Wayward Ginger

“Long day, sweetheart?” he asked, voice smooth and casual. The adrenaline from the fight was gone, he was all cleaned up, and that classic Winchester charm was back in place. As you stepped up to him, just a few feet away, you didn’t find the hunger in his eyes anymore. They weren’t dark with passion, just sage green and maybe a little glint of mischief. 

“You could say that,” you responded, but it didn’t have the normal coldness you’d been trying to maintain with him. 

“Well, how about I take you to grab a bite and you can tell me about it?” he asked, with a grin and a slightly raised eyebrow. 

You stared back at him for a moment. The last thing you wanted was to talk about why you had such a long, tedious day. But you had to admit, you were starving and he wasn’t going to let this go. Obviously. Here he was showing up at your work the very next day. Maybe this would give you a chance to figure out what in the hell you were going to do now. 

“Okay, Winchester. I could go for a burger,” you said, voice and face carefully neutral. “But this isn’t a date,” you quickly added. 

For a moment, he looked surprised that you’d actually said yes— without a fight. He recovered quickly. “A burger, huh? A girl after my own heart,” he teased and placed his hand dramatically over his heart. 

“Shut it. Before I change my mind,” you said but the small smile pulling at the corner of your mouth gave you away. 

As you both sat down at a burger joint near campus— one of your favorites— he immediately bumped your leg under the table with his thigh. You looked at him, trying to determine if it was intentional, as your stomach flipped and your heart fluttered like a damn school girl. He was focused on the menu though. 

The food was good and the conversation came easy. Just like it had that first night. Dean’s eyes never stayed off of you for long and several times they dropped to your mouth for just a heartbeat. He wasn’t being obvious but you caught it each time. 

“So, I’ve been dying to know. How do you know about hunters?” he asked, taking a too big bite of his burger. 

You hesitated. “My dad was a hunter…” you said finally, voice soft and slightly guarded. 

Dean nodded and finished chewing. “Mine too,” he replied. “Sounds like we both grew up in the life. Did you ever hunt yourself?”

“No.” Your response came quickly. Dean frowned slightly, knowing there was a lot behind that one-word answer. He didn’t push and you were grateful. 

“Wait,” you said, eyes locked on his. “Winchester. Your dad isn’t named John is he?”

Dean grinned. “Yeah, that’s him.” Then as if a realization hit him, his expression turned more serious. “Did you know him?”

You shook your head, popping a fry into your mouth. “No, but Bobby talked about him sometimes.”

Dean’s eyes widened and his eyebrows shot up. “Bobby Singer?” 

You nodded again. “Yeah.”

“How do you know Bobby?”

You shrugged. “I haven’t talked to him in years but he and my dad worked together on a few cases. I think they even went fishing a few times. They were friends. How do you know him?”

Dean took in what you were saying. “He, uh, was like a second dad to me. He practically raised Sam and me,” he said, rubbing a hand over his jaw.

“Maybe our dads knew each other too. But, um, my dad is dead,” you said, eyes lowering to your plate.

“Mine too,” Dean said, his voice softer than you’d ever heard it.

“Oh.”

Dean cleared his throat and changed the subject with a smile. The conversation flowed into other lighter topics and he had you laughing in no time. That’s when you realized it. Your guard– it was completely down. 

How does he do that?! He’s so irritatingly good at making me forget what he is. A hunter.

“Ya know, you’re really beautiful,” he said out of nowhere, snapping your attention back to him.

You flushed but you remained calmer on the outside than your heart racing on the inside would suggest. “Uh, thank you.”

Dean just smiled and then motioned for the check. You looked at your watch. It has been two hours?? 

Dean’s phone vibrated in his pocket. He pulled it out and looked down at it under the table.

Sam: Hunt tonight. Come back asap.

Dean sighed and slid the phone back into his pocket. “Well, sweetheart, looks like duty calls. “But I want to see you again. Soon.”

You ran your finger over the top of your glass, absently. “We’ll see,” you said with a smirk of your own. 

He lifted an eyebrow, silently accepting your challenge. “Yeah. We will.”

Dean paid and walked you out to your car. He wasn’t subtle, he pulled you against his chest, your breath hitching, and pressed his lips to yours. There was some hunger but it wasn’t the bruising, frantic, claiming force from last night. It was slower, more purposeful. His lips moved against yours and you leaned into it, into him, without even realizing it. 

Your arms came up to slip around his neck of their own accord. Dean groaned against your lips and then deepened the kiss. His tongue caressed yours and explored your mouth in a slow, achingly intimate way. As you kissed him back, you felt a flutter in your stomach. You had butterflies like a goddamn twelve year old girl. You couldn’t even remember the last time you felt something like that. There was something about this man that drove you crazy, in both a horrible and amazing way, all at once. 

You broke the kiss and reached up to run your finger over his bottom lip. “Okay, that’ll be enough of that,” you said, trying to regain your composure and your focus. 

He smiled and pressed one more quick kiss to your lips. “Mhm,” he murmured against your lips. 

“I’ll see you soon, sweetheart.” Dean slid a napkin into your hand and turned without another word, walking back to the Impala. 

You looked down and his phone number was scrawled on the napkin. You hadn’t even seen him do that back at the restaurant. You stared at it for a moment. 

What am I doing? He’s a hunter. He’s just going to bring you chaos and not the good kind. Well, not only the good kind.  

You shook your head at that last thought, realizing that you were already starting to get attached. You wanted to see him again. You wanted to feel his body against yours again. 

Ugh! Get it together! 

Dean’s head wasn’t faring much better. The feel of your lips and your tongue was buzzing on his own lips. He slid into the driver’s seat and started Baby up with a roar. He pulled out his phone and dialed the number he knew by heart, as he pulled out onto the road. 

“Yeah?” came the rough voice on the other end.

“Bobby,” Dean said, his own voice a bit rougher than normal. 

“Look, Dean, now ain’t really a good time…”

“Bobby, wait,” he said quickly, followed by your name. 

“What about ‘er?”

“You know her? What can you tell me?”

Bobby sighed. “Boy, if this is goin' where I think it’s goin', that girl will eat you alive.”

Dean huffed out something like a laugh. “Yeah, you’re probably right. What else?”

“Well, she ain't your typical girl. I knew her daddy. He was a hunter but it ended real bad.” He paused. 

Dean frowned. “Bobby?”

“Yeah, I’m here.” Bobby sighed heavily. “Her daddy was on a hunt and another hunter got ‘im killed. Turned on him, and chose to save some vamp he’d known before it was turned and the other bloodsucker got her dad while he was trying to fend off the hunter too.”

“Oh shit,” Dean said, eyes locked on the road, widening.

“Yeah. Oh shit is right.”

“No wonder she hates hunters. Anything else you can tell me, Bobby?”

“She’s no idjit. She’s smart and has great instincts according to her dad. I don’t know if that’s true if she’s messing with you, boy.”

“Wow, thanks a lot, Bobby,” Dean muttered.

“Dean, you’re like a son to me so I’m gonna say it again, that girl is gonna eat you alive.”

“Okay, okay. I got it,” Dean said with a sigh. “Thanks for the info. I think.”

“Yeah, yeah. Good luck, boy,” Bobby said and hung up the phone.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sam was in Dean’s ear on bluetooth. 

“Okay, this asshole is a rapist and he’s already gotten acquitted twice because he can afford the expensive lawyers.”

“He’s not getting off this time, Sammy,” Dean muttered. 

“Damn right. Okay, the research shows there is a fire escape on his building. His is the… fifth window from the right on the third floor,” Sam said, voice sounding completely matter-of-fact.

Dean killed the headlights of the Impala a block away from the brick apartment building, letting the car coast into the deep shadows of an overgrown oak tree. The rumble of the engine died, leaving only the quiet hum of the night and the steady, cold calculation settling into his chest. The warmth of the burger joint and the lingering taste of your mouth were filed away into a closed compartment in his mind like flipping a switch.

He reached into his jacket, his fingers brushing the cold steel of his blade. "I'm on the alley side now," Dean whispered into his earpiece, his eyes scanning the rusted iron grids of the fire escape. "Any movement inside?"

"Nothing for the last twenty minutes," Sam replied, the tapping of a keyboard faint in the background. "He's home alone. According to his socials, he's celebrating his latest acquittal with a bottle of expensive scotch. He’s probably half-drunk by now."

Dean stepped out of the car, shutting the heavy door with a practiced, near-silent click. He slipped into the shadows of the alley, his boots making no sound on the damp pavement. The transition from the charming, smiling man who had just given you a napkin with his number to the efficient predator moving through the dark was instantaneous.

"Fifth window from the right," Dean muttered, looking up at the third floor. A dim, warm light filtered through the glass, casting long shadows against the brick. "I see it. Heading up."

"Keep it clean, Dean," Sam said, his voice flat, completely stripped of any moral hesitation. It wasn't a warning to stop; it was an operational instruction. "We don't need a scene. Just execute and move."

"Yeah," Dean grunted, catching the bottom rung of the fire escape and pulling himself up into the dark. "Clean and quick."

As he climbed the iron stairs, his compartmentalization slipped, Bobby’s voice echoed in the back of his mind. That girl is gonna eat you alive... Her daddy was on a hunt and another hunter got ‘em killed. Dean’s jaw tightened, his hand wrapping firmer around the hilt of his weapon as he reached the third-floor landing. He looked through the glass, spotting his target sitting on a leather sofa, completely oblivious to the judge, jury, and executioner outside his window. If you ever found out what the Winchesters really did in the dark—how far they had fallen from the men your father’s friend used to know—you wouldn't just walk away. You'd destroy him.

He slipped the knife out of his pocket, his green eyes turning completely cold as he set to work on the window frame. Good thing she's never gonna find out, he thought.

Dean slid the window open silently. The man was still on the sofa facing the television with his back to the window. Sam was in his ear, “Status update?” 

Dean ignored him. He was too close to the target and didn’t want to tip him off. It would be so easy to just walk up behind him and slit his throat. Quick, efficient, effortless. But that wouldn’t satisfy Dean. This man had done unspeakable things. He didn’t get to get off that easily. Dean wanted to see the same fear that he put into those women, reflected back in his own eyes. 

He pulled out his gun and placed it to the back of the man’s head. “Get up,” Dean said in a low, terrifying voice. The man jumped slightly and then slowly rose to his feet, holding his hands up as if to surrender. 

“I-I have money! You can’t take whatever you want. Just don’t…don’t hurt me,” the guy stammered. 

“I don’t want your fuckin’ money,” Dean snapped. “Turn around.”

The man who was about 5’8” and 150 pounds with short dark brown hair and brown eyes turned around, trembling. He was still wearing a suit, minus the jacket, which was tossed over the back of a chair nearby. 

This guy looks like some Wall Street douchebag. 

Dean dwarfed him and his eyes were ice cold, locked on his prey. He slid his gun back into his waistband and raised the large hunting knife that was in his other hand, pointing it at the guy. 

“Please, I’ll do whatever you want. Don’t hurt me!” he tried again. 

“Can you undo what you did and give those women their sense of safety back?” Dean sneered. 

“I-I… wait!” he cried out as Dean took a step closer, knife still pointed at him. Then Dean watched as a wet spot appeared on his pants and began spreading down his leg. 

“You’re a fucking coward. You could ruin those women’s lives but can’t stand up to a real man, huh?” he gritted out, voice still low and dangerous. 

“Dean, stop playing around and hurry up,” Sam said, voice steady. 

“I’m not playing around, Sammy. This asshole just pissed himself. Not so big and strong now.”

He heard Sam sigh in his ear. “Just finish it.”

The man, a confused but terrified look on his face, began to cry, tears sliding down his face as he begged again for his life. 

Dean took the final step forward, quick and practiced. His gloved hand grabbed the man’s shoulder while his other hand drove the blade into his chest. Dean kept his eyes locked on his while the blade glided in without much resistance. “This is for those women and any others you hurt, you son of a bitch.”

The adrenaline was flaring through his body as he watched the man fall to his knees, making a gurgling sound, before falling backward with his legs tucked under him, lying at an awkward angle. As the light went out in the other predator’s eyes, Dean took in a big satisfied breath as if he had been holding it without realizing it. He leaned down and pulled the knife out, wiping the blade on the man’s shirt before standing back up to his full height. 

“It’s done, Sammy.”

“Don’t forget to close the window on your way out and make sure you wipe anything down you touched.”

“I have my gloves on. I’m not an idiot,” Dean replied. 

Dean silently slipped back out of the apartment, closing the window behind him and descending the fire escape into the darkness. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~

The next afternoon, the heavy, suffocating adrenaline of the alleyway was entirely gone. If Dean was carrying any weight from the night before, he didn't show a single ounce of it. When the clock on the wall of Pressley Hall finally ticked past 5 p.m., you walked out into the crisp air, your fingers automatically tracing the edge of the napkin tucked safely inside your coat pocket.

You hadn't even texted him yet. You had spent the entire day telling yourself you wouldn't.

But as you reached the sidewalk, the familiar, low rumble of a classic V8 engine cut through the campus traffic. The black Impala pulled up smoothly along the curb, coasting to a stop right in front of you.

The driver’s side door swung open, and Dean stepped out. He was dressed in a soft, faded flannel over a plain gray t-shirt, his leather jacket tossed casually over the front seat. The dangerous, intense hunter you were so terrified of was completely invisible. Instead, he just looked like an ordinary, impossibly handsome guy who had spent his day working on cars.

