Summary: She loved him. They killed him. At least that's what they wanted her to think. Their Love was used as a weapon, so she returned the favor.
Word count: 7750
Warnings: Abuse & Toxic Relationships, mental health, trauma, MDNI18+, gore, if I missed anything. Lmk💚🖤
A/N: here it is! Sorry it took so long, end of the year for my kiddos, vacation number one, and now a horribly messed up back. But it’s here, it’s done! I hope yall like it❤️
You hadn’t left the apartment.
Ben wasn’t ready.
Manhattan was different now. Through the floor-to-ceiling glass, the city didn't just look bigger; it looked predatory. The buildings were jagged teeth scraping a sky filled with drones and LED screens that bled neon onto the pavement. It was a sensory assault that made the 1980s look like a silent film.
Ben stayed away from the windows.
He was a "prima donna" in the way only a man who had once been a god could be. You’d spent three days as a high-stakes personal shopper, cycling through fabrics and modern cuts, trying to find something that didn't make him feel like he was wearing a costume. Legend and Gunpowder were the only visitors, their faces grim as they monitored the "nuke" in Ben's chest.
Trying to figure it out.
The first day had been a nightmare of near-misses—six times the air had ionized, six times you’d seen the gold fire start to liquefy his ribs. You’d had to shock him, the violet surge of your own power acting as a lightning rod to ground his radiation.
Mornings were the worst. He’d wake up with his system resetting, his eyes searching yours with a look that was half-gratitude, half-horror. He knew. He knew you’d taken the V. He knew you’d become the very thing he’d begged you to stay away from. But neither of you spoke the words. To speak them would be to admit that the woman he loved had died in 1984 to save the man he used to be.
Now, it was dinner time. The sun was dipping behind the skyscrapers, casting long, bruised shadows across the living room. Ben was sprawled on the leather couch, a Giants jersey hanging off his broad shoulders, looking like a king in exile. A glass of whiskey dangled precariously from his hand as he drifted in that heavy, post-radiation haze.
“Honey,” you whispered, your hand feather-light on his shoulder.
He sat up with a grunt, the whiskey sloshing but not spilling. “Yeah?” His voice was a low rumble, the sound of a heavy engine turning over.
“I’m going to go downstairs and grab those hot dogs from George before he closes up,” you said, watching his face closely. “Do you want to try the elevator? Or should I just bring them up?”
Ben’s gaze flicked to the balcony doors. The sounds of the street—the honking, the electronic chirps of crosswalks, the sheer volume of millions of people—seemed to press against the glass. He looked back at you, his expression dead serious.
“We ain’t got a damn bucket and a rope, do we?” he huffed.
A laugh bubbled up in your chest, unexpected and bright. “Why on earth would we need a bucket, Ben?”
“Get George to fill the bucket, drag it back up here, and neither of us has to step a damn foot out there.” He wasn't joking. He was ready to engineer a pulley system just to avoid the 21st century.
“Benjamin Rhodes,” you laughed, shaking your head. “He is an eighty-year-old man. We are not bucket-hoisting dinner to the apartment. That makes his job twice as hard.”
“I’m an old man too, doll. Just aged better.” A smirk finally broke through his exhaustion. He reached out, his large hand wrapping around your waist and pulling you onto his lap with effortless strength.
“You are a fossil with good hair,” you countered, poking him in the chest.
“Admit it. Or we starve,” he challenged, his eyes dancing with a spark of the old arrogance you’d missed so much.
“Fine. You’re a very handsome man whose aging slowed at twenty-five and stopped altogether at...” You whistled low, tilting your head. “Maybe thirty-four. Tops.”
“You telling me I don’t look twenty-five, Angel?” He feigned a wounded look, pulling you closer until you could feel the steady, powerful thrum of his heart against your ribs.
“You didn’t look twenty-five when I met you, Grandpa,” you giggled.
Before you could finish the sentence, he shifted, tossing you over his shoulder like a sack of flour.
“Put me down! Ben, stop!” Your laughter echoed off the high ceilings as he headed for the hallway. “Okay, okay! You want to be twenty-five? You’re twenty-five! There happy?”
He stopped just outside the bedroom door, a small, gravelly laugh vibrating through his chest and into your legs. He let you down slowly, sliding you down his body until you were pinned between him and the wall, eye-level with those piercing, timeless green eyes.
The humor faded, replaced by something much heavier.
“I thought I was going to have to show you what twenty-five felt like,” he whispered, his hands resting heavy on your hips.
You reached up, your fingers tangling in his was hair. “I like older Ben,” you whispered back, your voice trembling just a fraction. “I’m sure twenty-five was great and all, but this is the man I fell in love with. Scars, and all.”
He didn't say anything. He just leaned in, burying his face in the crook of your neck, breathing you in like you were the only clean air left in Manhattan.
Standing in that metal box of an elevator, he felt like a trapped nerve. He hated the way his knees felt loose, the way the hum of the building’s electrical grid sounded like a choir of cicadas screaming in his ears.
But mostly, he hated the silence between you. It was a silence filled with everything he wasn't saying.
For three days, he’d been white-knuckling his sanity, trying to keep the reactor in his chest from turning Manhattan into a crater. Every time he closed his eyes, he wasn't in the apartment; he was back in the dark, the smell of winter and stale cabbage clogging his throat, watching a Russian hallucination of you die a thousand different ways. Last night, the steam from your shower had hit the hallway, and for three seconds, he was certain he was smelling your skin melting off.
He felt like a fucking pussy. The "strongest supe in the world" was afraid of a humidifier. He was a ghost haunting his own skin, catching glimpses of the man he used to be in the mirror and not recognizing the eyes staring back.
He’d tried to huff it off when Gunpowder looked at him with that hero-worshiping awe, calling the kid a "lying cocksucker," but the bravado tasted like ash. An hour later, he’d been vibrating on the edge of the bed, forcing his lungs to move in that rhythmic, "bullshit" breathing you’d taught him, trying to convince his cells not to ignite.
He’d lied to you about why. He’d told you it was because you walked out of the bathroom shirtless, a classic Soldier Boy deflection. The truth was worse: he was terrified that the version of you in front of him wasn't real, and if he breathed too hard, the illusion would shatter.
You didn’t deserve this. You deserved a man who could sleep without a loaded gun and a lead-lined conscience. You deserved to walk out of a room and not worry that the person left behind was a ticking time bomb. But you were stubborn—a jagged, beautiful piece of glass that refused to be swept away.
He’d noticed it the second he saw you in Russia. It had wrecked him. You looked exactly the same—the same crinkle at your lips, the same defiant tilt of your chin—but the light in your eyes was different. It was older. Darker. He’d felt the V in you before he’d even seen the sparks. He felt it when your fingers dug into his wrists with a strength that shouldn't have been there, a force that grounded him even as it broke his heart.
You’d promised him you’d stay human. You’d broken that promise to save a man who wasn't sure he was worth saving.
Now, he was standing next to you, watching the neon violet flicker in your eyes as you got frustrated with the elevator buttons. It was terrifying and intoxicating all at once. He’d seen you in the closet earlier, watched the purple electricity crawl up your arms to turn a box to ash while the cardboard stayed perfectly intact. The control you had... it made him feel even more like a blunt instrument.
You smoothed your hands over his chest, your touch the only thing keeping the gold fire at bay.
“Are you in your head again?” your voice came out small, laced with that perpetual worry that made him want to burn the world down just to give you a reason to smile.
“I’m fine, doll. No explosions,” he assured you, his voice a rough, unconvincing rasp.
“I’m not worried about the explosions, Ben. I never am.” You looked up at him as the doors slid open to the empty lobby. “I’m worried about you.”
He let you pull him out into the night. The city was a monster, but the street was manageable. The air was cool, smelling of exhaust and dirty sidewalks—familiar, in a twisted way. Then he saw the old man.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” Ben muttered, a ghost of a real smile tugging at his scarred face. “You ain’t retired yet? You were ready forty years ago, George.”
“And when I die, Ben, I’ll be back right after my funeral,” George chuckled, his eyes crinkling as he looked at the two of you—a pair of anachronisms holding hands on a street corner. “Someone had to make sure this pretty lady was fed. Never knew when she was going or coming. Legend would stop by just to make sure she had eaten.”
Ben went still, his arms folding across his chest as he looked down at you. The shirt you wore—his shirt—hung off your shoulder, making you look fragile, even though he knew you could probably throw a car through a building.
“I was grieving, Benjamin,” you said softly, not meeting his eyes.
“For thirty-seven years?”
“Something like that,” you whispered.
The weight of it hit him then—the sheer, agonizing length of your wait. He’d been on ice, but you’d been living it. Every minute of every day for nearly four decades, you’d been carrying the weight of his ghost. He reached out, his thumb catching your chin and tilting your face up until the dull, hidden violet in your eyes met his green. For the first time in three days, the reactor in his chest didn't feel like a threat. It felt like a pilot light.
