When you walked into the kitchen, Russell mumbled a âMorninââ from the breakfast nook, and you answered him softly. He was quiet, scrolling on his phone, not chatty as he had been the last few days. He was distancing himself, you could tell, and it felt like the first day you had been here all over again.
You drank your coffee and stood to go and pack. âDonât bother with the blankets or anything,â he said, âColter and I are coming back later to clean out the house.â
âOkay. Thanks,â you answered, leaving the room, suddenly needing to be as far away from him as possible. This didnât seem to be bothering him one bit.
By the time you got packed, it was time to hit the road. Russell took the suitcase from you and opened the door, and you started out. âOh, wait,â you said, turning back and going to the end table next to the sofa. You opened the drawer and grabbed the crossword puzzle book. You didnât look at him as you headed back to the door â he didnât need to know you wanted it because working that puzzle was the first time there had been sparks between you. He probably wouldnât understand, anyway.
You climbed into the passenger seat, he got behind the wheel, and you left the house behind, watching out your window as you passed it by. You had barely spoken to or looked at each other, and the silence in the car was oppressive. Several miles went by that way until you couldnât keep your hurt contained any longer.
âI should have listened to you. You were right. It was a fucking bad idea.â You took a shaky breath. âIt must be nice.â
âWhat?â
There was a bitter edge to your words as you answered him. âThe way youâre able to shut off your feelings. Itâs so easy for you, like flipping a fucking switch.â
Your resentment hung thick in the air, and after a few seconds, you assumed he wasnât going to respond. Then Russell spoke softly, his voice taut. âWhat makes you think itâs easy?â
There was a note of hurt in his words, and you wished you could just take everything youâd said back, but it was too late. None of this was his fault. You had pushed the issue even after he had tried to take a step back, and you had no right to attack him for it. But you couldnât find the right thing to say, so you just finished the ride to town in yet more silence.
When you pulled up in front of your former home, Reenie, your brother, and the FBI agent who had interviewed you were standing near the front steps talking. âIâll grab your bag,â Russell said, and you said a quiet âThank youâ as you got out of the car.
Grant met you halfway, hugging you with a smile. Russell brought your bag over, and Grant took it from him. âThanks, Iâll put this in the trunk.â
Reenieâs observant eyes shifted from Russell to you and back again, Russellâs gaze sliding away from hers to the ground near his feet. Colter was leaning on his truck, parked out on the street, and lifted a hand in greeting. âWell, I guess I should get going. Colter will bring me back to pick up my car after we finish up at the house.â He looked at you, but you barely glanced his direction. âTake care of yourself,â he said quietly, and you nodded in reply. He bit at his lip, then gave a little nod and turned to walk away.
You finally raised your eyes, watching him until he was halfway out to the street, your heart finally forcing you to call out to him. âRussell! Wait.â
He stopped, turning slowly as you rushed out to meet him. âRussell â Iâm sorry. I shouldnât have said those things, I didnât mean any of it.â
âDonât worry about it. I get it.â
You shook your head, your eyes stinging with tears. âNo, you didnât deserve any of it. In fact, I need to thank you.â He started to shake his head, and you grabbed his hand. âNo, listen. I need to thank you. Not just for the rescue. Russell, you saved me. You made me feel again after years of being numb. You made me feel like myself again. I needed someone, and you were there for me. Iâll never forget it.â
He looked into your eyes, his jaw ticking as he stared at you for a moment. Then he cradled your face in both hands, bending to kiss you, his lips clinging to yours for a long, bittersweet moment before he let you go, brushing a tear from your cheek before he dropped his hands to his sides.
âIâm gonna miss you,â you said in a wavering voice, watching his face as he held his emotions in check.
A brief, sad little smile flitted over his lips, and he dipped his head in acknowledgment. âMe too, sweetheart.â He reached out to give your hand one more squeeze before he turned and walked away.