As soon as his green eyes locked onto yours, that easy, familiar warmth flooded his face, and a brilliant grin spread across his lips.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he called out, leaning his elbows casually against the roof of the car. “I was in the neighborhood. Figured I’d save you the walk.”

You froze for a heartbeat, looking at the easy crinkle around his eyes, completely blindsided by how safe he made you feel just by standing there. The lingering doubts in your mind, the old warnings about what hunters brought into your life—it all just seemed to melt away under the steady, gentle focus of his gaze. He was irritatingly good at this. He was completely, perfectly normal.

“You’re standard trouble, Winchester,” you said, though you couldn’t stop the small, genuine smile from pulling at your mouth as you walked toward the passenger side.

“Only the best kind,” Dean teased, unlocking the door for you with a wink.

As you slid into the leather seat of the Impala, smelling the familiar scent of old leather and gasoline, you let out a breath you felt like you’d been holding since yesterday. Your guard was completely down, the safety net firmly caught beneath you, with absolutely no idea of the shadows he had just stepped out of to meet you.

After talking for a few minutes and deciding that you would allow him to take you bowling tonight, he dropped you off to your car in the back of the lot. He didn’t try to kiss you but he reached out and squeezed your hand with a promise to see you in two hours. You reluctantly gave him your address as he insisted on picking you up. 

Once at the bowling alley, you both were well into the 6th frame and neck and neck on the score. Both of you being competitive was fun but a little nerve wracking as you tried to keep your winning streak from the first night at the bar. 

Dean slipped up behind you as you were about to throw the ball and let his hand land firmly on your hip. You air-balled it, sending the bowling ball flying hard into the gutter. You spun around to glare at him, “That’s cheat–” you started but were cut off as he pulled you into him and kissed you like he was going off to war. 

The tension in you melted instantly. You leaned into his chest, kissing him back like you weren’t standing in front of a dozen other people up on the lanes. His hand slid into your hair and he pressed your head harder into his lips. 

Finally, feeling a little dizzy, you pulled back, realizing how very public that kiss just was. Your face flushed and you quickly walked back to your seat. Dean didn’t pick up his ball, he followed you instead. Sitting down on the bench beside you he pulled you into his side and turned to resume the kiss. 

An hour and another game later and you both had won a game a piece. “Tie breaker?” Dean asked. 

“Not tonight,” you murmured looking up into his addictive, green eyes. “I have to work in the morning and it’s late.”

Dean looked like he wanted to argue, to push the point, but he didn’t. He simply nodded instead. “Okay, Cinderella. Let’s get you back home before you turn into a pumpkin,” he teased with a grin. 

You swatted at his arm and leaned up to kiss him again. Just a quick peck to his lips but still enough to set your heart aflutter. 

Twenty minutes later, he was kissing you goodnight outside of your house. He didn’t try and invite himself in and his charm was still intact as he held your hand and walked you to the door. But one kiss wasn’t enough so he leaned in and kissed you deeply, on your front porch. You let the kiss linger and Dean let out a small groan as your tongue took control and lit a fire inside him. He let you, hands roaming up and down your sides and slipping to splay across your lower back as he pulled you closer. 

As you pulled back, lips wet and shining in the porch light you saw him open his eyes. His gaze went straight to your lips and he leaned in to nip at your bottom lip before pulling back with a grin. “Goodnight, Dean,” you said with a smirk, knowing damn well what you did to him even before your gaze fell to the bulge in his pants. 

“Goodnight, trouble,” he replied, voice ragged. 

You turned and stepped inside and closed the door softly. Leaning back against it, your heart racing, you couldn’t help the stupid smile that wouldn’t leave your lips. You let out a soft sigh before pulling yourself off the door and heading towards your bedroom.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Two weeks and several dates later, you were coming home from a date with Dean. He was on the front porch, kissing you deeply. You broke the kiss and turned and unlocked the door. You tugged on his hand to lead him into the house. 

Dean’s eyebrows shot up in disbelief. “Really?” he asked. 

“Really,” you smiled back at him, pulling him further inside. That’s all it took. Dean kicked the door shut behind him and was on you immediately. You giggled before his lips even found your neck. You began backing up towards the bedroom and he followed, shrugging out of his flannel and kicking his boots off in the hallway. 

His dark blue t-shirt, stretched tight against his chest and broad shoulders made your breath hitch. You stopped right next to the bed and Dean started to pull your clothes off in frantic, desperate motions. You were working on the button and zipper of his jeans as he yanked your shirt over your head. His breath caught audibly when he realized you had on a sheer bra which left nothing to the imagination. 

Dean backed you onto the bed stepping out of his jeans as he climbed on top of you. He dropped his head down to suck hot, wet spots over your nipple, dampening the sheer mesh of the bra and causing you to arch your back up, pushing your breast further into his mouth. He groaned and the sensation against your hardened nipple made you gasp softly. 

Dean slid one hand under your back and pulled you up into his mouth again as he gave the other nipple the same treatment. His hand slid up and unclasped your bra with the ease of a man who had done it a million times. He slipped it off your shoulders and pulled back to stare at your breasts and slowly raised his gaze up to your flushed face. 

“God, you’re fuckin’ perfect. So beautiful, sweetheart,” he whispered. 

You tilted your head to the side, smiling shyly at his praise and his unwavering gaze. “You're pretty handsome yourself, Dean,” you said, voice so soft he almost didn’t catch it. 

He brought his finger under your jaw and turned your face back to his. He crashed his lips down on yours, tangling his tongue with yours in a bruising, desperate rhythm that stole the very air from your lungs. Spreading your legs further apart with his knees, he settled heavily in between your thighs, pinning you to the mattress under the sudden weight of his body.

He broke the kiss, his forehead resting against yours for a fraction of a second as his ragged breath brushed your damp lips. “I’ve wanted you since the moment I met you," he growled softly, his green eyes dark and entirely blown out in the dim light. "Wanted this... You have no idea how much I’ve wanted you. All of you.”

“Dean, please,” you pleaded, lifting your hips to press your pussy against his hard cock. He sucked in a harsh breath. He dipped his hips pressing against you again. He grabbed his dick and dragged it through your wetness that was leaking out onto your thighs and brought it up to grind lightly against your clit. You moaned and Dean caught it with his mouth, lips and tongue finding yours for another demanding kiss. You continued to moan into his mouth as he teased your clit with the large, wet tip of his cock. 

“Deannn,” you whined again.  

“Okay, sweetheart. I got you.” 

He started to press into your entrance and you immediately tensed up. Dean’s eyes found yours, confusion ringing in them. 

“Wait!” you said, voice high and breathy. “Protection.” 

Dean nodded and slid off of you to pull a condom out of his jeans. He quickly rolled it on and was back on top of you almost instantly. You wrapped your arms around his neck and he pushed the blunt tip of his huge dick into your dripping pussy.

He pushed inside slowly, his eyes locked onto yours, tracking every micro-expression on your face as your body stretched to accommodate the thick, unyielding weight of him. A low, ragged groan left his chest, his jaw clenching so tight the muscles jumped as he fought the desperate urge to just lose control and hammer into you.

The tight, wet heat of you wrapping around his length was pure agony, a sensory overload that had his heart hammering violently against his ribs.

“You okay?” he breathed, his voice dropped into a rough, gravelly tone that was barely a whisper. He kept his weight resting on his forearms on either side of your head, his large hands threaded into your hair, on the mattress so he wouldn't crush you, though his chest was still flattening your breasts with every heavy rise and fall of his lungs.

You nodded, your lips parted as you let out a shaky, breathless exhale, your fingers digging deep into the rigid muscles of his shoulders. The sheer size of him was overwhelming, filling you completely until a dull, delicious ache began to bloom deep in your core.

Once he was buried all the way to the hilt, Dean paused, holding himself completely still inside you for a fraction of a second. He let out a long, shuddering breath against your neck, his forehead resting against your shoulder as he let his body adjust to the intoxicating sensation of finally being exactly where he had wanted to be for months.

“God, you're so tight, sweetheart,” he muttered against your skin, his open mouth pressing a hot, wet kiss right over your pulse point.

Then, slowly, deliberately, he withdrew almost all the way to your entrance before driving back in with a heavy, sliding friction that made your toes curl. The deliberate, agonizingly slow pace was pure torture, teasing your clit with every single stroke until you were whining his name into the quiet bedroom all over again.

Your hands gripped his shoulders tighter, your nails digging into the hard muscle of his back as the slow, consuming rhythm began to pull you under. Every time he slid out, the cool air of the room hit your wet skin, only for the staggering warmth of him to stretch you open again, deeper and heavier with each push.

“Dean, please,” you gasped, arching your back off the mattress, trying to force a faster pace, trying to catch that elusive, coiling heat building in your core.

Dean let out a rough, breathless huff of a laugh against your jaw, but he didn’t speed up. Instead, he gripped your hips with his large hands, his fingers bruising your skin as he anchored you down, completely controlling the movement. He drove in deep, his hips bottoming out against yours with a heavy movement that knocked the breath right out of your lungs.

“I told you, sweetheart,” he gritted out, his voice completely wrecked, his green eyes dark with a fierce, possessive intensity as he looked down at you. “I got you. Just take it.”

He shifted his weight, using one hand to pin both of your wrists above your head, his grip like iron but careful not to hurt you. With his other hand free, he reached down between your bodies. His thumb found your swollen, soaking clit, pressing down and circling it firmly just as he drove back inside you.

The double hit of his thumb and the thick, blunt force of his cock sliding against your G-spot was too much. Your head snapped back into the pillow, a loud, undone cry tearing from your throat. Your inner muscles clamped down around him in a sudden, violent spasm, pulsing tightly against his length as your orgasm ripped through you.

Dean locked up completely. Hearing your wrecked cries and feeling the fierce, desperate clenches of your climax wrapping around his dick blew whatever thread of restraint he had left completely to hell.

He let go of your wrists, his hands slamming down onto the mattress on either side of your head as he finally broke. He abandoned the slow, agonizing pace and began to hammer into you with a raw, bruising urgency. His breath came in ragged, animalistic pants as he chased his own release, his hips driving into yours with an unbridled, desperate force that shook the entire bed. You could only cling to his sweat-slicked shoulders, your voice completely gone as he rode out the high-friction waves of your release, dragging you right along with him.

With one final, deep, trembling thrust, Dean buried himself to the absolute hilt and stayed there. His whole body went rigid, a low, guttural groan tearing from deep in his chest as he came, his eyes closing tight as his body shuddered violently over yours.

Dean dropped his head to your shoulder, chest heaving against yours as he spilled the last wave of his release. After a moment, he lifted his head and pressed a surprisingly gentle kiss to your lips. Dean rolled off of you and walked into the master bathroom. 

As you lay on the bed trying desperately to drag air back into your lungs, Dean reemerged with a wet washcloth. He slowly cleaned you up, pressed a kiss to your forehead and then disappeared back into the bathroom. You were a little shocked at his gentleness and care that he was showing after such an intense climax to the evening.

Dean appeared again, still naked but cleaned up. You stared up at him fully expecting him to get dressed but instead he lifted the blanket and slid in next to you, pulling you into his side.

You went rigid for a split second, your brain scrambling to adjust to the sheer domesticity of it. This was the man who had just pinned your wrists, who had driven into you with a raw, unbridled force that left your thighs trembling—and now, he was carefully tucking the heavy quilt up over your bare shoulders, shielding you from the draft in the room.

Dean didn't seem to notice your hesitation, or maybe he just didn't care. He exhaled a long, deeply content sigh, his large hand settling firmly on your hip to pull your back flush against his chest. His skin was still radiating a staggering, solid heat, and the steady, heavy thump of his heartbeat hummed right against your shoulder blades.

He buried his face into the crook of your neck, his rough, stubbled jaw scraping lightly against your sensitive skin as he let out another loose breath.

“Don't think I'm going anywhere tonight, trouble,” he murmured, his voice incredibly deep and thick with exhaustion. It lacked any of that sharp, guarded edge he usually carried. He sounded completely grounded, safe, and entirely yours for the night. “You're stuck with me.”

You closed your eyes, your fingers wrapping over his forearm where it rested across your waist. The scent of him—soap, leather, and that distinct, intoxicating musk of his skin—completely filled your senses. Your body felt heavy, melted down into the mattress, and as the rhythm of his breathing slowed into a steady, sleeping pattern against your neck, you finally let yourself completely let go.

For the first time in years, the shadows outside your window didn't feel threatening. Wrapped in the arms of a hunter, you fell into a deep, dreamless sleep, completely unaware that the safety net you were resting in was built entirely on a lie.

Sam walked the kid back to his dorm building and Dean headed for the Impala. He popped the trunk and was wiping himself down as best as he could with an old towel. That’s when he heard footsteps behind him. He instinctively swung his arm around and grabbed you by the throat, holding but not squeezing, pinning you against the car. It only took half a second for him to realize that it was you and he immediately released you but he didn’t step back. 

“Dammit,” he growled, followed by your name. “Don’t you know not to sneak up on a hunter?”

You had gasped and were trying to restart your heart that Dean had just scared half to death. You stared up at him for a second before you were able to speak. “I wasn’t sneaking,” you managed to get out, your voice a little breathless as your hand flew to your throat. Your pulse was hammering wildly against your fingertips right where his fingers had just been pressing into your skin. “I work here, remember? I was walking to my car.”