The silence in the apartment didn't just sit; it curdled. It was the kind of heavy, suffocating pressure that usually preceded a building-leveling detonation. You hadn't said a word during the elevator ride, and you didn't say a word when you crossed the threshold.
Then the front door slammed—a crack of wood on wood that sounded like a gunshot—and the "domestic" Ben was gone. In his place was a man vibrating with a terrifying, jagged fury.
"Sit. Down."
His voice was a tectonic plate grinding against stone. You obeyed, sliding into the kitchen chair as he loomed over you, his shadow stretching long and monstrous across the linoleum. He didn't pace; he stood rooted, his fists braced against the table so hard the wood began to splinter under his knuckles.
"You want to tell me why old man George and Legend were making sure you were fucking eating for forty years? What the fuck was in that box you gave the old bastard? And what the fuck you were thinking—" He stopped, his chest heaving, a faint, rhythmic gold light beginning to pulse behind his ribs like a warning siren.
"Ben," you whispered, reaching out.
"Don't 'Ben' me right now! I've sat here for three fucking days trying to wrap my head around a world that looks like a fucking neon circus!" He barked, his eyes flashing with a predatory, unhinged heat.
"What do—"
"I left and this place was a fucking shit show, but New York was growing then! I can adjust to the noise! What I can't adjust to is why!" He leaned down, his face inches from yours, the scent of whiskey and ozone rolling off him in waves. "Why the fuck weren't you taking care of yourself? Why did you stay in this fucking shithole apartment? And why the hell do you keep thinking I don't already know what the fuck you did, Y/N?"
He knew, you knew he did. But you didn’t anticipate he’d be ‘using your first name’ level pissed. He never did that, not even before.
You wanted to curl into yourself. As unstoppable as you were. Ben pissed off at you was the only thing you were truly afraid of, the only thing that ever hurt.
His breathing went ragged, a wet, desperate sound. "This ain't some 'if I don't say it, it ain't true' bullshit. You think I don't know? That I don't fucking feel it? The air tastes like a damn battery when you walk in the room and your eyes light up!"
"Ben, listen—"
"V is coursing through your fucking veins like a damn parasite!" He roared, his fist finally slamming through the tabletop. "I was the first one with it in my blood! I know the hum! I know the burden! And you went out and juiced up like a fucking junkie the second I was gone! And I want to fucking know why.”
You stood up. You didn't do it slowly. You snapped to your feet, and for the first time, you let the mask slip. Your voice came out wrong—colder, humming with a sub-vocal frequency that made the lightbulbs in the kitchen hiss. Ben’s eyes darted to yours, seeing the violet sparks dancing in your retinas.
"That's rich coming from you, Benjamin," you snapped. "You want the truth? Fine. But you’re going to calm the fuck down before I tell you anything. I won’t be the reason you level the block, honey."
Just like that, the ice in your voice melted back into a soft, protective warmth. It was the transition that scared him most—the ease with which you toggled between a woman and a weapon.
He didn’t know the full extent of your power.
"I am calm," he lied, though the gold light beneath his shirt was bright enough to see through the fabric.
"The light in your chest says that's a lie, Ben." You stepped into his space, pressing your palm directly over the reactor in his chest. He went rigid, watching you with a mix of awe and agony.
“I’m fine. Tell me why you let yourself fucking die when I did.” His voice was unusually calm, the hair on your arms stood at the sudden shift.
"I didn't want to do it. Not really. But the second those soldiers called me 'Mrs. Rhodes' and said Stan Edgar sent them... I knew I wasn't safe. I knew I was a loose end to them."
You kicked a chair out and perched on the tabletop, dangling your legs. You pointed to the seat. "Sit. Please."
Against every instinct of his "Alpha" programming, he sat. He grumbled about not listening to you, but he anchored himself right where you told him to.
"They handed me your helmet, dog tags, and ring. They told me acid dissolved you."
"Acid? And you believed those pussies?" Ben rasped, his lip curling in disgust.
"No. Because none of that gear would have survived an acid bath that could kill you. I knew what you were. I knew you couldn't be killed." You braced your arms on the table, looking away as the first hot tear escaped. Ben saw it. He saw the way your jaw tightened, and the anger in him began to transform into a hollow, aching guilt.
"I told Legend what I wanted. He found it. It wasn't easy—this was when they were changing the formula, juicing babies. But I wanted the pure shit. I wanted what you had." You looked at the ceiling, blinking rapidly. "Legend fought me. He tried to talk me out of it... but I went fucking crazy, Ben. Losing you, Vought refusing to let me see your body... I fucking lost it. And then Legend found the letter. The betrayal. It sent me spiraling."
A sob broke through then, jagged and raw. Ben’s heart ached—a physical, stabbing pain that hurt. Actually hurt him.
You’d gotten up walking fully into the kitchen.
"I jammed that needle into my leg before Legend or my mother could blink. Out of pure, unfiltered fucking spite," you scoffed, a dark laugh bubbling up. "I faked not feeling like I was dying at the funeral I had to plan. I didn't rip the casket open in front of the cameras... I took that as a win. It took restraint I didn't actually have."
You reached into the top cabinet and pulled out a thick, blood-stained folder.
"Why the fuck did you do it?" Ben interrupted, his voice still pissed but lower now, hovering on the edge of grief.
"I'm getting there, Ben, fuck! Let me talk!" you groaned. “You never were one for patience. But you need to learn them now. Alright? For once just let me talk.”
You moved toward him, his eyes wide at your boldness. "I regretted it the second the V hit my heart. I told myself I’d only use it if Vought came for me. A backup plan."
"But you didn't," Ben said, his eyes narrowing as he looked at the folder.
"No. I didn't." You looked at him, your eyes glowing a flickering, neon violet now. Like the power was leaving slowly. "Because I decided... why give them the chance? I knew what they did to you. I knew if I waited, it would be too late. If they wanted me dead. I’d be dead. So I pulled a 'Soldier Boy'—the one the world was forced to believe in."
You tossed the folder onto his lap. Ben opened it reluctantly. He expected Vought memos. Instead he found a graveyard.
Swatto. Mindstorm. The TNT Twins—their crime scene photos were still fresh, dated only two days before he came home. Then there was Noir. The photo showed a hollowed-out mask and a smear of something dark.
"What the fuck is this?" Ben whispered, his voice finally cracking.
"Every name connected to Nicaragua. Every doctor, every suit, every liar who signed a deposition or looked the other way while they gassed you. They're all there. And they're all dead."
"You killed all of them?"
"Yes," you whispered, leaning until your hip touched the table . "And I'd do it again. I'd do it a thousand times for you. I told you years ago, if anything ever happened to you, I’d know the truth. And dammit.” You looked away with tears in your eyes. “I did what I had to do. That’s all.” You took a deep breath pushing the emotion down.
Ben went back to the articles. Knowing when to let you compose yourself. He studied the clinical efficiency of the kills. "You killed Mindstorm with my shield?"
"Technically, it was a conductor for my surge. He didn't even have time to scream. The irony in it was exhilarating it was in the same hotel room that you proposed to me in ‘75"
"And Noir?" Ben looked at the 'Presumed Dead' clipping. "You deconstructed him?"
"I got bored," you said, and the sheer coldness of the statement made Ben shiver. "He tried fighting back, but once I asked if the ambush was his idea and he nodded? All the fun was gone. He didn't deserve a hero’s death. I left him in pieces where they’d never find him…not all of him anyway. Fucking pussy."
Ben looked up at you, caught in a hurricane of pride, horror, and a devastating realization of what forty years of solitude had done to the woman he’d left behind.
"I ruined your life," he whispered, his hand shaking as it touched your knee.
"No. You made me see the world as it really was, Ben. And I just took out the ugliest parts of it."
"I was only going after Countess and Edgar, Angel. You took out an entire neighborhood in Philly."
"It wouldnt have stopped had you just taken them out Ben. It was more than just Edgar. But, they're still alive. For now. I needed the Twins first to keep Countess scared. Let her think moving every six months for thirty-seven years would save her. And Edgar... he's the final nail. Grace said he's holed up near the Canadian border. He knows I'm coming."
Ben looked at the sketches in the file. A hooded figure with violet eyes. "The Raven. Do they know it's you?"
"No. Not everything you taught me went in one ear and out the other, Benjamin. I kept myself safe. I kept my secret."
The "Soldier Boy" in him was vibrating with a dark, twisted pride, while the man who loved you was mourning the innocence you’d torched to bring him justice.
"Princess of fucking darkness," he huffed, the corner of his mouth twitching. It was the first real, grounded smile you’d seen in forty years.
"I’m not happy about it, Angel. You did the one thing I asked you to never do. You stepped into the fire."
"You can bend me over and spank me for it later," you smirked, leaning back against the cool marble of the counter, the fabric of his shirt sliding further off your shoulder. “The box I gave Legend, was the research, locations, the evidence of it all. It’s only a matter of time before someone sees you, recognizing you, and it hits Vought towers biggest ego.”