You watched as he and Colter got into the truck, raised a hand to wave as they did the same, then drove away. You finally turned and walked back to the house, walking straight into your brotherâs arms. You shed a few tears on his shoulder, then raised your head with a heavy sigh. âOkay. Letâs get this over with.â
A few miles down the road, Colter glanced over at his brother, who was staring silently out the window, dragging his fingers absently through his beard. âWanna talk about it?â
Several moments passed before Russell took a deep breath, exhaling hard before he spoke, his voice subdued. âDid you ever meet somebody who makes you wish like hell you could be what they deserve?â
Colter cleared his throat as he looked steadily at the road. âYeah.â
Colter never mentioned you when he and Russell called each other or got together. He figured he probably came closer to understanding his brother than just about anyone, and he knew Russell wouldnât â or couldnât â talk about it anyway.
Yeah, Colter understood Russell, as well as anyone probably did â except maybe Reenie Green. Russell stayed in touch with her, like he always had, the two of them exchanging banter and joking insults. But when the conversation slowed, when that moment of silence sat heavy between them, Reenie would speak softly. âSheâs safe, Russell. Sheâs happy.â No details, which was good, because Russell didnât want details. He probably couldnât handle details. And then theyâd end the conversation, like they always did, until the next time.
He still dreamed about you. He could still hear your voice, your laugh. He still woke up some nights feeling the softness of your skin on his fingertips, the scent of your hair and the taste of your lips lingering. And he still told himself your life was good, was better without his past, his baggage weighing you down.
You deserved a fresh start, a new life. He could handle being haunted by your memory. He was used to being haunted by his past.
Time cast a spell on you but you won't forget me
I know I could have loved you but you would not let me
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đĄđđ«đ đ€đ§đšđđ€đŹ (dean winchester)
series masterlist
summary: Dean is not in the habit of accepting help - especially not from rich, pretty college girls - but this time it really can't be helped. Badly injured and without his Baby, he is forced to take a lift from you for one long road trip to try to save Sam. He finds there are worse things than playing passenger princess.
pairing: dean winchester x f! reader
warnings: smut, canon-typical violence, angst, semi slow-burn, canon-typical dean self-loathing, very brief references to suicide, sam haunts the narrative like crazy, reader referenced as having hair and has a set backstory / unnamed family
a/n: i have learned from past mistakes and pre-written all parts of the series in advance, so we have a posting schedule below *everybody stands up and applauds*. this was a very special project for me and i can't wait to share it with you đ€ drop a comment to join the series taglist or join my overall taglist here!
Contents:
1 The Road ⧠6.4k words ‷ 14/04
2 Burnout ⧠6.6k words ‷ 21/04
3 Under the Hood ⧠5.3k words ‷ 28/04
4 Insult and Injury ⧠7.1k words ‷ 05/05
5 In Bad Faith ⧠7.6k words ‷ 12/05
6 Courage Equal to Desire ⧠9k words ‷ 19/05
a/a/n: all 6 parts are set in s2 ep14 'born under a bad sign', with changed details and prolonged timelines. it is not necessary to have seen the episode to read this as the events of the episode itself are only a small fraction of the first and last part!
Summary: While on a witch hunt you watch your husband, Dean die. When strange things start to happen around the bunker Sam, tries to convince you that it's partially grief, but you start to think something else is up. Did Dean follow you back to the bunker as a ghost, or is something else happening?
Characters: Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester, Eileen Leahy, Jody Mills, Donna Hanscum, Claire Novak, Alex Jones, Robert Winchester (OMC), Regina Winchester (OFC), Mary Jean Winchester (OFC), reader Y/N "Tally" Winchester
A/N: This fic was written for the @storytellers-contest-tjac
If you enjoy this fic or any others that you find on this wretched site please reblog so others can have the chance to see it too!
A/N 2: The cover image for this fic was created with 3 edited screenshots I took while watching the show plus common use images found on Canva.
A/N 3: Last but not least I want to thank my Alpha reader @mysticdeliciouskitty and my Beta reader @deans-baby-momma You two helped reign me in, keep my POV and grammar in line... THANK YOU bunches!!!
âNOO!â I screamed rushing toward the witch, well more accurately the spot where she once stood. Dropping to my knees where both she and Dean vanished into a purple ball of light, I cried his name, "Deeann! Please no!!!!!!!!!!"