You looked past his shoulder, your eyes dropping to the open trunk of the Impala. The dim trunk light illuminated the rows of weapons, the silver blades, and the dark, wet stains covering his shirt. The sharp, copper scent of blood was heavy in the night air, mixing with the smell of old leather and something that smelled of mildew.

“You’re a mess,” you whispered, your eyes sliding back up to meet his.

Dean didn’t move. He stayed right there, towering over you, trapping you between his broad chest and the cold metal of his car. His breathing was still heavy from the adrenaline of the fight, his chest rising and falling just inches from yours. He looked down at you, his green eyes dark and entirely unreadable in the shadows of the parking lot.

“Told you,” he murmured, his voice dropping into that low, gritty register that made your stomach do a dangerous flip. “We always clean up our messes. The kid’s safe. He’s back in his dorm.”

You let out a slow breath, trying to ignore how close he was, trying to ignore the heat of his chest radiating through your clothes. You saw the circular puncture wound on his forearm. “A wraith?” you guessed quietly.

Dean’s eyebrows shot up, a slow, dark smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “You really do know your stuff, don’t you, sweetheart? Yeah. A wraith. Up in the old bricked-off section, just like you said.” He leaned in just a fraction of an inch closer, his gaze dropping to your lips for a split second before locking back onto your eyes. “If you hadn’t given us those maps, that kid would be brain-dead by morning.”

“I did it for the kid, Dean. Not for you,” you said, forcing your voice to stay cold, even though your heart was still racing from more than just the scare. You reached out, placing your hand flat against his chest to gently push him back, but your palm caught on the damp, sticky fabric of his shirt. You pulled your hand back with a wince, looking down at your fingers.

There was a smear of dark, thick wraith blood on your skin.

History was repeating itself right in front of you. Three months ago, you had walked away from him because of the blood on his neck. Now, it was on your own hands.

Dean watched your expression change, his smirk fading into something much deeper, much hungrier. He reached down and caught your wrist before you could wipe it away, his grip firm but surprisingly gentle.

“Looks like you’re involved now,” he whispered.

Your eyes flitted up to meet his gaze and his dark green eyes were so intense it made your breath catch. Dean noticed. Of course he did. 

A slow, predatory satisfaction bled into his expression. He liked the effect he had on you, liked knowing that despite your sharp tongue and your rules about hunters, your body was completely betraying you.

He didn’t let go of your wrist. Instead, his thumb swept across the delicate skin of your inner wrist, a deliberate, heavy stroke that felt less like a comfort and more like a claim. The heat of his hand was a stark contrast to the chilly night air, anchoring you right there against the side of the Impala.

“You don’t want to be,” he murmured, his voice dropping an octave, becoming rougher, intimate in a way that set your nerves on fire. He leaned down, his face closing the distance until you could smell the sharp tang of copper on him. “But here we are.”

You tried to swallow the lump in your throat, trying desperately to find that cool, detached persona that had worked so well behind the safety of your desk. “Let go of me, Dean,” your voice came out rough, and much less solid than you intended.

“In a second,” he whispered.

He didn’t drop his grip. Instead, he used his free hand—the one that had just been holding the bloody towel—to reach up. He didn’t touch your skin, not with the grime on his fingers, but he tucked a stray lock of your long hair back over your shoulder, his knuckles brushing the air less than an inch away from your neck. The restraint in the movement was almost worse than a touch; it felt coiled, dangerous, like a wolf holding itself back from snapping.

“You’re shivering,” he noted, his green eyes scanning your face, mapping the subtle rise and fall of your chest.

“It’s cold out,” you lied, your voice tighter than you wanted it to be.

“Yeah.” Dean’s gaze dropped to your parted lips again, lingering there long enough to make the silence between you stretch until it was heavy and suffocating. The dark thoughts he’d had on the steps of Pressley Hall—the unholy ones—were screaming in his head right now, fueled by the fresh adrenaline your closeness was causing to pump through his veins. He wanted to press you into the metal of the car and capture your lips with his. He wanted to see if you tasted like the quiet, orderly life you fought so hard for. He wanted to break that stubborn facade that your body was telling him was all for show.

Slowly, deliberately, his thumb gave one last press against your pulse point before he finally released your wrist. He took a single step back, giving you just enough space to breathe, though his shadow still completely engulfed you.

Dean was too worked up. His normally effortless charm was nowhere to be found. He wanted you and was fighting the urge to just pull you into his chest and kiss you until neither of you could breathe. 

“Go home,” he said quietly, the sudden shift back to his gravelly, professional hunter tone jarring you. He turned back to the trunk, tossing the dirty towel inside with a wet slap. “Before I decide to break your little rules.” 

You stood frozen for a beat, your wrist still tingling where his grip had left a burning imprint. The cold air rushed into the space between you, but it did nothing to cool the suffocating heat radiating off his body. Hearing him weaponize your own boundaries—turning your rules into a dare—sent a chaotic mixture of fury and pure, unadulterated adrenaline spiking through your system.

You looked at him, truly looked at him, as he stood by the open trunk. The confident, easygoing pool player from ninety days ago was completely gone, replaced by a man wrapped in shadows and covered in blood, his shoulders rigid and his breathing shallow. He was wound tighter than a guitar string.

“My rules aren't the ones you need to worry about breaking, Dean,” you said, your voice finally regaining its steady, razor-sharp edge.

He didn’t look back up at you, but you saw his jaw clench, the muscles in his neck tightening instantly at the sound of your voice.

As you started to walk past him towards your car, his hand shot out, grabbing a hold of your waist and pulling you roughly against his chest. You let out a gasp, hands flying up to land on his shoulders, instinctively. 

“Tell me you don’t want me. Tell me you feel nothing when I’m around,” he said, voice low and ragged. 

His eyes searched yours, darker and more desperate than you had ever seen them. The raw intensity in his gaze was suffocating, stripping away the chilly night air until there was only the erratic rhythm of his chest heaving against your palms. The scent of copper and rain rolled off him in waves, dizzying and thick.

You stared up at him, your lips parted, the denial dying in your throat before it could even form. You wanted to lie. You wanted to pull that cold, unbothered mask back over your face and tell him he was nothing to you. But with his hand clamped firmly against your waist, anchoring you to the violent heat of his body, the words wouldn't come.

Dean’s grip tightened, his fingers digging into your hip just enough to make you ache, grounding you both in the quiet chaos between you in the parking lot. He saw the truth written in the wide, wanting look of your eyes, in the way your fingers curled helplessly into the fabric of his bloody shirt instead of pushing him away.

A ragged, dark exhale left his lips at your silence. It wasn’t a victory, not really—it was a mutual descent, and he knew it.

Slowly, his gaze dropped to your mouth, his jaw tightening as he fought whatever sliver of restraint he had left. He leaned down, his forehead coming to rest gently against yours for just a fraction of a second, his breath hot against your skin. “That’s what I thought,” he whispered, the gravelly edge of his voice rough with an unchecked promise that sent a violent shiver straight down your spine.

In that moment you broke completely. You leaned the tiny inch in and pressed your lips to his. Dean didn’t hesitate, he responded immediately, pushing his lips even harder to yours. One hand came up to tangle in your hair, pressing your head even harder against his lips. His other hand, splayed wide on your lower back, pressed your chest tighter against his. 

Dean let out a low groan as he slipped his tongue into your mouth. He wasn’t holding back. His tongue was dominating and demanding. As the kiss deepened you felt the tension leave your shoulders and you melted into him. It was as if your brain was finally giving your body the permission it had been waiting months for. 

You hummed against his lips and then pulled back, nipping at his bottom lip as you did. He groaned again, eyes snapping open and locking on yours with that same intensity. 

The sudden break in the kiss left the night air feeling impossibly cold against your wet lips. Dean’s chest was heaving, his hand still buried deep in your hair, his fingers gripping the strands tight enough to keep you exactly where he wanted you. Those green eyes were completely blown out, the pupils huge, reflecting the dim amber glow of the parking lot lights like a predator cornering its prey in the dark.

He didn’t let you move. His hand on your lower back flared with heat, pulling you up onto your toes until your body was molded flat against his ribs again.

“Don’t do that,” he growled, his voice so low and gravelly it was barely a whisper. “Don’t tease me, sweetheart. Not tonight.”

Before you could even draw a full breath to reply, he closed the distance again. But this time, it wasn’t just a kiss. He captured your mouth with a bruising, desperate hunger that told you exactly how close he was to losing his grip entirely. He backed you up a single step until the small of your back hit the cold, solid paneling of the Impala, pinning you between the metal and the volatile weight of his body.

His lips moved against yours with an unchecked authority, claiming your breath, your space, and every single one of those carefully constructed rules you had built to keep the darkness out. You could taste the faint, metallic tang of copper on him, a harsh reminder of the violence he’d just dealt beneath the campus, but the sheer, intoxicating heat of his skin completely drowned out your instinct to run.

Your fingers dug deeper into the shoulders of his shirt, your nails biting through the fabric as you answered the frantic rhythm of his mouth.

Dean let out another ragged sound deep in his throat, his hand sliding from your hair down to your jaw, his thumb pressing firmly under your chin to tilt your head back, exposing the sensitive line of your throat. He dragged his lips away from your mouth, burying his face in your neck, his teeth grazing the skin just beneath your ear until a breathy gasp escaped your lips.

“You’re mine now,” he muttered against your skin, the raw confession sounding more like a threat than a promise. “You don’t get to walk away this time.”

“You don’t have a claim on me, Dean. It doesn’t work that way,” you said, but the way it came out as desperate and too soft, didn’t match the words. 

Dean ground his hips into yours and you could feel him. He was hard and from the feel of it, massive. The sensation left you dizzy and a soft moan fell from your lips before you could stop it. “Dean,” you breathed out. You meant it as a warning but it came out as a plea. 

“That’s what I thought,” he groaned against your soft skin, that he was still pressing open mouthed kisses against. 

He pulled back just far enough to look at you, his thumb still hooked under your jaw, keeping your face tilted up to his. His eyes were entirely feral, roaming over your flushed skin and your parted, wet lips. A dark, possessive smirk flickered across his face at the sound of his name leaving your mouth like a prayer.

“Saying one thing and doing another, sweetheart,” he murmured, his breath hot and uneven against your lips. “Your mouth is trying to fight me, but the rest of you? The rest of you is begging.”

To prove his point, his hand on your lower back tightened, as he shifted his weight just enough to press you even deeper into the unforgiving metal of the Impala. The heavy, unyielding heat of him left absolutely no room for doubt. He wanted you completely, right here in the shadows of the empty lot, and the absolute lack of control in his posture was terrifyingly addictive.

Your hands, still tightly gripping his shoulders, trembled as you tried to hold onto a single shred of sanity. You knew you should push him away. You knew that letting him in meant letting the blood, the chaos, and the ruin of the hunting life back into your world. But looking up at him now—so dangerously beautiful, so utterly consumed by you—the quiet, safe life you had built felt incredibly distant and agonizingly hollow.

Dean noticed the shift in your eyes, the exact moment the last shred of your resistance crumbled. The brutal, heavy tension that had been driving him all night snapped into pure, unchecked hunger.

“No more running,” he growled, the words disappearing as he slammed his mouth back down onto yours.

This time, the kiss was entirely consuming. He devoured your lips, his tongue tangling with yours in a demanding, heavy rhythm that stole the very air from your lungs. His hands moved over your body with a fierce, rough certainty, mapping the curve of your waist, lifting you slightly off the ground to bring you even closer to the center of his heat, pressing his rigid cock into you again. You hummed into the kiss, completely surrendering to the descent, your fingers moving from his shoulders to tangle into his short hair at the back of his head, pulling him down, wanting more.

The heavy, metallic click of a car door opening across the lot shattered the silence.

You yanked your hands out of his hair, pushing against his chest with a sudden, frantic burst of strength. The spell didn’t just break; it shattered into sharp, jagged pieces.

Dean stiffened, his grip on your waist tightening automatically for a split second as his predatory instincts fought the sudden rejection. But as the sound of footsteps echoed farther down the concrete, he slowly let you slide down the side of the Impala until your boots hit the cold asphalt.

He didn’t step back, though. He kept you trapped within the heavy shadow of his frame, his breathing loud and ragged in the space between your faces. His jaw was clenched so tight the muscles were jumping, his blown-out green eyes boring into yours with an intensity that promised this was nowhere near over.

“Dean,” Sam’s voice called out from around the corner of the maintenance building, accompanied by the steady, heavy thud of his boots approaching the parking lot. “We need to move. The campus cops are looping back around to the north quad.”

You looked away from Dean, your chest heaving as you smoothed down your shirt with trembling hands. Your lips were burning, swollen, and tasting heavily of him. The stark contrast between the quiet, orderly campus routine you were supposed to be guarding and the raw, violent chaos you had just surrendered to hit you all at once.

“Go,” you whispered, your voice still carrying that rough, breathless edge from his mouth.

Dean slowly dropped his hands to his sides, his fingers twitching against his thighs as he fought the urge to reach right back out and pull you into his chest. He took one slow, deliberate step back, finally letting the chilly night air rush into the suffocating space between you.

“This isn’t over,” he growled softly, a dark, unchecked promise flashing in his eyes. “Not by a long shot.”

By the time Sam rounded the corner into the lot, checking his watch and holding the manila folder securely under his arm, you were already a few paces away.

“Hey,” Sam said, stopping short as his eyes darted between the two of you. He took in your flushed face, your slightly tangled hair, and then looked at his brother. Dean was standing by the open trunk, looking like a bomb waiting to go off, his knuckles white and his chest still heaving under his bloody shirt.