“Who?”
“Homelander. Back when he first took over the seven, they called him the new you. He’s a fucking baby in a cape, with mental instability, and a child like temper.”
“No one’s the new me.”
“I know that. He doesn’t.” You sighed. “He’s a pussy in a cape, playing a role he was bred into. Apparently he was raised in one of Vought's labs.”
“You think he will come after me?”
“I know he will. And we will be ready. Right now, you need to eat that pile of grease before it gets cold. I didn't hunt down a legendary hot dog stand for you to let it sit."
But Ben wasn’t looking at the food. His hand shot out, his fingers locking around your wrist with a sudden, bruising heat. He didn't just pull you; he reclaimed you, hauling you onto his lap until you were straddling him, your knees digging into the leather of the chair. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, his stubble grazing your sensitive skin, his breath hot and ragged.
"I said I wasn't happy," he murmured, his voice dropping into a register that made your toes curl. "Never said I wasn't a little proud... or completely turned on, Angel. Just don't use that purple shit on me and we're set."
"How do you think I stopped three of your near-explosions this week?" you giggled, your fingers tangling in the hair at the base of his skull. "The reactor in your chest is based on emotion, Ben. When you couldn’t pull yourself out of the red... I used a small surge to reset your nervous system. Like a defibrillator for your heart. It reacts to the reactor, dismantling the charge before it can breach."
Ben pulled back, his eyes finally clear of the gold fire, settling on you with a look that was pure, predatory hunger.
"You shocked me back into submission?" He let out a low, rough laugh, his hands sliding from your waist down to the curve of your hips, pulling you flush against him. You felt it instantly—the heavy, rhythmic thrum of his heart, and the very insistent evidence that his "dick didn't get the memo" about being annoyed.
"That’s not supposed to be hot, Angel. Electrocuting my ass back into reality." He leaned in, his lips brushing against yours, teasing the seam of your mouth. "But apparently, my body doesn't give a damn about the ethics of it. It just wants you."
You felt the spark before it happened—not a reset this time, but a slow, rhythmic pulse of violet light dancing under your skin, answering the heat radiating from him. Your body was exhausted, your mind was a graveyard of the last thirty-seven years, but as you leaned down to kiss him, none of that mattered.
"We're a real modern-day Harley and Joker, aren't we?" he mumbled against your lips, his hands roaming with a possessive, desperate familiarity.
"No," you whispered, your eyes flaring a brilliant, lethal neon. "We're way worse. They had rules… and Batman."
Ben’s Lips pressed against yours again, pulling you into his lap with a quick, jolting gesture. Finally feeling just how much he held back before when he showed you his true strength.
He’d always been so gentle, from the first night he ever touched you.
Manhattan in 1971 was a fever dream of velvet, cigarette smoke, and the heavy, metallic scent of Vought’s influence. Outside, the city lights blurred into a bokeh of gold and red through the floor-to-ceiling glass, but inside the penthouse, the air was thick with a different kind of tension.
Ben had been "Soldier Boy" all night—charming donors, shaking hands, and wearing the American flag like a second skin. But the moment the door clicked shut, the hero stayed in the hallway. He pinned you against the granite of the kitchen counter, his hands finding your waist with a desperate, heavy heat that made your breath hitch.
“I’m home, Angel,” he rasped against the curve of your neck, his voice a low, vibrating rumble that traveled straight to your core. He tasted like expensive bourbon and the winter air. “I hate those damn fundraisers,” he groaned against your skin.
“I know,” you whispered, your fingers finding the thick locks at the back of his neck.
“Hate having to play boyfriend to a damn whore even more.” He rested his forehead against your shoulder, exhaling a ragged breath. You hated it too—hated having to share the only man who made you feel seen with a public that only wanted to consume him.
He kissed you then, desperate and deep, as if the act itself could scrub the night away. But as you leaned into him, you caught a scent so distinct it made you pull back.
“Ben.” Your voice was sharp, questioning. You tilted your head, and there it was—a familiar smear of red lipstick at the corner of his mouth.
She always did this. Crimson Countess knew the cameras were watching; she knew he couldn't fight back without breaking the "America’s Couple" narrative. You weren't mad at him—you knew Vought threw him to the wolves daily—but the sight of it made your stomach churn.
“Don’t read the paper tomorrow,” he sighed, placing his hands on your waist. He looked exhausted, the weight of a year-long double life etched into his face. “I’m going to take a shower. Then we go to bed, yeah?”
As soon as the shower door closed, you let out a muffled scream into a pillow. You’d never let him see how much it hurt; you always played the stoic partner until he was out of sight. You paced the laundry room, the hum of the dryer acting as a shield for your tears. Your back hit the cold wall, your lashes sticking together while the rest of you fell apart.
Ben stepped out of the shower the second he heard the first sob. He’d heard you scream into that pillow a hundred times, but the sound of you breaking down in the laundry room made the hair on his arms stand up. Guilt, sharp and unfamiliar, settled in his chest.
He didn't bother with clothes, just a towel slung low around his hips. He found you busying yourself with a basket of clothes.
“Angel,” he said softly.
“Just folding clothes, Ben. I’ll be in bed in a minute.”
He didn't buy the act. He stepped behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist and pulling your back to his bare, damp chest. “No, you’re not. You’re in here crying because you think I’d make fun of you.”
“You would,” you sniffled.
“No,” he turned you around, his expression uncharacteristically soft. “Just because I laugh at your little temper tantrums doesn't mean I’m going to mock you for being upset about what happens when I’m not here.”
“It’s the contract, I know,” you huffed, wiping your eyes. “But she does it on purpose. She thinks because of a piece of paper she can leave marks on what’s mine. I’m an only child, Ben—I never learned how to share. I want to prove to her that you belong to me. Fuck her. You’re mine.”
Ben’s eyes darkened, a slow, devious smirk spreading across his face. He caged you against the dryer. “Say it again.”
“You’re mine.”
“Damn right I am.”
He lost control then, his lips meeting yours with a feverish intensity. He hoisted you onto the dryer, wedging himself between your knees. He started to pull back, checking for a refusal like he’d gotten every night since you got together, but tonight was different, you wanted him, you wanted to show you you were just as much his as he was yours, so tonight— your legs locked around his waist.
“I want you Ben, I need you.” You voice came out more desperate than you’d meant. But it was the damn truth.
The growl that left his chest made your walls clench around nothing. His hand slid under your ass, the other locked around your waist as he carried you to the bedroom, his movements fluid and predatory. As he pulled the chiffon nightdress over your head, his hands trembled with the effort of holding back his strength. He was terrified of breaking the only thing in the world he actually cared about.
“You want to piss her off?” he asked, his lips trailing your collarbone. “Prove just who it is I who I belong to?” You nodded, the scrape of his beard making you shiver.
He sank into the mattress, his eyes roaming over you like a predator, the towel was gone now, his large, fully hard dick standing at attention only for you. Your mouth watered. Ben knew the effect he had on you. He reveled in it. He tried stopping you just as you sank to your knees, when you refused, he reached for the rotary phone on the nightstand, dialed a number, and hung up after what could have only been a single ring.
When the phone shrieked a moment later, Ben didn't let you pull away. “Don’t stop, Angel. Prove it. Let her know.” He picked up the receiver and set it face-up on the oak nightstand.
His hand tangled in your hair, anchoring himself as you took all of him down your throat. From his perspective, the world narrowed down to the heat of your skin and the rhythmic, agonizing pleasure you were giving him finally after a year of sleeping next to you every night. He didn't care about the image or the cameras. He finally had you wrapped around him in the way he lost sleep over.
“That’s it, Angel. Fucking perfect,” he choked out, his voice a wrecked, beautiful ruin for the line to catch. “Fucking made for me. Taking me so damn well, baby.”
His muscles roped under his skin as he abandoned the "Soldier Boy" persona entirely. In his mind, he was claiming you in the dirtiest way possible, making sure the woman on the other end of the line knew her place.
“That’s my girl. Fucking hell,” he panted, pulling you to straddle him. He ran himself against you possessively. “Take what belongs to you.”
He watched you sink onto him with one wet slap, and in that moment, he felt like he was reclaiming his soul. “So fucking tight and warm, angel,” he murmured, he pulled you flush to his chest, kissing your shoulder. “Making it real hard to go easy on you tonight.”
“Then don’t be,” you breathed.
The room felt pressurized, the gravity shifting as he pulled you flush against his chest. He could feel the heat radiating off his own skin, the V in his blood humming a low, constant frequency that seemed to sync with your heartbeat. Every touch was an imprint. He looked at you as if he were memorizing the physics of your pleasure, his eyes unblinking, his breath hot and ragged against your ear.