His wedding band and the blessed blade he'd used to stab the witch had both tinked as they hit the ground in front of me. I scooted forward, scooped the ring up, nearly dropping it because of how hot the metal was. It made sense with the amount of power it would have taken for this to happen. I bobbled it between my hands, blowing on it, in an attempt to cool the metal.
I was holding it gingerly between my thumb and forefinger, still blowing on it, when Sam pushed out of the cage the witch had him locked in, her powers having faded out with her death.
It wasn't logical and yet all I could think of was cooling the ring and keeping it safe.
Sam ran around the corner and into the large room halting at my side, âW-what happened?!â
âHe killed her,â I pointed to the small pile of dust that laid where sheâd been standing.
But there was nothing left of my husband except his silver wedding band â devastated didnât even feel like a strong enough word to describe how I felt.
I couldnât move, I couldnât speak, I wasnât even sure if I was breathing or not. I felt as though I was trapped in a fog, sounds felt muffled.
Sam was amazing, though. He cleaned up the scene so no one would know weâd been there; I was aware of him moving about but when I tried to help him clean up all I did was shake and make things worse.
After cleaning up inside, Sam took the time to search the property; making sure Dean hadnât just been snapped somewhere else. He was methodical, searching every inch of the place for another hidden cage or room - he of course, found nothing.
Sam found me right where heâd placed me before going to investigate the property, the only change being that Iâd managed to put Deanâs ring on my necklace and reclasp it. I had been sitting there contemplating everything.Â
The room was gross, covered in dust and a layer of grime I didnât want to think about. Sam had led me over to an old metal desk that wasnât directly in the witchâs workspace, it was the cleanest spot in the room. I remember him telling me to sit and wait, promising heâd be back in a minute. I thought about the layout of the room, a large L-shaped space. Some of the janky cages sheâd put together were directly across from where I sat while the different workstations dotted the floor in either direction. The one wall of the cage Sam had been held in was nothing more than an old bed frame that was somehow tied to the brackets that had once held some piece of equipment. If she hadnât cast a spell on that cage a toy poodle could have torn it down.Â
Then I went over the facts of the hunt - replaying every moment that had gone wrong. We'd spent weeks tracking her down, across three states. We had a suspicion she'd made Sam a few days prior but there was nobody close enough to get to us and help out so we pushed forward. We figured out where her hideout was and nearly got caught doing recon on the second night. Then we'd spent the afternoon planning and taking a nap so we'd be alert enough to actually carry out the hunt.
When the witch had caught Sam in her lair she'd tossed some dust at him and snapped her fingers, zapping him somewhere. I was hidden but had seen it happen. She knew we were there and we had to rush - find Sammy, kill the witch who had already killed three in this town alone, and get the hell out of there without drawing attention.
Sam had been trapped in the cell just around the corner of the big open room she seemed to be using as storage for her supplies and her main workspace for creating the spells. While I'd searched for a way to open Sam's cage, the witch had entered the main room where Dean was looking for keys or some type of electric switch.
She screeched when she saw Dean and charged him just as I returned to the room but before I could do anything to help him, Dean lunged forward and stabbed her - ending her reign of terror thankfully, but also taking Dean from me.
Sam explained that each time he called Dean's phone the line would ring once and then he'd get an automated message that the phone was out of its service area. Putting his phone on speaker he tried Dean a few more times. All I did was let out a little sob when I heard it the third time, but I just as quickly returned to the odd silence -Â staring straight ahead, eyes glossy and unfocused. I'm sure I looked a total mess because I felt so hopeless, and utterly useless.
When he couldnât get me to respond, Sam had scooped me up and carried me out to Baby, so he could get us both back to the safety of the bunker.
I was aware that I was laying in the backseat but I was numb and couldnât respond when Sam stopped for fuel and snacks, so kindly asking if I wanted something. He waited for a response but I couldn't do anything but shift my eyes to look at him.
"OK, I'll bring you a water," he whispered before disappearing from my view.
I felt bad, he'd lost his brother - the least I could do would be to acknowledge him. Yet I felt trapped in my body - as though I couldn't make it do the things it should have been. My limbs were heavy and it felt like my lips wouldn't work - I couldn't even force words past them.
Six hours passed with me simply laying on the seat waiting â I felt like I might die before we even arrived home. I prayed for death because I didn't want to do this without Dean.