The pieces clicked instantly in Sam’s mind, a look of profound amusement and slight wariness crossing his features. He raised his eyebrows but wisely kept his mouth shut.

“Get in the car, Sam,” Dean snapped, his voice rough and completely devoid of his usual banter. He slammed the heavy trunk of the Impala shut with a deafening, metallic echo that reverberated through the empty lot.

You didn’t wait around to watch them leave. You turned on your heel and walked quickly toward your own car, your keys clinking loudly in your shaking hand. You slid into the driver's seat, locked the doors instantly, and started the engine, your heart still hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs.

As you backed out of the space and turned your headlights on, you caught one last glimpse in your rearview mirror.

The black muscle car was already idling, its dual exhaust coughing heavy puffs of white smoke into the cold night air. And right through the windshield, even in the dim lighting, those dark green eyes were fixed entirely on you, tracking your exit until you pulled out onto the main road and let yourself get swallowed up in the quiet shadows of the town.

If Dean were honest with himself, which he wasn’t, he didn’t even need them to be criminals. Not the way Sam did. He sometimes fantasized about taking out someone he saw at a diner or walking down the street. He didn’t dwell too long on those thoughts but they were there and sometimes they felt like they were getting stronger. 

The brothers had just returned from a messy hunt with a rougarou. It was around 11 p.m. when they got back to the bunker. Sam was tired and decided to go to bed. Dean was wide awake from blaring his classic rock on the drive back. He decided to go hit up a local bar. 

He walked in and took a seat on one of the bar stools, giving a nod to the bartender. The man, who knew Dean well enough, began to pour him a whiskey without even asking what he wanted. 

After downing the first drink and ordering another, he shifted in his seat to scan the bar. It was a Tuesday night so there weren’t many patrons but there were some people scattered throughout the place. That’s when his eyes landed on you. 

You were bent over the pool table in the far corner. He couldn’t see your face but he was certainly enjoying the view of your ass. He took a slow drink and watched your long hair fall over your shoulder as you lined up your shot. Crack! The cue ball hit its target but it was too hard and it bounced right off the side. 

Dean grinned. This was too easy. He could make a few bucks and watch you bend over at a closer range. He walked towards the table. Then you turned around to face your friend and he saw your face. 

He stopped dead in his tracks for just a heartbeat. You were beautiful. He was suddenly rethinking his “don’t shit where you eat” rule. He normally avoided hooking up with the women in the towns right next to the bunker as it would be too easy to run into them again in the future. But you were stunning. He couldn’t take his eyes off of you. 

As Dean walked up to the table, he could smell your perfume and see you up close. It almost made him lose his charm. Almost.  “Hello, ladies,” he crooned. “I’m Dean.”

You and your friend turned to look at him. You both smiled; your friend’s was big but yours seemed more genuine but there was something in your eyes that he was trying to place. Maybe intrigue. You introduced yourself and then your friend, Kelly followed suit. 

“Can I play the winner?” Dean asked casually. 

“Sure,” Kelly said cheerfully, smiling at him again.

You just stared at him before returning your attention to the pool table to take your next shot. It didn’t take long before you won the game, although Dean wasn’t sure how either of you managed. You were both terrible. It was actually kind of cute how bad you were. 

“Okay, you’re up,” you said to him with a little smirk. 

“Alright,” Dean said as he racked the balls. “Ladies first,” he said with a sweeping motion of his hand. 

You smiled at him innocently and broke with another loud crack. Nothing went in and Dean took his shot. He sank a ball immediately. 

“That makes you stripes, sweetheart,” he said with a smile and a wink. 

“Guess so,” you replied. You leaned over to take your next shot and Dean stopped you.

“Do you mind if I give you a pointer or two?” he asked. 

You shrugged. “Sure. Why not?”

He stepped up behind you and wrapped his arms over yours. “If you hold it like this, you have more control,” he said softly, his warm breath caressing your ear. “And when you hit at this angle try to aim just below center on the ball.” His hand guided yours. “Like this.”

The ball slid into the pocket smoothly. 

“Nice!” you said with a smile as he slowly let go and backed up. He didn’t go far, still standing in your space slightly.

Dean smiled back at you and Kelly said something under her breath but neither of you were paying attention. “Want to make it interesting and put some money on it?” you asked. 

“Oh, honey, I wouldn’t dream of taking your money,” he crooned. 

“Don’t be a chicken. It’s just fifty bucks,” you teased, leaning your shoulder into him with a nudge.

Dean arched a brow at that. “Okay, if you win I give you $50 but if I win I get to buy you a drink.”

“Sounds like I’m winning either way,” you said as you tossed him a flirty smirk. You saw it land. He was hooked. 

You took your next turn and hit one ball in. Dean took his turn and sank three balls before missing on purpose. Then he watched as you completely cleared the table and sank the eightball in the corner pocket like a fucking pro. 

His mouth was slightly agape as he stared back at you. “I think I just got hustled. I never get hustled,” he said. He might have been shocked but he was more in awe than anything else. He’d never been so fascinated by a woman in his life. 

You simply let out a small laugh and turned to face him. “That’ll be $50.”

He chuckled and reached into his pocket. He pulled out a wad of cash and handed you a fifty dollar bill.  “Well done,” he said, followed by your name. “Since you just obliterated me, can I still buy you that drink? Ya know, to make me feel a little better about getting my ass kicked?” he said, with those big green eyes locked on yours. 

“I suppose,” you said in a low teasing voice. 

Dean caught you give Kelly a look as he turned to walk back towards the bar. As she slid off the stool she announced, “Well, that’s my cue. I’m calling it a night. Text me when you get home,” she said, giving you a hug. “He’s hot! Go for it!” Kelly whispered into your ear. 

“I will text you,” you replied, squeezing her back and giving her a knowing look. 

You followed Dean to the bar. He ordered two beers, handing you one. He slid his hand to your lower back and guided you over to an empty booth along the wall. You both slid into the cracked leather seats across from each other and he leaned back against the booth, stretching his arm out over the back. 

“So where did you learn to shoot pool like that? And more importantly, how long have you been hustling unsuspecting bystanders?” he said with a grin. 

You tilted your head slightly, a small grin playing across your lips. “Takes one to know one, huh?” you replied. “I have a feeling you know all about it.”

He chuckled at that. “Maybe.”

Dean ran his fingertips over the condensation on the neck of his beer bottle, eyes focused entirely on you. He was trying to read you. You were harder than most but there was definitely something about you. You were different. You were gorgeous. And he couldn’t help but feel completely and utterly drawn to you with a magnetic force so strong he knew he was in trouble. 

She’s a local. I really shouldn’t sleep with her. 

The thought didn’t last long as you continued chatting. Eventually, the bartender gave Dean a warning look. They had closed fifteen minutes ago. 

“Well, sweetheart, it looks like we’re getting kicked out,” he said with a jerk of his chin, motioning towards the bartender. “Want to continue this somewhere else? Somewhere more private?” he asked, his voice deep and low. 

As you both stood up to head towards the door, you slipped your arms around his neck. Dean’s eyebrows shot up and his grin widened. You hugged him and let your lips brush against his ear, breath warm, as you whispered, “I don’t think so but thanks for an interesting evening.” You kissed his cheek and turned to walk towards the door. 

Dean was stunned for a moment. He thought everything was going great and didn’t expect you to turn him down flat, especially after pressing against him like that. His brain finally caught up as you slipped out the front door. He rushed after you and as soon as he was through the door he called out to you. “Wait!” 

You turned around and lifted a brow. You didn’t say anything but you were staring at him expectantly. 

“Can I… at least get your number?” 

You stood there silent for a moment as if you were thinking it over. He watched as you stepped back up to him, reaching out and running your fingers over his neck just below his ear. He almost leaned into your touch but he caught himself. As you pulled your hand back, you held it up so that he could see the smeared drop of blood on your fingertips. “Either you’re a hunter or you’re really bad at shaving, Dean. I don’t get involved with hunters.”

Dean, once again caught off guard, opened his mouth to say something but his mind was spinning. You shot him a little wink and then turned and climbed into your car and drove off without any hesitation. 

He stood there for another moment, trying to process what had just happened. Where he went wrong. His charm never fails him, especially not when he was so sure you were interested too. And how in the hell did you know about hunters. Were you in the life? Were you a hunter? It only made his fascination and curiosity about you grow. Finally, Dean dragged himself back to the Impala and drove back to the bunker, his mind completely swimming with thoughts of you. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Three months later.

Sam and Dean arrived at the local university one town over. There had already been two student disappearances in the last month and just a few days ago another one went missing. 

As they walked up to the ivy covered limestone building that looked like something out of a movie, Dean adjusted his tie, grumbling under his breath about hating the FBI clothes. Sam shook his head and told him he’d live. 

They walked up the stone steps to Pressley Hall and through the front doors, looking for the Registrar Office. Sam pointed down the hall. “There,” he said and Dean saw the little white sign hanging out from the wall above the door. 

As they stepped inside, Sam stepped up to the woman at the desk. Dean hung back and was looking at a man at the end of the hall, trying to determine if he looked suspicious or not. Sam flipped open his FBI badge and introduced himself and Dean under their fake names. When he realized Dean wasn’t next to him he turned with a questioning look. “Agent?”

“Oh sorry,” Dean mumbled and pulled out his badge, stepping up beside his brother. That’s when he saw who was sitting behind the desk. It was you. His mysterious pool hustler from months ago at the local dive. 

You looked up from your computer screen, your eyes tracing the crisp lines of Sam’s suit before sliding over to his partner. When your gaze locked onto Dean’s big green eyes, you didn’t look shocked. Instead, a tiny, knowing smirk touched the corner of your lips before it was replaced by a cool, completely deadpan expression.

You glanced down at the FBI photo ID he was holding out, then looked back up, staring directly into Dean’s soul.

“Agent Hamill,” you said, your voice low, steady, and carrying a sharp edge that traveled straight down Dean’s spine. “Funny. You look a lot like a guy who once lost fifty bucks and a beer to me.”

Sam froze. His badge wallet stayed extended in the air, his arm completely suspended as his head slowly turned toward his brother.

Dean swallowed hard, his throat suddenly dry. His confident federal agent posture completely shattered. He quickly stepped forward, cutting into Sam’s space and leaning over the wide sterile white desk, dropping his voice into a hushed, urgent whisper so the other office workers couldn’t hear. “Look, sweetheart—”

“Don’t ‘sweetheart’ me, Dean,” you interrupted quietly, leaning forward to rest your elbows on the desk, bringing your face just inches from his. “I told you three months ago I don’t get involved with hunters. And now you walk into my office flashing a fake piece of leather? You’ve got exactly ten seconds to tell me why I shouldn’t press the silent alarm under this desk and let campus security sort you out.”

Sam’s jaw loosened slightly as the pieces clicked together in his analytical mind. He looked at the absolute panic dancing in Dean’s eyes—a look he had never seen his brother give a civilian—and then looked at your stunning face. The quiet car rides, the restless nights in the bunker, the way Dean had been brooding for the last ninety days... it all made perfect sense.

This is her. This was the girl from the bar; the pool shark. Sam slowly lowered his badge, entirely content to watch his fiercely confident brother squirm under the gaze of a woman who held every single card in the room.

Dean gripped the edge of the desk, his knuckles turning white as he locked eyes with you, his charm fighting a desperate battle against the clock. “We’re on a case,” he whispered fiercely, his green eyes pleading with an intensity that made your breath hitch just a little. “Three kids are gone. Another one is gonna die tonight if we don’t get the student housing logs and the old utility maps for Pressley Hall. Please. Just help us save this kid, and I’ll walk away. I promise.”

You held his eyes for a moment. You knew about the missing students, of course. You also knew about the life. They were here to help and whatever they were hunting, you’d rather them wrap it up quickly, so it could return your campus back to the peaceful university it was before all this started. 

“Fine,” you said, but there was an edge in your tone. 

“Fine,” Dean replied, with the same tone, staring back at you. He dropped his hand from the desk to his side before you could see it begin to twitch slightly. 

Sam just stood there watching you two. He didn’t even try to hide the smirk on his face and the amused glint in his eyes. He’d heard Dean talk about you so many times over the last few months that he was ready to shoot him himself. But seeing you in action— challenging his brother, getting under his skin and making him squirm like he’d never seen in his whole life, and your undeniable beauty— now he got it. He got why Dean was so hung up on you. 

You walked away to grab the files and Dean glanced up at Sam. “Don’t,” he warned, glaring up at Sam. 

The corner of Sam’s mouth twitched but before he could say anything, you returned with a manila folder. You tossed the folder onto the desk between them. 

“The housing logs are all up to date as of this morning, and those are the blueprint copies of the subterranean lines from the ’70s renovations. Half of those tunnels are supposed to be bricked off, but if someone wanted to get around campus without being seen on the security feeds, that’s where they’d go.”

Dean didn’t immediately reach for the folder. He kept his eyes locked onto yours, his jaw tight as he tried to process how seamlessly you had just handed over exactly what they needed, despite your clear distaste for their presence. Underneath the frustration of being handled so easily, that magnetic fascination from three months ago was roaring back to life, louder and more disruptive than before.

Sam, ever the professional researcher, didn’t hesitate. He reached past Dean’s shoulder and picked up the folder, opening it up to scan the top page. “This is exactly what we needed. Thank you.”