“You’re mine,” he growled, his hands anchoring your hips like steel cables. “Do you hear me, Angel? No Vought, no fans, no bullshit. You being mine and me being yours… only yours.”
Later, as you lay tangled in the sheets, his heavy arm draped over your waist like a lead bar, he leaned over and kissed your forehead. He felt a sense of smug triumph as his hand drifted back to the phone.
“Well, she definitely got the memo,” he half-laughed, his voice still thick with satisfaction. “If she stayed on that line for all of that.”
“Ben!” you gasped.
He just let out a low, unapologetic laugh, pulling you back into his side.
The memory that had been replaying in your head for days faded as quickly as it came when Ben’s voice filled the room.
The air in the cramped apartment was thick with the smell of scorched oil and cheap gunpowder.
You looked up from your place at the kitchen island, the wood grain under your fingers feeling real and rough, grounding you. Ben stood next to you, looking massive in his suit that strained against his shoulders.
“You hear me, Angel?” he asked. He gestured toward the plate sitting in front of you—a stack of eggs and greasy bacon that looked like a challenge. He gave a faint, rare hint of a smile, the kind that didn't make it to the posters. “Eat. Last thing I need is you going mental because you skipped a meal before we head out.”
He reached out, his thumb hooking under your chin to tilt your head back, his touch surprisingly warm for a man whose hands were built for war. “I’m not hungry, Ben,” you murmured, the impatience knotting in your stomach tightening at the thought of what was coming for Countess.
“Yeah, you weren't hungry on our wedding night either, and you still managed to steal half my damn burger,” he grinned, his eyes sparking with a flash of soldier boy cockiness. “I was lucky I’d caught on to your games by then and went into that diner prepared. Now eat, before I shove it down your throat.”
He leaned down, pressing a lingering kiss to the top of your head, his scent—pine and old-school pomade—briefly drowning out the room.
“Wouldn't be the first time you shoved something down my throat,” you giggled, the tension in the room snapping for a brief, filthy second.
Across the living area, a chorus of deep, exhausted groans erupted.
“I regret every single life choice that led to me agreeing to this adventure,” Gunpowder sighed from the sofa, his head dropping into his hands as he meticulously cleaned a rifle part.
“I liked it better when she was just throwing knives at the walls,” Legend huffed, staring into the amber depths of his whiskey with a look of profound misery. “At least the property damage was easier on my ears than the two of you.”
Ben didn't even look back at them. He just kept his eyes on yours, his hand moving from your chin to the back of your neck, his thumb tracing the hairline in a slow, grounding rhythm.
“Ignore the peanut gallery,” he rumbled, his voice dropping into that private, protective gravel. “They’re just bitter because they’ve forgotten what it’s like to have something worth fighting for. Eat your breakfast, sweetheart. We’ve got a long night ahead of us.”
The car was a dark, jagged bruise against the treeline, bleeding into the foliage where Legend and Gunpowder lurked like carrion birds. Ben walked beside you, his shield a heavy, cold weight, his face bared to the night—unmasked, unbothered, and utterly lethal. It was the first time he’d seen your suit in its full, restored glory; a jet-black mirror of his own tactical armor that didn't just reflect the moonlight—it swallowed it. You saw the flicker of dark pride in his eyes. A silent, grim acknowledgment that the two of you were finally the matched set of monsters you were always meant to be.
The plan was beautiful in its simplicity: Ben wanted the truth, but you wanted to watch the arrogance leak out of her like spoiled wine until there was nothing left but the raw, pathetic stench of a woman who knew her expiration date had passed.
You hadn't expected her to be outside. Crimson Countess stood by a dilapidated trailer, watering a row of thirsty, dying plants as if she actually gave a damn about a living thing. Her red cape rustled in the wind—a cheap, theatrical flap for a hero who’d spent forty years auditioning for a role she already lost.
Ben stopped, melting into the shadows between two ancient oaks. He stayed in your line of sight, a silent, heavy anchor in the dark. He was letting you lead; he wanted you to enjoy the first incision.
The violet surge hit your fingertips first, a low-voltage hum that made the hair on your arms stand up. You felt the familiar flicker in your eyes, the world sharpening into a high-contrast nightmare of violet and black before she even sensed the shift in the air.
“We’re closed, kid. Come back tomorrow and you can see all the freeloading monkeys you want,” she called out, her voice raspy, exhausted, and dripping with that same bored entitlement you remembered from 1984. She didn't even turn around.
“I’m not here for the chimpanzees, Janine,” you said, your voice vibrating with the power humming under your skin. “Though I suppose looking at you is close enough to a primate in decline.”
She froze, the watering can tipping until it poured uselessly onto her boots. She turned slowly, squinting through the dark, a nasty, serrated smirk tugging at her lips. “Oh, look at this. A little goth bat out for a midnight stroll. Who’re you supposed to be? The latest Vought reject?”
Then she stopped. The smirk didn't just fade; it curdled. As you stepped into the weak, yellow light of her porch lamp, the violet glow in your eyes pulsed, illuminating a face she thought was long buried by time, NDAs, or a shallow grave.
“It’s you—” she began, her voice jumping an octave as she took a timid, trembling step back. “You were human. A—a loose end Edgar swore would never be a problem.”
You let out a small, dark laugh that sounded like dry leaves skittering over a tombstone. “Stan always did underestimate the importance of a thorough follow-up.”
“How are you...”
“A supe? Or alive?” you asked when her voice died off. You stepped onto the porch, folding your arms with a slow, predatory grace. “Really, they go hand in hand. You just have to know the right people to grab the right cocktail.”
You looked around the dingy trailer, the piss-poor excuse for a sanctuary she’d boasted about for two decades on late-night infomercials.
“Is this what Vought’s money gave you? All those missions, all that 'saving' people, the poster girl of Payback? And you ended up running a monkey rehab masked as a third-rate carnival?” You sounded genuinely disappointed. “Guess you never were as important as you thought. See, if you were, you’d be sitting on the kind of money Ben left me. Decades of paychecks, movie residuals, and the Rhodes family fortune I inherited when you sold him out. I’ve spent forty years living in luxury while you’ve been cleaning up ape shit.”
She was looking anywhere but at you, too paralyzed to move. You let out a sudden, sharp laugh that made her jump.
“Do you remember that fundraiser Ben brought me to? Well, Legend brought me—kept me by his side until the cameras left. Then Ben dropped your cheap ass in the VIP lounge and fucked me in that dark back corner.” You were pacing now, the memory vivid and cruel. “As soon as he walked back to the party, you kissed him. Oh, honey, everyone saw the desperation. It was pathetic. And then you tried to corner me when he wasn't looking to make me feel inferior.”
You stopped, leaning in close enough that she could see the violet electricity dancing in your pupils. “‘Ben doesn’t actually like you, sweetheart. You’re just a warm body,’” you mimicked her old, shrill voice. “You called me a speed bump, Janine. You said he’d get tired of me. But what you didn’t know was that out of the fourteen years we were together, we spent nine of them married.”
The color drained from her face, her jaw hanging open in a silent, ugly gape. “Married?”
“Vegas, October ’74. Legend was the witness. I wore a Bob Mackie dress Cher hand-delivered to me. It was iconic.” You dramatized the gesture, your eyes cold as ice. “I spent nine years loving that man for who he really was. And his own team set him up.”
“You’re her... aren’t you? The Raven,” she whispered, taking another step back until she hit the trailer wall.
“Please, that’s just the name Vought gave me because they were too cowardly to confront me.” You shook your head. “No, I’m just me, Janine. The only difference is—well—now I’m indestructible.” You let the electricity surge up your arm, the air smelling of ozone and scorched wood. “When your little band of pussies decided to ambush my husband, I lost my mind. And revenge was all I had left. I’ve spent forty years hunting every name connected to Nicaragua. Including Payback.”
“Why not kill me sooner?” she asked, her voice trembling.
“Because, Janine, where’s the fun in cat and mouse if the mouse doesn't know it's being hunted? I wanted you scared. I wanted you to hide. I pieced off the others one by one, planned it down to a fucking science. You think I wanted to start with the obvious choice? No. Swatto was a warm-up. But Noir? Noir was... lengthy. Three days I hunted him. I let him see my face. I took body parts every time he refused to answer a question. And when he finally told me what I wanted to know? I got bored. So I ripped his heart out.”
“You killed Mindstorm with Ben’s shield.”
“No, I used the shield as a conductor. More surface area. Tragic, really.”
“How did you kill Gunpowder? No one ever found him.”
“Gunpowder is alive. He works for me, Janine. How do you think I got every name and location so quickly? I’m not a one-man show, kiddo. You really should have taken notes.”
“You’re worse than he ever was,” she whispered, her eyes wide with a horrific new realization.
“That is the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.” You smiled, a expression that didn't reach your glowing eyes. “When Ben found out you were still alive, he was... shocked.”
“What?” she suddenly panicked, her voice rising to a shriek. “How did he—Vought said the lab was locked down! They said he was gone!”