When Sam parked in the garage, I finally sobbed out a shuddering breath and nearly fell out of the passenger door as I tried to escape the pain that had been building in my chest.
My vision speckled and I stopped and bent down, resting my hands on my knees; I gasped what was probably the first lung filling breath I'd taken since I'd watched my love vanish.
Sam was my rock, he steadied me and took my hand, leading me into the war room where I could prop myself against the lighted map table. I literally couldn't keep myself upright without something to help hold me up.
I have no idea how long I just stood there staring blankly at the table before I decided that I should get cleaned up. I didnât even remember Sam carrying my backpack in, it was just there on the map table.Â
When I showered I thought for a split second that I could feel Deanâs hand brush my hair behind my ear. I told myself I was losing it. It was my brain wishing Dean was there to do that oh so familiar action.
For as much as the man said he wasn't a chick-flick guy he was always touching or hugging me and I already missed that. Dean was constantly tucking this one spot of hair back for me. It didn't matter if my hair had been short or long, I had one spot that was wild. I missed him, I missed that touch - it was always comforting no matter what was happening, and the last time I'd ever gotten to experience it was two hours before I lost him forever.
As I showered I thought of all the ways I could try to get him back - I really only came up with one idea and I doubted it would even work. No demon was going to bring Dean Winchester back and Dean would be so disappointed in me for even thinking of that. That thought had me so upset, I nearly collapsed.Â
Slumping against the shower wall for support I decided Iâd been in there long enough and forced myself to exit, dress and head for bed, even though I knew I wouldnât sleep. I stood outside of room 11 for probably ten minutes just staring at that damn little number 11 glinting at me, taunting me with how pretty and comforting it once felt. Behind that door was nothing but the ghost of my life waiting to mock me.
I only left my room the next day a handful of times; I forced myself to eat one meal but that had been all because it had upset my stomach. I couldnât make eye contact with Sam so Iâd sulked back to my room.Â
On the third morning after losing Dean I stood in the kitchen blearily sweeping my eyes around the room wondering where the hell I put my coffee mug. I swore I had set it on the island but it was gone.
It wasnât on the table or any of the counter space. I even checked the shelving where Dean kept his sugary cereals and in the fridge. Just when I was about to give up and make another cup Sam walked into the kitchen.
âWere you researching?â he asked somewhat grumpily, holding my coffee mug. I looked at the image of a pie and the words printed above it, "We go together like coffee and pie.â
âNo, Iâve been in the kitchen since I woke up,â I answered, giving the kitchen one more glance thatâs when it clicked in my brain⊠Sam was holding my mug.
âWhy do you have my mug?â
âI sat down to read the newspaper and knocked it onto my phone,â he scowled.
âOh no!â I turned and grabbed the nearest dish towel.
âI got it dried off,â he told me, âItâll be fine, but I was trying to figure out when you came in there?â
âI didnât,â I answered flatly, âI made coffee, prepped my cup, and took a few sips before I started the bacon,â I gestured at the cooking bacon only to notice that the stove was now off.
âAre you OK?â he asked.
I glared at him as if to say, âno my husband is dead,â but I couldnât bring myself to say anything, and after several beats he just turned on his heel and walked away.
I couldnât blame him. Sam had lost Dean too and Iâd been pretty shitty and avoidant.Â
Later that day I sat in my chair researching and trying to make sense of what had happened to Dean â part of me felt like heâd been snapped away. I was worried we had a situation where Dean had been zapped to a different dimension or world. I didnât want another Purgatory situation on our hands.
Dean had been so hurt that we hadnât looked for him. Well, Iâd tried a little but all signs pointed to him being dead and Iâd sunk into a deep depression. I'd checked with psychics, a voodoo priestess, and had done my own soul tracking spell.
I even got help to cross over temporarily to meet with a reaper who'd been somewhat helpful to me in the past. Everyone told me the same thing . . . if I couldn't track him by any of the means I'd already used, then he was gone. Dean was nowhere to be found and after a few weeks, I'd given up.