You ignored Sam entirely, keeping your attention pinned to the older Winchester. “Don’t thank me yet, Agent. Like I said, I want this wrapped up. The last thing this school needs is a couple of heavily armed vagrants causing a scene on the quad. Do what you have to do, and then get out of my town.”

Dean leaned in just a fraction of an inch closer, a hint of his signature, dangerous smirk finally fighting its way back to his face. “We’re very thorough, sweetheart. We always clean up our messes.”

The double meaning of his words—the dark, clinical edge he and Sam had adopted over the last six months—hung heavily in the air between you, though you only saw it as standard hunter arrogance.

“Good,” you replied coldly, leaning back in your chair and gesturing toward the exit. “Then go clean it up.”

Dean held your gaze for one final, lingering second before turning on his heel. Sam gave you a polite, slightly apologetic nod before following his brother out into the hallway.

The moment the heavy glass door of the Registrar’s Office swung shut behind them, Sam let out a low, breathy chuckle. He tucked the manila folder securely under his arm and glanced down at Dean, who was already walking with an angry, aggressive stride down the linoleum corridor.

“Shut up, Sam,” Dean snapped before his brother could even open his mouth.

“I didn’t say anything,” Sam said, his voice dripping with amusement as he easily kept pace with Dean’s long steps. “But I have to admit, she’s good. I mean, the blood trace? Spotting the fake badges instantly? She had you completely cornered.”

“She’s a distraction,” Dean muttered, his fists clenching at his sides as they pushed through the front doors of Pressley Hall and out into the bright afternoon sun. His chest felt tight, the blood in his veins pumping with a volatile mix of the adrenaline from the hunt and the phantom heat of your touch on his neck and your lips on his cheek from months ago. He wanted to find whatever was taking those kids, and he wanted to tear it apart. And what he wanted to do to you wasn’t any holier. “We have work to do. Let’s get to the Impala.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~

You returned to your seat behind the desk, the heavy silence of the office settling back around you as the small bell above the door chimed one last time. You stared at the empty space where Dean had just been leaning, your heart hammering a steady, frantic rhythm against your ribs.

You had handled it well. You had kept your voice steady, kept your face cold, and played the part of the unbothered local who just wanted the freak show out of her town. But as you looked down at your hands, you noticed a slight tremor in your fingers.

Dean Winchester was a lot of things, but he wasn’t forgettable. For ninety days, you had told yourself that walking away from him at that bar was the smartest thing you’d ever done. Hunters were a death sentence. They brought chaos, monsters, and a body count everywhere they went. You’d spent your whole adult life building a quiet, normal existence in this town, far away from the blood and the shadows of your childhood, and you weren't going to let a pair of green eyes and a pretty smile ruin that.

But seeing him just now, up close... something had felt entirely different.

It wasn't just the charm or the cheap suit. It was the air around him. The last time you’d seen him, he was a dangerous, cocky hunter with a trace of blood on his neck. Today, his energy felt colder. Sharper. There was a hard, calculating look in his eyes when he glared down the hallway—a look that belonged to a predator, not just a protector. 

"Everything okay?" Kelly asked, walking out from the back room with a stack of freshly printed enrollment forms. She looked toward the glass doors and then back to you, her eyes wide. "Wait, was that—?"

"Nobody," you cut her off quickly, your voice dropping back into its professional, even tone as you forced your eyes back to your computer screen. "Just some guys asking for directions."

"Right. Very attractive, broad-shouldered guys in suits," Kelly teased, leaning against the edge of the desk. "Are you sure? Because the short one looked like he was about to jump over the counter. Ya know, he looked just like–"

"I'm sure," you said, cutting her off and clicking aggressively on a spreadsheet to prove your point.

You let out a slow, frustrated breath, leaning back in your chair. You had given them the files. You had told them to get out of your town. You had drawn your line in the sand—but as you stared at the security monitor grid on the wall, a sinking feeling in your stomach told you that you weren't nearly as done with Dean Winchester as you wanted to be.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

It had been another three days and another murder since that night in the woods. Dean and Sam were finally closing in on the monster. They were in another wooded area and this time there was a blood trail. A fresh blood trail. It led from the murder scene which was so recent that they were the first ones to find the body. Still warm. 

The victim had fought back and there was a pocket knife, bloodied and laying near the body. The victim had been strangled to death though, not stabbed. It broke the usual pattern of stabbing. Sam had commented on how something must have gone wrong and the monster had to improvise. That something must have been the victim having a knife that the killer didn’t know about and he got cut and was now leading Sam and Dean straight to him. 

They rushed through the woods and Dean motioned to Sam by pointing at his own ear. Listen. They stopped and they could hear the rustling up ahead, followed by a low pained sound. 

Sam had a shotgun with silver bullets and Dean had a silver knife. They began to move forward again as quickly as possible. Then there leaning against a tree, losing blood and gripping his stomach was a man. Since they didn’t know which creature they were dealing with, Sam swung around to the side while Dean moved in head on for the distraction. 

They could see the man’s breath in the cold night air. He was breathing heavily. Dean came up in front of him, knife raised out in front of him and Sam came from the side and hit the guy over the head with the butt of his shotgun. 

The man instantly slumped forward; unconscious. While he was out the brothers performed all of the tests— holy water, silver, iron, etc.  Nothing. 

Dean rubbed the back of his neck. “Human?” he said, looking up at Sam who was staring at the man. 

“I guess he has to be. What else could he be? Nothing worked on him.”

“So, do we, uh, call the cops?”

“Yeah, I guess,” Sam replied, turning to look at Dean. 

Then the man came-to. 

Sam snapped his gaze back down, “What are you, man?”

The guy groaned and looked up at them. He shifted, wincing in pain. “What do you mean? Who the hell are you?”

“Are you human?” Dean snapped, crouching down and pointing the knife at him. 

“Of course I’m human. What kind of fucked up question is that?” he snapped, followed by more groaning as his hand slid down to cover his wound, blood still oozing out. 

Dean stayed crouched, his gaze sliding down to the dark, wet stain spreading across the man’s shirt, then back up to his face. The cold air bit at Dean’s cheeks, but inside, his blood was humming. The adrenaline from the chase hadn’t faded; it was pooling in his chest, hot and demanding.

“You choked her,” Dean said, his voice dropping into a low, flat tone. It wasn’t a question. “A kid. Barely 16 by the looks of it. We found her down the trail. She’s still warm.”

The man let out a wet, breathless laugh, his head thumping back against the rough bark of the tree. He looked up at Dean through heavy eyelids, a twisted, arrogant smirk touching his lips. “So what? You gonna call the cops? Go ahead. My dad’s the county judge. I’ll be out before the ink on the paperwork is dry.” He spit a mouthful of blood onto the dead leaves between Dean’s boots. “You two freaks ain’t gonna do shit.”

Dean didn’t blink. He didn’t get angry. Instead, a profound, chilling clarity washed over him.

He looked up at Sam.

Sam was standing a few feet back, the shotgun now held loosely at his side. His eyes were wide, tracking the heavy pulse of blood escaping the man’s fingers. Sam didn't say a word. He didn't tell Dean to pull back, didn't mention the police, didn't reach for his phone. There was just a heavy, unspoken understanding hanging between them in the dark. He’s a monster. DNA doesn't change what he is.

Dean looked back down at the man. “Yeah,” he murmured softly. “You’re right. We aren't calling the cops.”

Before the man could process the words, Dean closed the distance. He grabbed the front of the guy’s jacket, pinning him hard against the tree trunk so he couldn't squirm. The silver hunting knife in Dean’s right hand moved with practiced, lethal efficiency, driving straight up under the man’s ribcage.

It felt different than a monster. There was no thick, curdled hide of a shapeshifter or the unnatural density of a ghoul. The blade slid into human flesh smoothly, a wet, visceral plunge that vibrated right up Dean’s forearm.

The man’s smirk vanished instantly. His eyes flew wide, his fingers clawing uselessly at Dean’s leather sleeves as a sharp, strangled gasp tore from his throat.

Dean didn’t pull away. He leaned in closer, his face just inches from the killer’s, trapping him in the beam of the flashlight cutting through the woods. He watched, completely captivated, as the arrogance in the man’s eyes shattered into pure terror.

Dean locked his gaze onto those pupils, drinking in the exact second the panic peaked and then, the slow, staggering dimming. It was like watching a flame get choked out under glass. The frantic clawing on his arms stopped, the tension drained from the man’s body, and the light in his eyes simply vanished, leaving them dull and empty.

Dean let go of the jacket. The body slumped sideways into the dirt, entirely limp.

The woods fell dead silent, save for the sound of Dean’s own breathing, heavy and ragged in the crisp night air. A slow, intoxicating rush—sharper and sweeter than any hunt he had ever completed—surged through his veins. He looked down at his hands, then turned to look at Sam.

Sam didn’t move for a long time. He stood frozen under the canopy of branches, his eyes fixed on the heap of clothing and still flesh at the base of the tree. The vapor of his own breath rose in short, uneven puffs in the flashlight beam.

Slowly, his gaze shifted from the body up to Dean.

Dean was still catching his breath, the silver knife loose in his hand, a dark, heavy smear of blood glinting on his knuckles. There was no panic on Dean's face. If anything, Dean looked entirely sated, his shoulders relaxed in a way Sam hadn’t seen in months.

Sam looked back at the dead man. The absolute absence of supernatural elements—no black smoke, no eyes turning black, no monstrous teeth—made the scene feel raw. Stripped down. Real.

“Dean,” Sam finally spoke, his voice a low, gravelly rough whisper that barely carried over the rustle of the wind.

Dean wiped the flat of the blade against his thigh, the denim absorbing the dark stain. “He was gonna walk, Sammy,” Dean said, his tone entirely level, completely devoid of guilt. “You heard him. He was gonna walk away and find another girl.”

Sam swallowed hard. His analytical mind, the part of him that always demanded a plan, a lore book, a rule to follow, was working furiously. But as he stared at the corpse of the predator who had strangled a girl just moments ago, the usual moral weight didn’t drop on him. Instead, a cold, clinical logic took over.

“The cops,” Sam said, his eyes scanning the dark woods around them, already calculating. “They’re going to be looking for him. If his dad is a judge, they’ll turn this county upside down.”

Dean let out a short, breathy laugh, looking at his brother. “So let 'em look.”

Sam stepped forward, the heavy soles of his boots crunching on the damp leaves. He stopped right beside Dean, looking down at the body with a cold, detached intensity. The hesitation was entirely gone from his face.

“We can’t just leave him here,” Sam said, his voice tightening with a new, dark focus. “A human murder means forensics. DNA, fibers, footprints. If we leave him like this, they’ll trace it back to the woods, and then to our motel.”

Dean raised an eyebrow, a slow, grim smile touching his lips as he realized Sam wasn’t arguing. Sam was managing the scene.

Sam set the butt of his shotgun on the ground, leaning on it slightly as he looked at the wet earth. Sam looked up, his hazel eyes completely steady, locking onto Dean’s. “We have to be smarter about this from now on. No more leaving them where they fall.”

Dean’s smile widened just a fraction—sharp and dangerous. “From now on?”

“There are plenty more like him out there, Dean,” Sam said quietly, the absolute certainty in his voice sealing their fate. “And the law isn't stopping them.”

Dean just nodded in agreement. “We continue to hunt but if we come across scum like this we take them out just like we would a monster.”

Sam’s gaze caught Dean’s again in the dark. An understanding crossed through the dark, cold night in that gaze. “Exactly.”

“Alright,” Dean murmured, his chest still buzzing with the leftover warmth of the kill. “What’s the play?”

Sam scanned the dark space between the trees, already mapping out the logistics. “We don’t bury him,” he said, his voice dropping into that quiet, methodical rhythm he used when piecing together a hunt. “If he’s the judge's kid, a missing person report triggers a massive search grid. Dogs, helicopters, volunteers. They’ll find the shallow grave, or they’ll find where we dug.”

Dean wiped his knife on his jeans again, though the blade was already dry. “So we leave him?”

“We move him,” Sam corrected, stepping over the body. “Back to the girl. He’s already bleeding from where she cut him with that pocket knife. We put him right next to her. We place his hand over the wound, press her fingers to the hilt, and make it look like she used her last breath to drive that blade into his chest.”

Dean’s eyes narrowed as he ran the scenario through his head. A slow, appreciative nod followed. “The cops find 'em both. A botched abduction. The victim fights back and takes the bastard down with her. Case closed before it even starts.”

“Exactly,” Sam said. “But we have to be perfect. No fibers from our jackets. No bootprints near the bodies that don't match his or hers.”

Moving the dead weight of a grown man back down the trail was a brutal, quiet ordeal. Without the supernatural adrenaline of a monster fight, the physics of death felt incredibly heavy and real. Dean took the shoulders, Sam took the feet, their boots sinking into the damp earth as they navigated the thick briars in absolute silence. The only sound was the rough drag of fabric against the leaves and the heavy, synced rhythm of their breathing.

When they reached the clearing where the girl lay, the air felt even colder.

Sam immediately went to work with the precision of a surgeon. He used a clean cloth from his duffel to handle the victim’s small pocket knife, carefully aligning the angle of the entry wound in the man's chest to match the trajectory of a shorter person striking upward from the ground, ensuring to cover Dean’s stab wound as well with her knife. He took the dead man’s hand, pressing the bloody palm against the fabric of his own shirt to create a natural smear, then carefully molded the girl’s cold, stiffening fingers around the handle of the knife.