You stopped. The air went still. “You knew?” you whispered, the realization hitting you with a cold, sharp edge.
Movement from the corner of your eye caught her attention as Ben stepped out of the shadows, the gold of his shield catching the porch light. Countess backed herself into the corner of the porch, looking between the two of you like a trapped animal.
Ben’s hand found your waist, anchoring you. “Ben,” she whispered, her voice cracking. “You look so young.”
“You don’t,” he replied, his voice a grave, jagged rumble. “What did they pay you?”
“Nothing.” She whispered.
“Nothing?” He asked as if he’d heard wrong.
“Ben, you have to understand—”
“I trusted you. All of you,” he continued, his chest beginning to emit a low, orange thrum. “I played my part, kept all of you pussies safe, played by Edgar’s rules…”
“We hated you!” she seethed, her jealousy finally overriding her fear. “You were arrogant, you thought you were better than us. Then you met her and suddenly you wanted out of the life you were hired for. They wouldn't let you go, so we found a solution!”
“How’s that retirement plan working out for you now?” Ben growled, his eyes glowing with the heat of a dying star. “You left an innocent woman alone, knowing the threats Edgar put against her. You wanted her out of the picture so bad you caused her to become this. You caused all of this.”
“Ben, it was never about her—“
“You wanted me, I didn’t want you, you said for years I’d get bored of her, that I was wasting what I was given. That I’d lost.” You’d never seen his chest burn as bright as it had in that moment. Or heard the tone of his voice the way he yelled “I fucking won!”
He pushed you behind him with a sudden, protective force, his arm a solid barrier. “Hold on, Angel.”
The explosion erupted from his chest, a blinding, white-hot roar of pure, unadulterated vengeance. When the light cleared, all that was left was fire, twisted metal, and the smell of ash.
Ben’s breathing was ragged, the effort taking everything he had in that moment. But his hands never moved from your waist, holding you against his back, shielding you from the heat and the debris.
He turned, chest till heaving. His eyes—finding yours. You rested your hand against the center of his chest, neither of you spoke, neither of you had to.
You just let the moment settle while his breathing did.
“Oi you lots beginning to be a real pain in my arse. First you take my only weapon against homelander and call it bloody love. Now you kill the next best bloody thing.” You heard behind you. Sighing deeply before looking around Ben.
We made the same face when we heard about what happened @beausvalleygirl1 😂 YALL LEAVE JENSEN ALONE! No one knows Dean better than he does. He said no, that means NO! End. Of. Story.
He doesn’t owe us anything.
He doesn't have to spend his weekends at conventions, and he definitely doesn't have to sit on a stage and be argued with about his own character just because it conflicts with a fan fantasy.
Write your fics, ship your ships, do your thing-but keep it in fan spaces. If you want to talk about it at a con, talk to Misha, since he's the one who likes to play into that dynamic.
Jensen is there because he loves the SPN family, not because he has to be. He is one of the kindest, most generous actors with his time and stories. Don't ask a question if you're only looking for a specific answer. He deserves respect, period.
Had he walked off that stage I would have applauded him, had he been more aggressive I would have applauded him. Instead he kept his composure, he wasn’t hateful. Because that’s who he is.
That entire situation was complete bullshit.
And I’m not just saying it because it’s Jensen. I’d feel the same way if Jared had been treated that way.
If this keeps up they could stop doing cons all together.
Fandom is supposed to be fun!!!!! Not borderline insane.
Don't listen to those Jensen haters. They are all just bitchy mean girls who act like they own the entirety of Tumblr and spend their days harassing random bloggers.
Oh it was no skin off my back! It was super early so I went right back to sleep🤷♀️🤣
I just want my page to be a safe space for anyone who reads my little creations, and if they need to talk I want them to feel safe doing so here.❤️ everyone is welcome here, even if we don’t see eye to eye on things, or like and dislike things.
There will always be people with their own opinions, I have my own that I voice from time to time here as well.
But I’m a mother 🤣 my kids say meaner things on a daily basis to their toys.
At the end of the day, I choose to post what I post, and write what I write, because not only do I enjoy it, but I have some pretty amazing people who enjoy it as well, and that means everything to me. I knew when I started it would eventually get hate of some sort. Just never in a million years thought, it would be over what a grown man decided to wear in public, or how I tag.🤣🤦♀️
If someone doesn't like Jensen's outfit it's fine. Just don't fucking interact with people who do. Don't go to accounts that are enjoying this look with your side of "meh that's a terrible outfit". Do this shit in your own blog. Srsly people have made fandom hell. You can't fucking enjoy anything or have an original thought without someone shitting on your parade. Sorry for ranting in your inbox.
This was exactly why I said what I said, it was my post, and I very nicely (I thought) said please don’t on my post. I absolutely loved his entire outfit. I think he killed it. It’s no skin off my back. At the end of the day he’s out there doing what he loves to do, and looks good while doing it.
Like Dean once said “demons I get, people are crazy.”
If someone doesn't like Jensen's outfit it's fine. Just don't fucking interact with people who do. Don't go to accounts that are enjoying this look with your side of "meh that's a terrible outfit". Do this shit in your own blog. Srsly people have made fandom hell. You can't fucking enjoy anything or have an original thought without someone shitting on your parade. Sorry for ranting in your inbox.
This was exactly why I said what I said, it was my post, and I very nicely (I thought) said please don’t on my post. I absolutely loved his entire outfit. I think he killed it. It’s no skin off my back. At the end of the day he’s out there doing what he loves to do, and looks good while doing it.
Like Dean once said “demons I get, people are crazy.”
Gonna need yall to bear with me…… I’m living for this outfit and well….all of him. But what’s new? Anyway. Can we talk about the flowy pants. Because holy shit 🥵
Gonna need yall to bear with me…… I’m living for this outfit and well….all of him. But what’s new? Anyway. Can we talk about the flowy pants. Because holy shit 🥵
Sweet Jesus alive 🥵🥵🥵🥵🥵 idk why, idk how, and I don’t care, and I don’t care that I don’t care. He fucking killed this ensemble. I mean HOLY SHIT 🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤
A/N : i’m so excited about this series and i hope you are too! here we go, first chapter! enjoy, lmk what you think.
Reader’s P.O.V.
“I told you guys it was gonna sell quick.” Your dad calls as he glances at the bright red sign that reads ‘SOLD’ in white bolded letters across the real estate sign, proudly displayed on the neighbor’s lawn.
“We never doubted you, Pa.” You answer with as much enthusiasm as you could fake as you put the last of your bags in your car.
The house next door had been on the market for less than two months, a record for any house on the block. Your current neighbor was a nice old lady who decided it was time to move into a retirement home. She was always quiet, never made a sound, and hardly ever had any visitors over; She was perfect! For years, it was bliss, and now you’re afraid of whatever hellish neighbor you were doomed to get so the universe could restore its balance. It seemed like a common theme in your life: When one thing goes well, the other shoe drops.
“I wonder who we’re gonna get.”
“Hopefully someone with a hot daughter,” says your younger brother, Jakob.
“Ew, you’re like five.” Your face contorts with disgust.
“Plus 11—old enough to steal her heart.” He smirks, knowing it’ll get under your skin.
You snort, completely unamused. “Please, you couldn’t pick a girl up if you tried.”
“I don’t pick girls; they pick me.”
“Ugh! If you don’t shut up, I’m gonna throw up on you.” Your sister, Laura, threatens as she tosses her suitcase in the trunk.
“Ahj, don’t hate ‘cause the girls can’t resist this face.”
Before you and your sister can wipe the stupid grin off his stupid face, your dad laughs, disrupting that tirade.
Your brows furrow, and you stare at your father as if he grew two additional heads. “Don’t encourage him!”
“What can I say?” He responds as he closes the boot of your car. “He’s my son, all right.”
With a roll of your eyes, he pulls you into a hug. You groan but hug him back, knowing you’ll miss him. It was five days before summer break ended, and you and Laura were heading off to college. She could’ve gone anywhere, but she chose to go where you went: Kansas State University. Laura begged you to leave early so she could check into her dorm room early and set up. You agreed and offered to show her around Manhattan. After he embraces Laura, he gives you both a lecture about focusing on school, then reminds you to look after her, as if you hadn’t been taking care of your siblings since they came around—the job of the eldest sister was never-ending.
“Okay, yes. We get it. No boys.” She huffs. “Now, we gotta hit the road.”
“Fine, text me when you guys get there.”
“Will do,” you reply before hooking your arm around your brother’s neck and pulling him in for a quick hug. “Bye, dork. You better act right, or I’ll come back to whoop your ass.”
“Yeah, yeah.” But he knows you aren’t joking.
Laura says her goodbyes, then you both jump in your car to begin your two-hour drive, the thought of your new neighbor long gone.