I was reliving it all over again; I could already feel the tendrils wrapping slowly around me, ready to suck me into the darkness. I pictured it as vines that had looped around my feet beginning to squeeze and slither further up my ankles and legs. It was worming its way into me waiting to take hold and drown me in despair.Â
For the next two weeks I would make breakfast and settle in at a table in the library to research and each day Iâd come up with nothing and my heart would shatter all over again. Iâd cry myself to sleep or at least into a comatose stage and then begin again the next morning. Â
âWhy did I have to be head over heels for the one man who died as often as I got new shoes?!â
The random touches started to freak me out - I'd be sitting in my chair in the library and feel like a hand had dragged across my shoulders, but when I'd look Sam and Eileen were nowhere to be seen.
Every single day I would lose things, but not in the normal way one does when they misplace their keys or forget where they placed the grocery list.
I knew it sounded crazy but when my things vanished it felt more like I was being toyed with and not just misplacing things. I would set my coffee mug down in the kitchen and find it in the library or laundry room later. One day I spent twenty minutes looking around the bunker - I'd been in the kitchen, the laundry room, and the library, so I checked each of those rooms. Not only that I also checked the dungeon, the gym, and the infirmary even though I hadn't stepped foot in any of those rooms that morning. I gave up and decided Iâd step into room 11 and grab the flannel off the chair⊠the missing cup would show up but I needed the comfort of my favorite flannel and I was ready to push myself to retrieve it. I froze at the doorway when I saw my cup sitting on Deanâs night stand.
âSammy!â I shouted.
He came running, calling out, âWhere are you?â
âRoom 11,â I yelled, still unable to call it my room or even Dean's room. I still couldn't say his name out loud without sobbing - not that I'd tried more than once.
I didnât know what else to say; that room was Deanâs room, then it was ours. However without Dean it became nothing more than a mausoleum of memories I had shared with him.
âWhatâs wrong?â Sam asked, pulling me into a hug.
âD-did you put my mug in there? B-because if you did that was really shitty of you!â I yelled as I smacked his chest halfheartedly.
âI would never!â Sam defended. âI know you donât like that I told you to take a break from research on trying to find Dean, but Iâm not cruel," Sam pointed out.
I broke, âI know, but every day Iâm losing things,â I pushed away from Sam and began to pace like a raving lunatic.
âThings are moving, itâs not like Iâm setting it on one table and then moving to the other and forgetting! Sam you have to believe me, I didnât do that,â I pointed toward the night stand that held my mug.
"I had it with me in the library and the kitchen," I told him, "I did go to the laundry room to put stuff in the dryer so I even checked there and it wasn't there."
I looked back at the night stand on Deanâs side of the bed, and I began to sob.
"I haven't even been in there since we left for that hunt."
Iâd made it two days without crying at that point and it yet again felt like I might never stop - I was honestly starting to wonder if I'd drown from my own tears.
Sam pulled me close, rubbing his hand up and down my back, âI know this is hard,â he whispered and kissed the top of my head, âIâll bring it to you,â he stepped through the doorway and brought the mug to me, like it was the easiest task.
âWhile youâre in there can you grab the flannel off the chair?â I sniffled.
Sam obliged, grabbing the flannel and holding my coffee while I pulled Deanâs old shirt on. Iâd given up on the coffee search and had been going to get the flannel and that was how I found my mug. I had worked up the courage to go grab that flannel but seeing the coffee mug there had nearly ruined me, at least that's how it felt.
Things continued in a similar manner for several more days.
Sam came to the laundry room one afternoon and asked if Iâd moved his phone to the kitchen, which of course I hadnât and told him just that.
âMaybe you carried it in there and forgot,â I offered him the same answer heâd given me multiple times over the past few weeks.
He shot me a glare and left the room.
I have to admit I was slightly amused by the pout that flashed on his face before it turned to a full glare. I pulled my laundry from the dryer and placed it in my basket before stating, âGod Dean, I donât know if you can hear me. I miss you and Iâm going to get you back.â
Grabbing my basket I took a step before jumping when a bottle I swore I'd thrown down in the trash can clattered to the floor. I stared at it for a moment before setting the basket down and moving to pick up the empty bottle.