Dean stood back, watching his brother with a detached, quiet fascination. The flashlight beam stayed low, cutting through the mist rising from the forest floor. There was no horror in the air—just the cold, clinical reality of two professionals cleaning up a job.

Once the staging was complete, Sam stood up, his joints popping in the quiet night. He shone the light over the scene one last time. To any local coroner or detective, it would look like a violent tragedy that resolved itself.

“We good?” Dean asked quietly, his hands tucked into his leather jacket.

Sam took a slow, deep breath, the cold air lung-burning as he looked at the two bodies side-by-side in the dirt. Sam shone the flashlight at their feet, grimacing at the deep, heavy lugs their boots had pressed into the dark mud near the girl’s body. “Hold up,” he murmured.

He walked to the edge of the clearing, snapped off a thick, heavy branch of pine, and handed it to Dean before breaking one off for himself.

“Sweeping?” Dean asked, raising an eyebrow.

“We walk backward out to the hard packed dirt,” Sam said, already crouched down. “Scuff the treads. Make it look like the whole patch of dirt was just torn up during the fight.”

They moved in reverse, dragging the heavy pine needles over the earth, erasing the distinct shapes of their boots and burying the remaining tracks under a chaotic layer of loose dirt and pine needles. By the time they reached the gravel path, their knees ached from the posture, but the trail behind them was a forensic mess.

The line had been crossed, the trap had been set, and the world was short one predator. Sam turned toward the path that led back to the highway. “We’re good. Let’s get to the Impala.”

You were with your friends and you had all gone out to dinner before the opera. The night was going well. And then halfway through the first act you slipped out to go to the restroom. That’s when you bumped into him, Soldier Boy. He was dressed in a tux and was easily the most handsome man you’d ever seen. 

As you exited the ladies room, you caught his eye but neither of you had a chance to say anything as your heels slipped on the marble floor and you started to fall backwards. He was by your side quicker than seemed possible and he caught you in his big strong arms. Once he set you back upright, he allowed his hand to hover just behind the small of your back. “Careful, doll, these floors are dangerous in heels that high.”

You turned to face him fully. “Thank you. God, that was so embarrassing!” you said hiding your face in your hands. Then you slowly dropped them and looked up at him again. “But really, thank you. It would have been so much worse if you hadn’t caught me.”

 He gave you a small smirk and you caught the mischievous gleam in his eyes. “Pleasure was all mine, sweetheart,” he said, his voice a deep rumble from his chest. “Can I buy you a drink to drive off that embarrassment?” he asked. 

You nodded, cheeks still flushed. You offered your name to him as he led you over to the bar and ordered you both drinks. As you walked away from the bar, you said, “I wasn’t expecting to be saved by Soldier Boy tonight.”

He let out a small chuckle. “You can call me Ben.”

“Nice to meet you, Ben.” You offered him a smile and thanked him for the drink. You gestured back to the main room vaguely. “I better get back to my friends,” you said as you started to turn away. 

Ben reached out and grabbed your wrist, the touch was surprisingly light. “Actually, if you don’t have to go back so quickly, maybe we could take a quick walk. Finish our drinks.”

 You hesitated for a fraction of a second, the sensation of his hand on your wrist sending a spark right down your spine. The music from the main hall, filtered through the heavy velvet drapes and reminded you that your friends were probably wondering where you’d vanished to. But looking up at Ben—at the sheer, devastating charm radiating from him in a perfectly tailored tuxedo—the opera suddenly felt incredibly tedious.

“A quick walk,” you agreed, your voice a little softer than intended. “Just until the drinks are gone.”

Ben’s smirk widened, that same roguish glint dancing in his eyes as he let go of your wrist and offered you his arm instead. You slipped your hand into the crook of his elbow, the muscle beneath the expensive fabric feeling like solid granite. He didn’t lead you back toward the grand lobby or the bustling bar. Instead, he guided you down a quieter, dimly lit corridor lined with framed vintage playbills and polished mahogany.

“So, what brings a girl like you to a place like this?” Ben asked, his deep voice dropping an octave, low and conversational as you walked. “You look like you belong here more than the rest of the high-society phonies inside, I’ll give you that.”

The compliment made your cheeks warm all over again. “It’s a special occasion. I don’t usually get an excuse to wear silk and rhinestones. What about you? I didn’t think the opera was exactly your scene.”

Ben let out a low, rumbling chuckle, shaking his head. “It’s not. Trust me. Vought handles the PR, I just show up where they tell me to look pretty. Some charity gala attached to the opening night.” He took a slow sip of his drink, his gaze heavy and deliberate as it swept down the length of your purple gown, making you feel entirely exposed in the best way possible. “Gotta admit, though... I’m suddenly real glad I didn’t skip it.”

You reached the end of the hall, where a heavy set of double doors led out to a secluded, private balcony overlooking the perfectly curated garden and winding paths but it wasn’t far from the main sidewalk and you could hear people out on the street. The night air was crisp, a sharp contrast to the stifling warmth of the crowded theater. Step by step, the music grew fainter, muffled by the thick glass behind you, replaced by the distant hum of traffic far below.

You walked over to the stone railing, the heels of your shoes clicking softly against the concrete. The city lights stretched out before you, a glittering expanse of gold and white.

“Wow,” you breathed, leaning against the cold stone, holding your drink with both hands. “It’s beautiful out here.”

“Yeah,” Ben said. But when you turned your head to look at him, he wasn’t looking at the skyline at all. He was standing right beside you, his drink already set down on a nearby ledge, his intense gaze fixed entirely on you. “Beautiful.”

The air between you instantly grew thick, charged with a sudden, heavy friction. The casual charm he’d been projecting in the hallway melted away, replaced by something much more predatory, much more deliberate. He stepped closer, crowding you against the railing until you could smell the rich blend of his expensive cologne and the sharp edge of bourbon on his breath.

“Ben...” your voice was a breathless whisper, the glass in your hand trembling slightly.

He didn’t say a word. He just reached out, his large, calloused hand sliding up the smooth silk of your waist, his thumb tracing a slow, burning line up your ribcage. The contrast of his rough palm against the delicate fabric made your breath hitch. He took the drink from your hand, setting it down next to his without ever breaking eye contact, before his hand returned to your hip, his grip tightening just enough to anchor you to him.

“You’re a distraction, doll,” he murmured, his face dropping closer to yours, his breath hot against your lips. “A real dangerous one.”

Your heart hammered against your ribs, the steady, heavy weight of his presence trapping you between the cold stone of the balcony railing and the solid heat of his chest. Every instinct told you this was moving too fast, that you were playing with fire, but the way he looked at you—like he wanted to tear the silk right off your body—made it impossible to think straight.

“Is that right?” you whispered, a sudden spark of defiance cutting through your nerves. You leaned back just an inch, tilting your chin up to look him dead in the eye. “And what do you usually do with dangerous distractions, Ben?”

A low, dark growl rattled in his throat, the sound incredibly intimate and entirely feral. “Usually, I get rid of them,” he murmured, his thumb pressing firmly into the dip of your waist. “But I think I’d rather keep this one around for a bit.”

Before you could reply, his hand moved from your waist to the nape of your neck, his fingers tangling into your hair with a firm, possessive grip. He pulled you up to meet him as his mouth came down on yours.

The kiss wasn’t gentle. It was demanding, heavy with the taste of bourbon and a raw, unchecked power that left you completely breathless. You gasped against his lips, and he took immediate advantage, deepening the kiss, his tongue sliding past your teeth with an intoxicating, practiced heat. A soft, involuntary whimper escaped the back of your throat, completely lost to the crisp night air. Your hands, which had been resting uncertainly on his chest, clenched tightly into the lapels of his tuxedo jacket, holding on for dear life as the world spun around you.

Ben let out a muffled groan, his other hand sliding down to the small of your back and pulling you flush against him. You could feel the hard line of his thighs through the layers of your gown, the sheer, overwhelming strength of him making your knees go weak. The rhinestones on your heels caught the faint city light as you shifted, trying to get closer, completely drunk on the sensation of being held by someone who could break you in half but was choosing, instead, to consume you.

When he finally broke the kiss, he didn't pull away far. He trailed his lips down the line of your jaw, his beard scraping pleasantly against your sensitive skin, before burying his face in the crook of your neck. He nipped at the soft flesh right above your collarbone, making you arch into him with a quiet gasp.

“God, you smell incredible,” he muttered, his voice rough and strained, completely stripped of that polished, PR-ready charm. His hands were moving lower now, bunching up the smooth, purple silk of your skirt, his large palms warm against the bare skin of your thighs. “Tell me to stop, doll. Tell me right now, because if you don’t, I’m not letting you back inside to those friends of yours.”

You looked past his shoulder, through the glass doors of the balcony. Far down the hall, the heavy velvet curtains seemed miles away, and the faint, muffled echo of the orchestra felt like a lifetime ago. You didn't want to go back. You didn't want the opera.

You wrapped your arms tighter around his neck, your fingers threading into his hair. “Don't stop,” you breathed against his ear, your heart racing. “Ben, please.”

He growled against your neck. He swiftly lifted you up and perched you on top of the smooth flat railing of the balcony. Ben lifted your dress again and bunched it up at your hips, throwing the excess over the railing and out of his way.

Slowly, trailing his fingers up your thighs with his eyes locked on yours, he sent a shiver through your entire body. He grinned at that and hooked his fingers into the straps of your panties. He pulled them down and you heard his breath catch; it was almost a little gasp. 

Your eyes found his again, immediately wondering what was wrong. 

“Thank Fucking Christ. Finally, a woman with a bush,” he muttered, more to himself than to you. 

Your face flushed again slightly and then you laughed at the absurdity of it. “Well, I’ve never gotten that reaction before.”

He raised to his full height and crashed his lips down on yours. The kiss was messy and full of heat. All tongue and fire. His hand slid down and tangled in your curls, slowly working down to your clit. Ben groaned into your mouth. He pulled back. “I need to taste you. You and your perfect bush.”

Before you could reply, he pulled you down off the railing and pressed you back against the cool, smooth stone. He dropped to his knees right there on the concrete, spread your legs with his hands and buried his face into your pussy. Ben’s beard brushing against your hair was a new sensation and it felt amazing. It sent an electric energy through your entire body.

You let out a whimper as he sucked on your clit a little rougher than you expected. Ben’s nose was buried in your soft curls as his tongue lapped at your entrance. He licked his way back up and groaned as he saw how you were so wet that your arousal clung to your pussy hair. He let out another feral grunt and latched back onto your clit. His intensity pulled an orgasm out of you before you even had the chance to feel it building. You covered your own mouth, head thrown back, trying not to draw attention from the street below as you fell apart, with his hands braced firmly on your thighs as they shook, barely holding you up. 

As you came down Ben finally relented. He nuzzled his face into your bush one more time like it was his favorite thing on earth. He rose back to his feet, wiping your juices off of his beard and licking his fingers clean. “Fuck, sweetheart. You taste amazing. I fuckin’ knew it.”

“Ben, I need you. Please,” you begged, hands finding their way back into his hair. He kissed you again and you could taste yourself on his lips and tongue. You pulled one hand out of his hair and reached down to palm him through his pants. He let out a hiss against your lips. 

Ben spun you around and undid his belt and yanked his pants down just enough to free himself. You felt the heavy weight of it hit your ass. He didn’t waste any time. He had you bent over the railing, dress flipped up and was driving into you like his life depended on it. 

I really have lost my fucking mind. Fucking a stranger– No. Not just a stranger. Soldier Boy— on the balcony of a fancy theater. Anyone could look up and see us. Anyone could walk down that hall and find us. Fuuuuck, he feels soo good. 

You lost your train of thought as another orgasm wracked your body. “Bennnn…” As you shattered beneath him, Ben continued his hard thrusts, hitting your g-spot over and over again, prolonging your pleasure. The moans falling from your lips now were unchecked and not muffled but you couldn’t seem to care. Ben definitely didn’t care. They only seemed to be making him more feral. 

“Shit, you feel so good,” he grunted. Ben continued his ruthless pace, his hips snapping into yours like they knew them. Like you’d done this with him a thousand times and your bodies just knew each other. He didn’t question whether you could take it. He just took you. And that turned you on just as much as his tongue had. 

Two more climaxes later and your abused, overstimulated pussy, clenched around him with aftershocks as he finally buried himself deep inside you and let go, spilling into you like you were his. Like he didn’t even have to ask. For some reason, that also sent an electric fire through your body. 

After sex like that, you wished you were his. 

Ben smoothed his hands over your back, pulling you back upright and against his chest as your dress fell back down into place. You were both taking in ragged breaths as he tucked himself back into his pants and turned you to face him.  

Ben cupped your cheek with a heavy, steady hand, his thumb catching a stray tear of pure overstimulation that had slipped down your face. He was breathing hard, his chest heaving against yours, but the smug, thoroughly satisfied grin on his face told you he knew exactly what he’d just done to you.

“You alright, sweetheart?” he asked, his voice lower and rougher than before, completely stripped of the clean-cut hero persona. There was a genuine, grounded warmth in it now, a quiet intensity that made your heart skip a beat for an entirely different reason.

“Yeah,” you breathed, your voice shaking slightly as you reached up to rest your hands against his chest, feeling the rapid, powerful thud of his heartbeat. “Yeah, I’m good. More than good.”