Thanksgiving and winter break had come and gone, and all the boys could talk about was your new neighbor, Dean. Even the weekend of your brother’s birthday, it was all about the single man around your dad’s age with no (human) kids, who had expert mechanic skills that kept his classic car in pristine condition. Your dad even boasted about how Dean had diagnosed and fixed his truck for free. They each went on and on about how awesome he was, how smart he was, how funny—after a while, it was obvious they had a man crush. How sweet, you thought as you smirked to yourself.
Before Christmas, the three boys went deer hunting, and they praised at how good a shot Dean was. You were against killing Bambi, but when you saw how bright their smiles were as they recounted their trip, you decided to keep your comments to yourself—this time. You didn’t get to meet your new neighbor over the holidays since he spent them with his brother, who lived out of town. There was no denying you were intrigued by the only man who had ever captured the hearts of your father and your little brother in so little time, but knowing he was your dad’s best friend took away any interest you might’ve had in meeting the older man. So, for the remainder of your school year, he hadn’t crossed your mind, not once.
“Finally!” Laura shouts as you pull into the driveway of your family home.
It was officially summer break, and you two were finally home. With much haste, she lugs her suitcase out of the trunk and runs to the front door. Your dad was already waiting to greet her, door wide open. He shouts into the living room, telling your brother to get off the couch and to help you with your bags. A second passes before Jakob jogs out of the house with a cheeky smile on his face.
“Let me help you with that, ma’am.”
You roll your eyes as he takes your suitcase from your hands, knowing how you hated being reminded of how much older you are than he is. Both of you enter the house you grew up in, and luckily, nothing’s changed now that it’s just the two boys. It’s just about supper time when you get home, and as expected, it’s already waiting on the table. The moment the delicious scent of food hits your nose, your mouth waters, and the bags are forgotten. Everyone gathers at the dining room table, and digs in the second your dad serves each plate. Oh, how you’ve missed this.
“So, finally done with school!” Your dad boosts with his mouth half full. “How were finals?”
“They were terrible,” your sister responds, but when his eyes go wide, she clarifies, “I passed, but they were stressful.”
He nods, relieved, then looks to you.
With sarcasm, you reply, “I failed all of mine, so now I gotta live here forever.”
“You can live here forever if you buy the house.”
“Dangg, so you’re not just gonna leave it to me when you die?”
“Wait, why would you get the house?” Jakob interjects.
“‘Cause I’m the oldest.”
“So? I’m the youngest. I should get it.”
“Please, if anyone’s going to get it, it’s gonna be me,” Laura adds confidently.
“He doesn’t even trust you to drive his truck.”
“Hey! It was one small dent, and he got it out!”
“Alright, everyone, shut up and finish the food I slaved over the stove, making.” And just like that, he ends your bickering and changes the subject. “We’re going to Hastings for a boxing tournament tomorrow. Do you guys want to come with?”
Neither of you could answer faster. “No.” “Nah.”
For years, you both had been dragged along to countless boxing matches. Jakob began the sport when he was six, and your dad put most of his time and effort into supporting your brother’s dream, especially after your mom left. Once you girls were of ‘staying home alone’ age, you refused to be hauled from city to city, state to state. Now, 10 years later, your father has his own successful boxing club and has even won ‘Best Boxing Club’ in Kasas a few years in a row. So, turning him down wasn’t a big deal, especially since your brother could no longer compete, having outgrown the age limit for kids.
“C’moon. It’s going to be a good show, and Dean will be there, so you could finally meet him.”
Oh, definitely not. “It’s okay.” “We’re good.”
“Fine, so what’re you gonna do instead?”
“I’m picking Audrey up, then we’re going out for a bit.”
Even after you turned the legal age to drink, it wasn’t something you bragged about to your father if and when you chose to consume alcohol. There were three topics neither of you dared discuss with one another: sex, booze, and drugs. If the subject ever did arise, he’d encourage you to stay away from them, just like he did when you were younger. He knew he raised you right and trusted that you would always make the right choice, and if you didn’t, as long as it wasn’t around him; Out of sight, out of mind.
Once everyone finishes dinner, your dad makes a plate and asks Jake to deliver it to your new neighbor. He happily takes the food and practically skips with glee, next door. Your brow furrows with wonderment at how Dean won them over in the span of a school year. Your father was always generous, but he never made a plate for any other neighbor. Is he really that great? You shrug your shoulders, reminding yourself you don’t care enough to find out.
The rest of the night came and went. You played games as a family, then watched a movie until everyone, but you, passed out on the couch. As if it were a tradition, you shut off the TV, wake them up, and encourage that they continue their slumbers in the comfort of their beds. You watch as they climb the stairs in a zombie-like state, making sure they make it to their rooms carefully. Once they do, fatigue sets in and prevents you from carrying all of your luggage upstairs, so you settle for just your beauty bag. After washing up, you stumble into your room, ready to crash into bed, but you hold off long enough to shut the curtains. Just as you begin to draw them, your eyes drift to the window across from yours, only to see the shadow of a man remove his shirt in the darkness. He should really close his blinds.
The sun shines through the curtains, casting its rays onto your bedroom floor, and you lie unconsciously. It’s just after 10 a.m. when the sound of a loud exhaust rumbles to life, ripping you from your sleep. Who the fuck?! Your head lifts from the comfortable mattress, eyebrows furrowed as one, eyes squinting from the brightness. Why, why, why?
Your head slumps against the comforter with a groan. It’s too early for this. There was only one person it could be, and that was the new neighbor. Over the 15+ years you’ve lived in this house, no one has ever had an obnoxious vehicle that woke up the neighborhood. Your patience was wearing thin, so after all of five minutes, you pushed yourself out of bed and stormed downstairs with a huff. The boys were near the front door, putting on their shoes, unbothered by the vehicle's roar.
“Who the hell’s car is that?” The question’s rhetorical, but you continue complaining. “It’s so loud that it woke me up. Some people like sleeping in.”
“Calm down,” your Dad says unenthusiastically.
“Yeah, it’s Dean’s,” Jake adds.
“Yeah, I don’t care. Tell him to keep it down, or I will.”
“Or you’ll keep it down?”
“What? No! Or I’ll tell him.” Your brother grins at your annoyance, knowing exactly what you meant but purposely being a nuisance. With a playful shove, you roll your eyes and tell him to get gone. “Just shut up and go to your stupid boxing event.”
He chuckles before blowing you a kiss. “Don’t miss me too much.”
Once the door closes behind them, you retreat to your room, waiting, listening until you hear your neighbor’s car drive off into the distance.
Dusk had fallen upon Lebanon when you began getting ready. It had been quite a while since you last went out, and you figured it would be nice to see your friend again. Your sister also made plans and left a few hours after the others. In a town where everyone knows everyone, you knew it was safe for her to be out and about, so you weren’t worried, unlike when you were at college. Once you top yourself off with your favorite perfume, you head out to pick up Audrey, but not without glancing next door. The lights were off, so assuming no one was home, you considered him lucky.
The moment she gets in your car, you greet her with a, “Whad’up, loser.”
“What’s up, bitch.” She says with a large smile. “Ready to get fucked up tonight?”
“By fucked up, you mean watching you get hammered since I’m the designated driver, then sure, ready as I’ll ever be.”
The time is around 9:45 p.m. when you arrive at the bar, and the introvert in you is regretting coming out instead of staying home and binge-watching another rewatch of Criminal Minds. Music from the rowdy bar floods into the parking lot, and it isn’t until you open the heavy door that it drowns your hearing. Audrey beelines it to the counter and orders a Long Island Iced Tea. Here we go, you think to yourself. ‘S gonna be a long night. You hop on the barstool beside her, asking the bartender for a Summer Cooler. As he makes the mocktail, Audrey turns toward you, excitement bright on her face.
“Soooo...tell me about college! How was it?”
“Why are you asking like we haven’t texted every single day?” You laugh.
“Whaaatt? It’s different when talking in person; You can tell me the nitty-gritty details! Oo—tell me about that guy!”
“What guy?”
“Didn’t you say there was a guy?”
“Are you sure you aren’t talking about yourself?”
With a chuckle, she shoves your shoulder. “Shut up!”
The beverages come, and she damn near drools, ready to slurp every last drop. You both sit and talk for a while, about anything and everything. By 11, the bar’s packed, not unusual for a small town on a Friday night. A couple of drinks in and one too many people rubbing against your back, trying to catch the attention of the two bartenders working tonight, you both agreed to sit elsewhere. The tall table you choose is at the far end of the bar, and after a few minutes of listening to your drunken friend slur her words, your eyes wander toward the pool tables.
Your heart skips a beat as you set your sights on the most beautifully handsome man you’ve ever seen. Holy shit... Your mouth parts as you inhale, trying to catch the breath you didn’t expect to lose. Who...is...that..? He bends over the table, eye level with the stick as he aligns it, taking a second before forcefully thrusting it forward, striking the white ball into the desired striped ball, straight into a pocket. He moves effortlessly and lines his cue stick before striking his assigned balls again and again and again, making each and every shot. Fuck. Me... Your pulse rises, thumping against your skin rapidly as you swallow the drool that threatens to flee.