I inspected it and told myself that I had to have made a mistake and not gotten it into the bin, âIt must have been balancing on the lip of the can.â
Two days later I woke up from an incredibly steamy, very realistic dream â so real that Iâd soaked my panties and pj shorts.
I was instantly saddened when I realized that Dean wasnât there, he hadnât actually made me feel that way, and he never would again. All I had left were my dreams and memories.
I pretty much kept myself locked away that day - I just kept remembering the dream and how I felt when I woke up; how I could have sworn I could feel Dean's hands on me. It got me all bothered and feeling too embarrassed to be around Sam in my condition - I was either horny or crying.
That evening when I did go to the kitchen to cook, I found Eileen and Sam already making dinner. As we sat down to eat I took my normal seat and watched as the spoon I'd placed on the table next to my spot flew off and hit the floor - it reminded me of the way a cat swipes things off of flat surfaces.
We all convinced ourselves that my shirt sleeve had somehow caught it and thus flung it to the floor and we dug into our bowls of chili.
The chili reminded me of Dean and how much I missed his cooking, which wasn't helping me at all. I know Eileen noticed the tear trailing down my face but I was grateful that she didn't say anything about it.
As we finished eating Sam's phone rang - another hunter was struggling with a banshee hunt.
I dreaded what Sam was about to say when he hung up.
Sam softened his expression and explained that they were leaving to help this guy - he offered for me to go with them if I wanted to - I did not want to. A hunt was the last thing I wanted to be anywhere near.
"I can't do a hunt right now Sam, it wouldn't be safe."
He nodded and gave me his big puppy eyes.
"I'm not ready and I don't sleep anymore - not well enough to be helpful," I added, knowing full well I should be helping people, not making excuses and being sad.
Dean would have gone and helped.
"I get it," he rose from his seat and left to gather his gear.
This had been a reoccurring conversation; Sam telling me he understood that I wasn't ready or couldn't deal with certain things and I knew that he was trying to be helpful and caring but sometimes I wanted to scream, "You don't fucking know what it's like!" or "You could never understand!"
But then I had to stop and think about the fact that he kind of did understand - he'd lost Jess to a monster too! Yes, the circumstances were different but he wanted to marry her and never got to so he understood the loss of that kind of love and the pain of feeling stuck in some type of way.
The difference was he'd jumped into hunting because that was the catalyst for his anger - it fueled him to move forward and kill the demon. The monster that took Dean out was already dead. Without Dean, I had nothing left but some fragile friendships and being Sam's sister-in-law. Hell, a vampire had stolen my car and wrecked the shit out of it - I didn't even have my own car after that!
I packed some snacks for them to take on the road and then I sat back at my spot and waited for them to be ready. After handing them off some food and water, we said our goodbyes and they left - I was completely alone in the bunker for the first time in years.
I felt as though I might be swallowed up by the vast silence of it all.
I went back to the kitchen to clean, âmaybe if I kept busy I wouldn't notice the void as much,â I thought.
Twice as I scrubbed pans and counters I swore I felt Dean's hand on my shoulder or hip. I couldn't have of course because nobody was there but me; it almost felt real enough to be believable.
When the kitchen was sparkling clean I made my way to the TV room, I couldn't even think of it as the Dean Cave anymore. I stepped across the threshold and was thrown back into a memory of Dean first showing Sam and I this very room - Dean had been working on some little project for a few weeks but insisted I couldn't know about it, and I'd been a good wife and ignored the sounds and curses that came from behind that door.
I still to this day don't know how he got some of the things into that room by himself. I remember we'd been given a large flat screen TV as a thank you for saving a pawn shop owner. When Dean hit the power button on the TV remote a violet light had come from the TV and the next thing we knew we were in an episode of Scooby-Doo.
I couldn't help but chuckle as I remembered Dean's lame attempt at flirting with Daphne, right up until he thought both the server at the malt shop and Fred were flirting with me.
I looked around the room and marveled as I thought of how each corner of that room held so many memories - so many memories condensed in that one little part of the bunker.
I turned on the TV to whatever seemed funny and wouldn't make me cry and I laid on the little love seat we'd acquired a few years back when I decided we needed something to cuddle on when he made me watch certain scary movies.