Ben let out a soft, rumbling chuckle, leaning down to press a quick, firm kiss to your lips. It tasted faintly of salt, liquor, and the raw heat of the last forty minutes. “Damn right you are.” He stepped back just an inch to straighten the lapels of his tuxedo jacket, running a hand through his hair to fix the strands your fingers had completely disheveled. He looked back down at his pants, fastening his belt with practiced, casual ease, before looking down at his shoes. “Hold on a second.”

He dropped to one knee again, but this time it wasn’t to bury his face in your skirt. He reached down and picked up the lace-and-silk panties he’d stripped off you earlier, shaking them out before holding them up to you with a wink. “Don’t want to leave any evidence for the high-society phonies to find.”

Your face burned crimson as you took them from his hand, quickly slipping them into the small evening clutch you’d left sitting on the ledge next to your forgotten drinks. “Thank you,” you murmured, smoothing down the front of your purple silk gown, trying your best to look like a woman who hadn’t just been thoroughly taken against a stone railing.

Ben stood back up, adjusting his cuffs, looking every bit the pristine, untouchable national treasure Vought put on billboards—save for the slight flush on his neck and the dark, knowing look in his eyes. He picked up his glass, taking a final swig of the now watered down bourbon before setting it back down.

“Your friends are probably looking for you,” he said, though he didn’t make a move toward the door just yet. He stepped closer again, his fingers reaching out to gently tug at a stray curl of your hair, twisting it around his finger. “And as much as I’d love to take you back to my place right now and spend the rest of the night figuring out just how many times I can make you scream like that... Vought’s got me on a tight leash tonight. I gotta go back inside, shake some hands, and pretend I care about opera.”

The sudden reminder of reality hit you like a splash of cold water. The fantasy was fracturing, returning you to the world where he was a living god on television and you were just a girl who’d slipped on a marble floor. A heavy weight settled in your chest, a sharp, sudden ache of wanting something you knew you shouldn’t.

“Right,” you said, forcing a small, polite smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes. “Duty calls. Thank you for the... drink, Ben.”

You started to turn toward the double doors, your rhinestone heels suddenly feeling a little less stable than they had forty minutes ago, but Ben’s hand shot out, his grip wrapping firmly around your wrist once more. It wasn’t a painful hold, but it was unyielding. Absolute.

You stopped, looking back over your shoulder at him.

Ben wasn’t smirking anymore. His expression had turned serious, his jaw set as his gaze locked onto yours with an intensity that pinned you to the spot. “Hey. Look at me,” he commanded softly.

You turned your body back to face him fully.

“I don’t know what kind of guys you’re used to, doll, but I don’t just walk away from something like this. Like you,” Ben said, his voice dropping into that deep, authoritative rumble. He reached into the inner pocket of his tuxedo jacket, pulled out a sleek, heavy silver pen, and grabbed a paper coaster from the ledge. He scribbled a row of numbers across the back in a bold, jagged script, then pressed the cardboard firmly into your palm, folding your fingers over it.

The Tipsy Cowboy. He doesn't even have the decency to hide it.

He took her to the place where the bartenders know your names, where you celebrated your last anniversary—3 years— where your footprints are practically worn into the floorboards.

The betrayal was a physical weight, but the rage was an absolute freight train.

You looked down at your phone again. The image seemed to burn into your retinas. Justin’s hand was on her waist—that familiar, casual grip you'd recognize anywhere—and his head was tilted, completely lost in the moment. In public.

Maggie’s text bubble is still sitting there, a ticking time bomb.

Maggie: I gotta go pick up Max but I can swing by after and do whatever you want. We can eat a tub of ice cream or go back to Tipsy and tear it up. Just give me like 30 mins. 

Your keys were sitting on the counter right next to your purse. The Tipsy Cowboy is only a ten-minute drive away. Ten minutes to let this anger boil over, or ten minutes to figure out exactly how you're going to tear his world apart. You didn’t need to drag Maggie any further into your mess. 

To Maggie: Fuck him! I’m good. I’ll call you later.

You went back to your room and put on your favorite dress, the tan one with the black tied front, and cowboy boots and gave yourself a once over in the mirror. Hair and makeup still looked good from earlier. You took in a deep breath, staring in the mirror, closed your eyes for a moment and opened them.

As you drove to the bar, your mind was racing. You weren’t even sure what you were going to say to him. You wanted to cuss him out, you wanted to break it off, you wanted to ask him why?!, and you’d be lying if you didn’t admit, at least to yourself, that you were feeling a little unhinged, as in throw a drink in her face and hit him with a pool cue unhinged. 

You pulled into the parking lot, not even remembering the drive, it was all a blur. You slipped out of your jeep and walked through the familiar saloon style doors. The bar was packed. Your narrowed eyes scanned the crowd but you didn’t see him. Not yet. Assuming he hadn’t already left with his little whore. 

You went straight to the bar and ordered a double shot of tequila. That went down too quickly. Kevin, the bartender, was eyeing you nervously. “You okay, hun?” he asked when Jake walked by and elbowed him, giving him a warning look. You caught it. Well, clearly, Jake knew.  Your boyfriend was just out here making a fool out of you in front of everyone. You ordered another double and Kevin raised a brow but poured it up with a shake of his head. 

Turning, you scanned the crowd again. No Justin. He might be tucked away in a corner or over by the pool tables but you needed a little bit more tequila to sooth your nerves before you went looking. 

You knocked back the second double shot, the harsh burn of the tequila tearing down your throat and setting a second fire in your chest. It didn’t calm your nerves like you’d hoped—if anything, it just sharpened the edges of your rage, turning that tight weight in your stomach into pure, volatile energy.

Kevin wiped down the bar top in front of you, his eyes darting anywhere but your face, while Jake busied himself at the other end of the counter, suddenly very interested in restocking the beer coolers. The silence from them was deafening. They knew. Everybody fucking knew.

Setting the heavy shot glass down with a sharp clack against the wood, you wiped your mouth with the back of your hand. You didn't give them the satisfaction of a breakdown. Instead, you held your head high, smoothed down the front of your dress, and turned your back to the bar to face the sea of people.

The bass from the jukebox vibrated through the floorboards, matching the aggressive thud of your heart. If Justin wasn’t in the main area, there were only two places he’d be. The dimly lit booths tucked into the back corner or the pool room.

Stepping away from the safety of the bar, your boots clicked against the floor as you navigated through the Friday night crowd. You pushed past a group of guys laughing by the jukebox, your eyes locked onto the archway that led to the pool tables.

As you rounded the corner, the sharp crack of a cue ball breaking the triangle echoed over the chatter. The room was hazy with a bit of smoke, illuminated by the low-hanging green shaded lamps over the green felt tables.

And there he was.

Justin was leaning against the edge of the far table, chalking a pool cue with total, blissful ignorance. He was laughing at something the guy next to him said. And right beside him, sitting on the high stool with a mixed drink in her hand, was the bleach blonde from the photo. Up close, her hair looked fried, and she was wearing a top that was trying way too hard.

As if sensing the sudden shift in the room's atmosphere, Justin looked up. His eyes scanned the crowd casually, then froze. The smile died on his face instantly. The chalk slipped from his fingers, clattering against the floor and rolling away unnoticed.

"Hey," the blonde said, reaching out to touch his arm, completely oblivious. "Whose turn is it?"

Justin didn't answer her. He just stared at you, his face draining of color as you stood across the room with people weaving in and out of your line of sight, the second double shot of tequila humming through your veins.

You needed a second, sucking in a deep breath. You spun around and ran face first into a massive, firm chest. You looked up, flustered. “I’m so sor-” you started but trailed off as your gaze met his. He was huge, and muscular, and handsome but all that aside, you immediately recognized him. Soldier Boy. 

His face was hard but the moment you spoke, the moment he saw the recognition cross your features, he smirked. “You should really watch where you’re going, doll,” he said, voice smooth and deep. 

“I-I am so sorry, Soldier Boy. I didn’t see you.”

“I’m kind of hard to miss,” he said with a huff that was almost a laugh. Almost. “What’s a pretty little thing like you in such a hurry for?”

“Uh, it’s fine. I mean, I’m fine,” you stuttered. 

Then he did laugh, just a small one but amusement danced in his eyes. “Yeah. Sure you are. But you are kinda cute when you’re flustered, sweetheart.”

Glancing back over your shoulder, Justin was still standing there frozen. Staring at you. You quickly turned back to the superhero towering over you and you didn’t think. You just acted.

You stepped closer, closing the small distance between you and the massive wall of his chest, and looked up at him through your eyelashes. If Justin wanted to play games in public, two could play.

"Actually," you said, your voice suddenly finding a smooth, steady confidence you didn't know you had, bolstered by the four shots of tequila burning in your stomach. "I think I just realized I'm not in a hurry at all."

Soldier Boy’s smirk widened, his sharp eyes tracking the sudden shift in your posture. He leaned down just an inch, his heavy, masculine scent—leather, expensive cologne, and a faint hint of cigar smoke—completely enveloping you. "Is that so?"

"Yeah," you murmured, deliberately letting your gaze flicker back toward the pool tables for a split second, just long enough to ensure Justin saw exactly who you were standing with. When you looked back up at the supe, you let a small, teasing smile touch your lips. "I think I just need a distraction. And you seem like exactly the kind of trouble I'm looking for tonight."

Soldier Boy chuckled, a deep, rumbling sound that vibrated right through you. He didn't even look up at the pool room; his full, intense attention was locked entirely on you. He slid a heavy, calloused hand around your waist, his grip firm and possessive as he pulled you just a fraction closer against him.

"Well, doll," he drew out, his eyes darkening with immediate interest, "you definitely came to the right guy for that. Why don't we get out of this crowded doorway and you can tell me all about it?"

Across the room, you could see Justin out of the corner of your eye. His jaw had dropped, his face turning an even more dramatic shade of pale as he watched Vought's legendary hero wrap an arm around his girlfriend. He actually took a step forward, completely abandoning his pool cue, his eyes wide with a mix of sheer panic and jealousy.

“That sounds good to me,” you said, voice breathy and low. “But first…” you trailed off as you leaned up, pressing your hands to his chest, and your lips to his lightly. The mix of emotions and alcohol had you feeling bold; bolder than you’d ever been given that you just kissed the most wanted bachelor in the country without a second thought. 

Soldier Boy’s grip on your waist tightened and he pulled you against his chest. You began to pull your lips away but he chased them an inch or so and pressed his to yours much rougher than your peck. Your entire body stiffened but after a half a second of his lips moving against yours, you felt yourself melt into him. He pushed his tongue into your mouth and something in you completely snapped. You raised your arms and wrapped them around his neck, kissing him back with equal fervor. Soldier Boy let a small groan of approval flow into your mouth. You swallowed it and threaded your fingers into his hair, as if you two were alone and not making out in the middle of a busy bar with your boyfriend watching. 

When he finally broke the kiss, it wasn’t to let you go. Soldier Boy kept his heavy, calloused hand anchored firmly at the small of your back, holding you flush against his massive frame. His breathing was slow and deep, a smug, dark satisfaction burning in his eyes as he looked down at you, his thumb brushing against your hip.

"Christ, doll," he muttered, his voice lower and rougher than before, a wicked grin pulling at his lips. "You don't play around, do you?"

The bar around you seemed to slowly rush back into focus, the thumping bass of the jukebox mixing with the sharp hum of the tequila still singing in your veins. Your lips felt flushed, tingling from the sheer force of his kiss. You didn't even care about the looks you were drawing from the surrounding tables. You had only one target in mind.

You slowly turned your head, keeping your arm casually draped over Soldier Boy’s broad shoulder, and looked back toward the pool room.

Justin looked like he had just watched a ghost. He was entirely frozen halfway between the pool table and the doorway, his face a ghostly white, his chest heaving. The sheer, panic in his eyes was beautiful. The blonde was saying something to him, tugging at his sleeve, but he didn't even seem to register she was there. His eyes were glued to you, wide with a devastating mix of shock, heartbreak, and absolute terror. He knew exactly who he was looking at, and he knew he couldn't do a damn thing about it.

Soldier Boy caught the direction of your gaze. He didn't look at Justin—men like Justin didn't even register as blips on his radar—but he felt the tension in your frame. He tilted his head down, his lips brushing against your temple as he spoke, his tone dripping with possessive amusement.

"We got a problem over there, sweetheart? Or did you just want to give someone a front-row seat?"

Justin took another shaky step forward, his hands trembling at his sides, clearly trying to find the courage to walk over but completely paralyzed by the infamous legend holding his girlfriend.

“Nothing worth our time,” you said, smirking back up at him, your fingers teasing little patterns in his hair at the nape of his neck. You gave another glance back over your shoulder and surprisingly Justin wasn’t frozen anymore.

Justin actually found the nerve. You watched the sheer panic in his face warp into a desperate, reckless bravado as he detached himself from the blonde and started marching over. He looked small approaching you, but the alcohol and the bruised ego were clearly overriding whatever survival instincts he had left.

Soldier Boy didn’t move an inch. He just watched Justin’s approach with a look of pure, lazy detachment, his arm still wrapped like an iron band around your waist.

"What the hell do you think you’re doing?" Justin blurted out as he stopped about three feet away. His voice cracked slightly on the first word, but he tried to deepen it, throwing his shoulders back. He didn't dare look directly at Soldier Boy yet; his wild, furious eyes were locked entirely on you. "You’re my girlfriend! You think you can just walk into our bar and start sucking face with some guy right in front of me?!"

The absolute audacity of it almost made you laugh out loud.