Finally, he stands in triumph as he ends the game with a win. The world seems to slow as a cocky grin graces his gorgeous face. If you didn’t believe in God before, you do now because that was definitely His work. He took His sweet time on this one, you think to yourself, wearing a smirk of your own. The man takes a sip of his beer, his Adam’s Apple bopping against his delicious throat, and you bite your lip. He even swallows perfectly. Your body grows hot with lust, and you cross your legs to control yourself from jumping out of your chair and onto him. Lord, forgive me for the unholy thoughts this complete stranger is causing me to have.
Could He blame you? How could He create a walking ad for temptation and not expect everyone to lust over him? It was impossible. The music and chatter blend into a muffled hum, like you’re listening from underwater, and in an instant, the bustling bar fades away the moment his eyes meet yours. He pulls the bottle away from his lips, and the corner of his mouth curls as he catches you staring. Shit.
Heat rises to your cheeks, painting them a scarlet hue: the color of embarrassment. You divert your attention with urgency, hoping he can’t see your crimson face from across the room. The noise around you goes back into focus, the bar filling with drunken idiots again. You look to your friend, pretending to be engaged by nodding, since you can’t get him out of your head. It had only been a minute, and already he invaded every corner of your mind. You desperately want to steal a glance, needing to set eyes on him again. Just a peek, you think to yourself. It wouldn’t hurt.
When you finally do, he’s already staring back at you. He says something to the local he’s playing with without breaking eye contact. You want to look away—you should look away—but you can’t, especially when he licks his lucioius lips. He holds you in a trance, and you don’t know how to break free. Lucky for you, Audrey pulls you out of it.
“What the hell are’you lookin’ at?” she questions, seemingly upset.
“Huh?”
She lets go of your arm and explains, “I called your name three timess!”
“Oh, I—sorry.”
You feel like a terrible friend. How could you let some guy whom you’ve never met have such an effect on you? How could you be so distracted by a man just by his looks? Despite never speaking to him, the way he influences the beat of your heart makes you take notice. You aren’t shallow, and if you had enough courage to go over and talk to him, you would, but your loyalty mattered more than striking out with the guy.
Her eyes wander where yours had lain before, and when they find the cute stranger, they widen. “Who’s that tall glass’v’water?”
“I have no idea, but he’s...fine...”
There you two are, staring like you’re starving animals, and he’s a piece of meat. He’s no longer looking in your direction, and instead, he’s playing another game of 8-Ball. As he waits for his opponent to miss a shot, he rubs the chalk on the cue. His hand grips the stick tightly, the veins on the back of his hand visible. It isn’t long before it’s his turn, and without mercy, he nails every ball.
“Dibs.”
“What?!” You’ve never whipped your head faster. “No! Hell no.”
“Hell yes.”
“You can’t call dibs, he’s a person!”
“‘Don’t care, he’s’mine.”
“W-wha—I saw him first!”
“Losersss, weepersss.”
You roll your eyes when the insecurity gets the best of you. There was no use in fighting, no matter how badly you wanted him. She was more confident (in most things) and wore her makeup prettier than yours. Her easy-going personality and natural charm made it difficult for anyone not to like her. Why try if you’re both sure of the answer?
“You’re an asshole.”
“He can do it’n my as—”
You shove her shoulder, and she loses her balance, nearly falling off her chair. Her laughter erupts from deep in her belly, and you’re surprised vomit didn’t come with it. She leans into you, eyes squeezed shut as she finds almost busting her shit the funniest thing in the world. Your lips curl from her infectious laugh. Finally, you cave and join her, the two of you chuckling like fools.
Once you both calm down, wiping tears from your eyelids, you dare glance at the mystery man. There he stayed, participating in another game of pool. Every so often, he’d check on you, throw you a smile when you’d shyly look away, then peek again. Audrey commented on everything her foggy brain could think of, most of it being vulgar. You’d be annoyed if you weren’t thinking the same things.
“He’s to-tal-lly checkin’ me out.”
You? With a sigh, you give in. You. He probably was. You saw his eyes dart to her a few times, and you weren’t a fan.
“I’m’gonna talk to him.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.” You warn as you stop her from jumping off her stool.
“Stop being a haterr. He likes me, and I like him.”
“Audrey, you’re drunker than a skunk. I don’t think it’s best—”
“I don’t carrree!”
“But—”
“I would support you!”
There’s no use in arguing, so you hold your hands up in surrender. “Fine.”
In all honesty, not only did you not want her to make a fool of herself, but part of you was afraid she’d be right. You should’ve walked with her, made sure she didn’t bump into anyone or fall the way she swayed, but she wanted it so bad; She had to earn it. So, you watch instead, arms crossed, waiting to be entertained or disappointed. This'll be interesting.
She makes it to the table, and you visibly cringe when she lies next to him as he lines the cue up to the ball. Oh, gosh. He glances at her, his eyes widening as she leans closer. You should stop it—you should save her—but you wanna know how it ends, especially when he backs away. She rises with him, and you blame the liquor for it knows no sense of boundaries. You find yourself on the edge of your seat when they both look toward you. Oh, shit.
What is it? What’d they say?
She makes her walk of shame back to your shared table, and it can’t be any slower. The anticipation eats at your soul, and you’re almost tempted to meet her halfway to ask what the exchange was. If this bitch doesn’t hurry up! Her face is blank, making it impossible to read what she may be feeling. You’re too scared to look at the man you were fawning over, afraid of...you didn’t know what!
Audrey climbs into her chair, and you anxiously wait for her to spill, but she holds on as long as she can, slowly sipping from her straw.
“Well?!”
She stirs her drink, mumbling something under her breath. “Helksou...”
“What?”
She sighs and rolls her eyes over to yours. “He likess you!”
“W-what..?”
He does??
“Idonknow, said he was lookin’at mY fRiEnD.”
He was? He was! Your heart flutters as a swirl of emotions stirs within. No way he was looking at you over Audrey. But he was, of course, he was! You try to contain your excitement, and only then does it hit you: You have to talk to him.
Suddenly self-conscious, you straighten your shirt and flatten your hair. Just as you glance at him, he looks away from you. Phew...wait...Am I supposed to go over there, or is he going to come over here? You close your eyes for a brief moment, trying to decide your next move, but her words rush you.
“He’s coming over.” Your eyes snap open, and sure enough, beer in hand, he strides from the other side of the room. “You should tell’em to ge’lo-ss.”
“What? No, you’re crazy.”
He dodges intoxicated individuals, casually acknowledging those who try to begin a conversation with him without talking to them.
“Our frien-ship is too import—”
“‘Losers, wheepers. Stop being a hater. He likes me, I like him. I would support you.’” You repeat her very words.
“Finnee, finee.” She rolls off her seat with a lazy smile on her wasted face. “Whatever you’do...jus’don’t let’em’n th’back dooor. Y-you’re classsier than that.”
She stumbles away, no doubt going to make new friends or perhaps bother them.
“Audrey—Hi!”
He saves your friend from being scolded; Luckly for her, his timing was excellent.
“Hi,” His voice is so deep you can swim in it. His eyes drink you in now that he’s closer, and he swallows the saliva you’re sure has pooled in his mouth. The stranger places his beer on your table, leaning on his arm just slightly as he asks, “I couldn’t help but notice you staring at me.”
Oh. Sure, you were kind of, maybe, very much staring at him, but you’re a little taken aback by his forward approach. If it were any other guy, it would be a turn-off, but with him, he could be as forward as he wanted to be. There were two ways you thought to play it: clueless or embracing. So, you decide to entertain him.
“Sorry, it’s kind of a reflex when someone has something on their face.” His smirk disappears, and one appears on yours as his right hand self-consciously touches near his mouth. You snicker, having trouble keeping a straight face at how cute he looks. “I’m screwing with you.”
The mystery man’s shoulders change from tense to relieved. He cracks a smile and moves closer. “You got me.”
I sure do.
“Do I have something on my face to justify your constant stare?” You ask sweetly.
“Besides imagining my lips on yours later tonight, I’d say just beauty.”
Your heart skips a beat at his bold remark, causing your smile to grow brighter and your cheeks hotter. He bites his lip as he glances at yours, completely unsubtle, and you love it. You have never met a man so confident in himself that you could actually stand to talk to. Maybe it’s because you actually wanted his lips on yours, now and later. Whatever it is, it’s working.
“Oh yeah? Do I look that easy?” You question with a raised brow.
“If I tell you what you want to hear, do I get a reward?”
“Your reward is talking to me.”
“Then no.”
Your jaw slacks, and your eyes widen in stupefaction. Did he actually think you were? Despite the impure thoughts you’ve had of the man, you’d never go home with anyone on the first night. You have respect for yourself, no matter how difficult he's making it. And did he ever...