As I began to doze off I had the most realistic dream that someone had been rubbing my feet, but when I pushed myself up to look around, the room was empty - as I expected it to be - I was after all just having a dream.
Dean's POV
I couldn't figure out what had happened to me - I was there but neither Sammy nor Tally seemed to notice me.
I tried to comfort her but she just stared straight ahead like she couldn't see me. Sam was cleaning the area up and that's when I realized that I must be dead. The thing was, no reaper had shown up and for someone like me you'd think the reaper would be on the fast track to gather me and scoot my soul off this mortal coil.
None of it made sense, Tally just sat or stood wherever Sam placed her and shook slightly - her silent cries were killing me - or would have if I wasn't already dead.
Once it was all said and done and Sam was carrying my widow back to what once was my car I realized something was seriously wrong.
'Maybe the reapers don't want my soul,' I thought. 'Maybe it's too far gone and they are just going to leave me here.'
I decided to jump into the front seat but I couldn't get the passenger door open so I had to rush to the driver's side and slide across the bench seat.
I sat angled somewhat sideways in Sam's spot watching as he drove home, careful to stop and fill up the car and offer Tally something to eat and drink.
She was almost catatonic and I hated every second of it - I felt like I was trapped in my own body with no way to communicate.
I even tried to reach over the seat and push her hair from her beautiful face but it was as if I'd done nothing. Every time I tried to do something it was another reminder that I'd failed. Sure, the witch was dead but I wasn't there to protect my family now. I hated myself for getting killed on the easiest of hunts.
It took me nearly an hour to get into the bunker and by the time I did Tally was just heading into the bathroom. She sobbed and whimpered through her whole shower.
I wanted to comfort her so I stripped off my clothes and stepped into the shower with her - I kissed her cheek and told her I loved her and then I brushed that one wild piece of hair out of her face. She paused almost like she felt it and I got hopeful that maybe she'd realized I was standing right by her and we could have some kind of moment, but she simply shut the water off and stepped out to get dressed.
When she finished with her shower and went to her old room things started to sink in.
This was it - I had to figure out how to get her attention. If I didn't, eventually I'd go vengeful and hurt her and Sammy.
That first day home she hid in her old room for most of the day - couldn't get enough energy to walk through the wall or door so I had to wait until she came out to go get something and then I went in and sat on the chair in the corner of her room.
She had long ago put up some old string lights around the top of the walls because she said they made her feel happy after a bad hunt.
The only light on in her room was the string lights and it stayed that way for three days. I'm pretty sure the only reason she turned the regular light on is because I moved my wedding band to try and get her to realize I was there. All I succeeded in doing was upsetting her because she thought she lost it.
That did nothing but make me feel even more guilty.
I started spending time in my room practicing moving things but I'd have to exert so much energy I'd have to lay or sit down for long periods of time. It was also becoming very hard to keep track of day time versus night and how many days had passed. I was fairly certain my phone had been destroyed when I stabbed the witch. I simply didnât have it.Â
Tally and Sam went rounds about her things going missing, neither of them thought to get out an EMF reader - I was really starting to wonder about their sanity and capability in hunting at this point.
I tried everything I could think of to get her attention - I'd walk past her randomly and run my hand across her shoulders, or touch her shoulder when I peeked over it to see what she was working on or reading about.
Each day she'd been getting into some pretty heavy scientific stuff - quantum theories, alternate dimensions, and even time travel. One day she pulled out a book, âBeyond the Grave,â she was starting to get to the correct conclusion but it was taking too long.
I wasn't experiencing hunger like I should have either but when I realized that I was getting hungry I did manage to get ahold of some of the leftovers after a couple of meals.
Once I'd mastered moving small things, I started moving her coffee mug further away - finally putting it in our bedroom. My plan failed because she walked up to the door and immediately yelled for Sam.
She'd scolded him for moving her mug into room 11 and he'd dutifully gone in and grabbed it, along with stepping back over to grab one of my flannels off my chair for her. He really was trying to keep her company and help her after losing me.
I stood there in my room completely helpless and totally invisible to the two most important people in my life - or past life.
It took some powering up but I managed to move Sam's phone then rush to the laundry room where she was working. Sam came looking for her to ask if she'd moved his phone and I tried to get Sam's attention but I wasn't charged up enough.
When he left the room she looked up and stated, âGod Dean, I donât know if you can hear me. I miss you and Iâm going to get you back.â
Then she grabbed her laundry basket and I grabbed the empty soap bottle from the trash can and threw it as hard as I could at the ground.
Although it wasn't as loud as I'd liked it did make her jump and return to inspect the bottle and the trash bin. She didn't get the clue though.
It took me two days to realize I could make certain things happen for her. I've always enjoyed bringing pleasure to the woman I'm with and pleasing my wife has made me especially proud of myself. I never leave her wanting and being buried in her makes me just as happy, obviously so I climbed in bed with her.
She was wearing a tee shirt and a pair of sleep shorts I'd picked out for her years ago. I pulled her against me and whispered in her ear, "I'm right here, can you feel me?"
She moaned and pushed back against me so I did something we'd done when we were younger - we called it the, "special wake-up call."
The actual term is somnophilia and that might not even be the most correct term but we took turns waking each other up with sex - thus the wake-up call. I was hoping to bring her some physical release so her body could truly rest, or if she woke up maybe she'd figure out I was right there with her.
I worked my hand into her shorts and carefully rubbed and touched her until she was melting into me. I carefully tested inserting one finger and working it in and out of her slowly for several minutes before adding a second digit.
She shifted her body so she was laying on her back which gave me more room to work and I had laid there next to her fingering her to full climax. I honestly loved the way her body clinched around me - even if it was just my fingers. She moaned and whined as she writhed about the bed. I think the amount of booze she'd had that night was the only thing keeping her from waking up fully.
She'd been so frustrated with the state of her clothing and bed it was kind of funny to watch her strip and change the bedding all the while muttering and cursing at the stupid horny state of her mind.
Then that night when Sam's phone rang at dinner time I could see how the color drained from her lips - she was already panicking and probably feeling guilty as fuck when she told Sam she wouldn't be going with them.
I needed to try harder to get her attention!
I watched as she packed up some snacks and bottles of water for Sam and Eileen to go help another hunter with a Banshee hunt - âthere probably isn't a more capable duo for that in the US.â
It did make me proud of her to see her taking care of Sam and Eileen. I knew she didnât think she was being good to them since Iâd died but she was doing her best.Â
When she stepped out to the garage to see them off I ate the rest of the chili in Sam's bowl. I still hadn't been able to cook my own food or even dish it up, and I was so hungry. I'd figured out that I could eat leftovers that were sitting out, and it meant she wouldn't have to scrape the bowl clean before washing it.
Being a ghost was weird - I still couldn't figure out why or how I was getting hungry.
When Tally came back to the kitchen I watched her scratch her head and mutter, "I swore there was chili left in that dish," but after looking in the trash can she ultimately gave up and just cleaned the kitchen.
I felt bad because I had to go lie down - I'd interacted too much and needed to re-charge. When I got up from my "ghost nap" I walked to the Dean Cave and I found Tally frozen in place looking around the room as if it were filled with ghosts - and in a way I suppose the whole bunker was filled with ghosts to her. That was why she wouldn't step foot in our bedroom - she acted as if the bedroom was a personal attack on her.
That made my heart ache for her - another thing I didn't know ghosts could do or experience.
I watched her stare at the bar in the corner - I wondered if she was thinking the same thing as me, because the sight of it reminded me of the time I had her laid out on top of it just eating her out. We'd done it in many rooms in the bunker - sometimes you gotta release some pressure between hunts or arguments and there's a lot of space in the bunker.
She moved to the little love seat she insisted we needed for movie nights and she laid across it pulling the blanket off the back of the couch and snuggling under it.
Once she was settled I moved over to the end and sat down, she was curled in a half fetal position so there was a little room. Without thinking I reached out and started to rub her foot. She seemed to be dozing off into a pretty deep sleep but then jerked up and looked around the room.
I realized that she had felt what I was doing and she looked a little freaked out.
"It was just a dream. You're freaking yourself out over nothing," she muttered and turned off the TV before walking quickly back to the library and pulling out a book to research.
I hated it but I had to sit down - I was exhausted after that.Â