“Wow, I’m offended.”
“Why’s that, sweetheart?”
“You thinkin’ I’m easy. I’ll have you know my daddy raised me right.”
His mouth twitches, and you can tell he wants to say something, but decides against it. “Well, lucky for me, I like a good challenge.”
Slick.
“How long you in town for?”
“‘Til I’m chased out.”
You nod slowly, memorizing his smooth yet rough jawline. “So, you live here?”
“Mhm.”
“How long?”
“Long enough to know I haven’t seen your pretty face around. Where’ve you been hiding?”
“College.”
His eyes dart to your mocktail, before skimming over your tits, then reacquainting with your eyes. “How old are you?”
“Does it matter? Aren’t I pretty enough for you?” You tease, but you’re desperate for his answer.
“Darlin’, you’re the prettiest girl around, but I wanna make sure I don’t end up in the news for robbing the cradle.”
“I’m flattered, but that won’t be a problem,” The man releases a sigh, relieved you're of age. “If anything, it’ll be your attachment issue.”
He wears a lopsided grin, finding your warning amusing.
“Well, sweetheart, if you taste as good as you look, it’ll be damn worth it.”
You swallow the knot in your throat, praying that when you speak, it doesn’t come out too high. “You sure know how to make a girl blush.”
He steps closer, his thigh grazing your knee, and it sends a bolt of electricity up your leg, straight to your core, but nothing prepares you for his following words.
“I can make ‘em gush, too.”
A moan slips past your lips, and your first hope was that he didn’t hear you, but the loud music and the hundred different conversations give you confidence that he didn’t. In desperation, you rock your hips and tighten your already crossed thighs, aiming to feel some relief from his torturous words. The action doesn’t go unnoticed by the handsome man, so without permission, he uncrosses your legs. What the..? He moves and stands between your knees like it was the most natural thing in the world. The stranger leans toward your ear, and you can smell the beer on his breath. Was I just going to take this?
“What’d’you say we get out of here? I’ll get addicted, and you get a new daddy.”
Fuck yeah, I was.
The tickle of his breath spreads across your skin, and the power of his words makes your pussy flutter. You had never been so driven by lust before, and if this was it, you were okay with living in sin. His hand runs up your thigh before landing and squeezing your hip. Who were you to deny him? After all, he made a compelling case. Just as you open your mouth to give him an answer, your friend stumbles over.
“HEY!” She crashes into you two, and the man takes a step back. She clings to you to stand upright, yet she still rocks. You wrap your arm around her back, trying to steady her as much as possible. “Whas goin’on ovr heree? OO, beer!”
She doesn’t even ask, or let alone care, whose it is before grabbing it off the table. You snatch it from her hand before it touches her lips, accidentally spilling a little on her shirt. She slurs her curse and dabs at it with her hand, as if that was going to clean it off. You place it back on the table top and apologize to the stranger. He murmurs a “no worries,” and your annoyance with your friend begins.
“I think you’ve had about enough, what’d’you think?”
“I think,” Her gaze begins with you, then wanders to the mystery man. “I think he’s hot. Hey, you’re hot.”
“Thank you,” he plays along.
She points a finger at herself, still swaying slightly. “D’you think ‘m hot?”
His brows raise at her forwardness, then he glances at you. You’re already staring back, waiting for his answer. You almost don’t want to hear, but you needed to.
“Uh, well, do you think you’re hot?” She nods, her eyes growing heavier by the second. “Then that’s all that matters.”
“If ‘m so hot, h-how come you do-n’t like me?” Before he can answer, she adds. “‘M hotter than her.”
Well, damn. Fuck you, too, you think as you roll your eyes.
Audrey turns to you and grabs your cheek, forcing you to look at her. “Don’t wor-ry, I still think you’re prettyy.”
You shake out of her grasp and plaster on a fake smile. She’s drunk...She’s. Drunk. Be nice.
“She’s beautiful.” He speaks, instantly lifting your spirit, your smile turning real.
You met his eyes, and he seems guinuene. The flirty man disappeared, and an honest and sweet man replaced him. All this time, and you realized you had been so caught up in lust that you hadn’t stopped to ask for his name. You weren’t yourself around him, and you can’t tell if that’s a good thing or a bad thing. Honestly? It’s both; It’s just what you need.
“Thanks—”
“Fine, fine! Pick her. ‘M not mad. I’m...I’m...” Her face drops and turns sickly pale. “I’m gonna throw up.”
Your eyes widen the second she bends over, and on instinct, you shove the stranger away. It didn’t matter. As she hurls on the ground in front of your chair, her vomit splatters on his boots and jeans. The crowd around you barely notices, and the ones who do express their disgust. Your mouth falls open as you glance from the contents of her stomach to his lower half.
“I am so sorry!” You spin the stool around, careful you don't step in her throw up as you climb down.
After grabbing a handful of napkins from the middle of the table, you walk around Audrey, handing her a few to wipe her mouth off. She leans against the tall table as you crouch down with a wad of thin, cheap napkins, offering apologies on behalf of your friend. Whyyyyy? You were so close to bagging him, but fate wouldn’t let it happen. Maybe it’s for the best,you thought. If anything, you’d be the one attached, as if you aren’t already.
He steps back before you can clean him off, and you look up in confusion. “It’s...alright. You don’t have to do that.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah.” The kind and understanding man grabs your arm and gently pulls you up. “Besides, I’ve had worse liquids on me, trust me.”
Gross.
“That’s awful, I’m sorry.” Audrey groans, and you feel guilty for not tending to her right away. “I should take her home.”
He nods as you secure your hands on her shoulders, ready to steer her out of the bar. “And I should probably clean myself off.”
“Yeah, you probably should.”
Awkward is the wrong word to describe the silence that fills the space between you two. It’s a pregnant pause; You want, wish, hope more can be said and done. Unfortunately, luck’s never on your side, not when it mattered anyway. It isn’t fair that you didn’t get the time you should’ve had with him, and deep down, you’re imagining he feels that way too.
“I enjoyed your company.”
Ew, what am I, 80?
He chuckles, his charming smile easing your worries. “And I, you. Why don’t we—”
Audrey burps, and you hear the threat of her next projection. “Shit, I gotta get her home.”
“I’d help you put her in the car but...” He gestures to the mess.
“That’s alright. Thank you, though. Maybe we can do this again—minus the vomit.”
“Yeah. Yeah, that’d be great.”
“Great,” gReAt—as if there’s no other word in the English dictionary that I could’ve thought of!
You flash him a smile and bid him a goodbye before beelining toward the exit, trying to beat the clock to her next regurgitation.
“Wait!” He calls, forcing you to halt. You glance over, in suspense about what he stops you for. “I don’t even have your number.”
“You like a good challenge: find me.”
He shakes his head with a smirk. For a man with throw-up on himself, he sure doesn’t seem as bothered as anyone else would’ve been. So, you’ll take what you can get. Maybe fate will bring you together again. Maybe it isn’t always out to get you. Just maybe, this could be the start of something bigger, better. Damn it, we forgot to exchange names!
It took seven minutes to get home, two minutes to get her into the house, and up the stairs, three minutes out of her stained clothes and into comfy pajamas. By minute 15, when you forced her to wash her face and rinse her mouth with mouthwash, you hear it: that stupid ass car. It’s a low rumble at first, one you tell her to shut up for, just to make sure you weren’t imagining things. Then, it gets louder, as if it were taunting you. Before you know it, it pulls into the neighbor’s driveway, nearest your bedroom of all others.
“W-what’s that noise?” She asks as you lead her into your room.
The engine chugs and echoes into the darkness. All those minutes spent tolerating your drunken friend, and in more seconds, you’re just as pissed off with a man you’ve never met. You’ve been home just over 24 hours, and already you want to bitch him out. Maybe you were overreacting. After all, you do love the sound of a good engine, just not when it wakes you up or prevents you from falling asleep.
“The stupid neighbor’s car.” As if he heard you, the car shuts off, and the night’s stillness returns. “Praise Jesus.”
Audrey slums on your bed, not even bothering to get underneath the covers. You take the opportunity to go into your closet and get changed into your nightware, and the second you're alone with your thoughts, Mystery Man invades them. Somehow, you make it into bed, and as you climb underneath the duvet, you recount how little time you actually spent together. Despite that, your heart soars just from thinking about him. You’re instantly knocked down when your mistake hits you: Why the fuck didn’t I give him my phone number?!
Your mind runs in circles. Were you really that much of an idiot? The answer is yes. ‘yOu LiKe A gOoD cHaLlEnGe: FiNd Me.’ It wasn’t even clever—or charming! You took what could’ve been an epic love affair and stomped out the fire that could’ve consumed you both. You groan, knowing it’s going to be another memory that’ll haunt you, at least until you see him next. If you see him next. It’s going to be a long night...
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