"Hey. Man," Justin continued, finally shifting his gaze up, and up to meet Soldier Boy’s hard stare. Justin’s chest was heaving, his hands balled into tight fists at his sides. "I don’t care who you think you are. Get your hands off her. She’s with me."

The entire corner of the bar went dead silent with the exception of an old country song on the jukebox. Over by the taps, you could see Kevin and Jake completely freeze, bottles suspended mid-air.

Soldier Boy didn't flinch. He didn't even drop his smirk. He slowly lowered his chin, looking down at Justin like he was a particularly loud bug that had just landed on his boot. The atmosphere around the hero shifted instantly—the casual, charming alpha routine vanished, replaced by the heavy, suffocating weight of a living weapon.

"Is that right?" Soldier Boy asked, his deep voice carrying easily over the background music. He didn't sound angry; he sounded entirely bored, which was infinitely more terrifying. He let his hand slide from your waist down to your hip, squeezing possessively, deliberately showing Justin exactly how little his words meant.

Soldier Boy, shifted you to his side, arm still firmly around you, and took one slow step forward, towering over Justin, his massive frame casting a shadow completely over him.

"You got a lot of teeth for a guy who likes to bark so loud," Soldier Boy drawled, his tone dripping with lethal amusement. "But I think you're confusing me with someone who gives a shit what you think. Now, my girl here said she wanted a distraction. You want to keep complaining, or do you want to back up before I have to clean you off my boots?"

Justin’s brave facade cracked instantly. He took a reflexive step back, his eyes darting from Soldier Boy's massive shoulders down to the heavy leather jacket, realizing the absolute, catastrophic danger he had just walked into. He looked back at you, a desperate, pathetic plea in his eyes. "Babe... come on. Tell him. Tell him we're together."

You let out a soft, mocking laugh that cut sharper than any blade. Leaning back against Soldier Boy’s solid chest, you casually reached into your purse and pulled out your phone. You tapped the screen a few times and turned it around, shoving the crystal-clear photo of him kissing the bleach-blonde right into his face.

"Together?" you asked, your voice dripping with absolute venom. "That’s funny, Justin. Because ten minutes ago, you seemed pretty damn occupied with the trash over by the pool tables. You really thought you could bring your little whore to our bar and I wouldn't find out?"

Justin’s face went from pale to looking like he was going to be sick. He stared at the screen, his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. "Babe, I—Maggie sent you that? It’s not what it looks like, she’s just a friend from—"

"Shut the fuck up," you snapped, your voice lethal and cold. "Don't insult my intelligence. We're done. We've been done since the second you put your hands on her. You just threw away three years for a girl who looks like she washes her hair with peroxide and a prayer."

A few people nearby gasped, and you could hear someone over by the jukebox let out a low "Oof."

Justin looked completely ruined, his ego shattered into a million pieces in front of the entire bar. He tried to look at you with pleading eyes, but you didn't give him an ounce of sympathy. You looked up at Soldier Boy, giving him a sweet, devastating smile.

"I'm ready for that drink now," you purred, intentionally loud enough for Justin to hear every word. "And maybe a tour of your place?"

Soldier Boy’s deep laugh rumbled against your back, a sound of pure, wicked satisfaction. He looked down at Justin one last time, his eyes cold and dismissive.

"You heard her, kid. Take your garbage and get out of our way," Soldier Boy drawled. He didn't even wait for Justin to move. He simply wrapped his massive arm securely around your waist and guided you right past your ex, sending Justin stumbling backward into a table just to get out of the hero's path.

As you walked toward the exit, your cowboy boots clicking confidently on the floorboards, you didn't look back once. You could feel Justin’s humiliated gaze burning into your back but you didn’t care. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~

As you stepped into the back entrance of Vought Tower you felt a shiver run up your spine. The tequila was starting to fade and you were walking towards the elevators with Soldier Boy. The previous adrenaline that carried you here was also almost gone and you were starting to get a little nervous about exactly what it was you were doing. 

This wasn’t revenge anymore. It was very real and he was looking at you like you were dinner. The same way you had looked at him just minutes ago, you reminded yourself. 

His arm was back around you, his hand resting on your hip as he pressed PH on the elevator. The penthouse. He was taking you up to his place. Just you and him. All alone. Just like you had asked for. 

You steadied your mind and just as the elevator dinged you had your nerves back under control. 

“So, Soldier Boy,” you started. 

“Ben,” he interjected. 

“Oh. Um, yeah, right,” you said followed by your name. 

He smirked down at you as he led you into the foyer. “Didn’t think to offer that up before you stuck your tongue down my throat, huh?” he teased. 

You felt your cheeks heat up, a sudden flush that had absolutely nothing to do with the tequila.

"I was a little preoccupied," you countered, trying to match his swagger as you stepped fully into the penthouse.

The place was massive, dripping in mid-century luxury with deep mahogany wood, heavy leather furniture, and a panoramic view of the city skyline through floor-to-ceiling windows. It felt exactly like him—masculine, imposing, and completely timeless.

Ben chuckled, a low, gravelly sound as he let his hand slide from your hip. He walked over to a sleek bar tucked into the corner, tossing his heavy leather jacket onto a nearby chair. Beneath it, his dark green shirt stretched tight across his ridiculously broad shoulders.

"Yeah, well, you made a hell of an impression," he said, reaching for a crystal decanter. He poured a generous amber liquid into two heavy glasses, the scent of high-end bourbon immediately cutting through the air. He turned around, leaning back against the bar with one ankle crossed over the other, holding out a glass toward you. "Most women ask for an autograph. You went straight for the throat."

You walked over, the heels of your boots clicking softly against the polished hardwood. Taking the glass from his hand, your fingers brushed against his calloused skin, sending a jolt straight up your arm.

"I told you, I needed a distraction," you murmured, taking a slow sip. The bourbon was smooth, burning a steady path down your throat and instantly replacing the fading buzz of the cheap tequila.

Ben’s eyes darkened, tracking the movement of your throat as you swallowed. He took a step closer, completely erasing the distance between you until you were looking up into those piercing eyes. He didn't have his shield, and he didn't have the public watching, but the sheer, magnetic weight of his presence was overwhelming.

"And did you get it?" he asked, his voice dropping an octave, smooth and dangerous. He reached up, his large fingers gently catching a strand of your hair, winding the shiny strands around his knuckle. "Or do you still need me to help you forget about that little pussy?"

“I’m not thinking about him right now,” you breathed out, your pulse starting to pick up. 

Ben noticed. He ran the back of his finger down your cheek, devastatingly slowly. “I can tell. Your heart is telling me everything I need to know about where your mind is,” he rasped, his voice rough as his lips brushed against your ear. 

You let out a soft hum in response. Before you could even blink Ben hoisted you up by your waist, setting you on the bar. He stepped in between your legs, one hand on your thigh and the other sliding down your back to rest just above your ass, pulling you forward into him. A gasp escaped you as the thin fabric of your dress offered little barrier to his jeans, now pressed firmly against your core. You didn’t feel him. Not yet. 

The hand on your thigh slipped under your dress and slowly raised until his finger tips were just an inch or two from your panties. His other hand reached up and tangled in your hair, pulling your head back and opening your throat to him. Ben leaned in and pressed his chest against yours while his mouth descended on your neck. He was kissing, and licking and nipping. Everywhere.  Your neck, your jaw line, the lobe of your ear, back down your neck and to your collarbone. He groaned against your soft skin and you let out a tiny moan of his name. “Bennn.”

That spurred him on. He crashed his lips down on yours fiercely. Your hands were resting on his broad shoulders and you could feel the tension, the restraint. His mouth was bruising and you kissed him back just as hard. He groaned into it. That did it. You felt him between your thighs and he felt massive. You knew you should be concerned about that but his tongue was demanding and his hands were everywhere. 

Ben broke the kiss just to lift one of your breasts out of your dress and suck on the nipple. It was more gentle than you expected. Well, at least it was, until he grazed his teeth against the hard peak, pulling a gasp from you. He smirked up at you, eyes now locked on yours, as he flicked his tongue over your other nipple, while squeezing the first breast with his hand. Your head lolled back and you moaned, arching into his mouth. 

Without a second thought, Ben tugged the top of your dress down so that your breasts were free and open to his sight and his touch. He didn’t give you time to think before his large hand was pulling your panties down and over your boots, dangling them in the air on his finger in front of you. “You won’t be needing these, sweetheart,” he crooned, a devilish smirk still firmly in place. 

You nodded quickly in agreement. Ben pressed back against you, his hand sliding in between your legs. His thick fingers quickly found your soaked entrance and he raised his gaze to look into your eyes as he pushed two fingers inside of you while his thumb pressed down on your clit. You moaned and dug your nails into his shoulders. “Oh god, yes.”

“Not God, sweetheart. Ben," he corrected, his voice a low, heavy growl that vibrated straight through your core.

He didn't hesitate. He drove his fingers deeper inside you, finding a rhythm that instantly had your hips arching off the bar, desperately chasing the incredible friction of his thumb moving against your clit. You were completely at his mercy, your body shivering with every blunt, possessive stroke. He watched every single emotion cross your face, his dark eyes burning with absolute satisfaction as he pulled those broken, needy sounds right out of your throat.

"That's it," he muttered against your lips, his breath hot and ragged. "Let me hear you."

He pumped his fingers into you faster, harder, deliberately pushing you right to the absolute edge. The heat in your lower stomach coiled so tight it was almost unbearable, a brilliant, blinding spark that threatened to snap the last of your control. You clung to his broad shoulders, your nails digging deep into the hard muscle through his shirt as the world narrowed down to just the taste of bourbon on his tongue and the relentless, intoxicating stretch of his fingers inside you.

Just as your breath hitched and your body tightened, on the verge of shattering completely, Ben abruptly pulled his hand back.

You let out a whimper of pure protest, your eyes flying open as you looked at him, completely dazed and desperate. "Ben... please."

He chuckled, a dark, wicked sound as he stepped back just an inch, his fingers slick and glistening under the low lights of the penthouse. Eyes still on yours he lifted them to his lips and licked them clean. Then Ben reached down to unbuckle his belt, the heavy metal clinking in the quiet room, his eyes never once leaving yours.

"I told you, doll," he drawled, his voice thick with a dangerous, heavy heat as he pulled his pants down just enough to free himself, revealing the massive, rigid length of him. "I'm the ultimate distraction. And I'm not letting you off that easy."

Your eyes immediately dropped to his long, thick cock. It made your heart skip a beat in anticipation and maybe a little hesitation. Ben clocked it. He leaned in, his lips against yours. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. It won’t hurt for long.”

Your eyes snapped up to his. “Ben,” you said, voice laced with concern. 

He kissed you and you knew he was trying to distract you. Ben pulled you back to the edge of the bar, mouth still on yours, and lifted your dress as he pushed into your moist heat. You pulled your head back sucking in a gasp as he stretched you out, sinking deeper and deeper. Finally, he bottomed out. The stretch was beyond intense and you’d never felt so full in your life. It felt like he was kissing your ribs with his massive dick. 

Your head lolled back so Ben went for your neck again. He was kissing and sucking little marks on your neck and your shoulder. He had one hand on your hip and the other on one of your breasts, squeezing gently. Then he started to move. 

“Goddamn, you’re so tight,” he grunted. Ben wasn’t gentle. He began to pump into you fiercely. As his hips slammed forward, it stole the breath from your lungs and had all of the bottles and glasses clinking together on the bar. It sounded like an earthquake. 

You reached out and pulled his shirt over his head and he obliged, releasing your hip for just a second to let you pull it off. He had several scars, including a big one across his ribs. Your arms wove back around his neck as he drilled into you. The sound of skin slapping skin was obscene but when his roughness actually broke one of the glasses from it falling off the bar, he slipped his hands under your thighs and lifted you up. Your legs locked around his waist instinctively as he carried you to the couch. Along the way he stepped out of his pants, freeing himself completely. 

He sank down into a seated position with you still connected to him. Your pussy had finally adjusted to him right before he picked you up so you felt confident enough to begin to ride him. He pulled your dress up over your head and tossed it behind the couch, burying his face in your breasts. You pressed your hands firmly on his chest, pushing him against the back of the couch and began to roll your hips. Ben arched a brow at first but his face quickly changed as you took control. He gave an appreciative groan for the way you gave a little pop of your hips at the end of each roll. Something shifted in his eyes. He wasn’t Soldier Boy anymore, he just was a man being undone beneath you with each deliberate movement of your body.

Your walls began to flutter and you picked up your pace. You were riding him like he was the prized thoroughbred at the Kentucky Derby. His grip on the plush of your hips tightened. It was a bruising force but it just spurred you on even more. Your nails dug into his chest as you hit your peak. You threw your head back and screamed his name as you came apart above him. Your muscles were spasming around his cock and he let out a deep, guttural groan as he snapped his own hips up to meet yours.  

“Fuck, doll,” he said, voice ragged and followed by another groan. 

You collapsed onto his chest. Your chest heaved against his, the skin of your breasts slick with sweat where they pressed into the hard, scarred planes of his bare chest. Your heartbeat was a frantic, wild rhythm, hammering so loud you could hear it echoing in your own ears. 

Ben reached down and tugged your boots off before flipping you over onto your back and looking down at you. “I’m not done with you yet, doll.”

He drove back into you again, setting a punishing pace. You moaned loudly as he pounded into you. His hand already on your hips, lifted them slightly and the new angle had you on the edge again already. Ben’s mouth came down and claimed yours as his other hand found your clit. You moaned right down his fucking throat as you teetered on the edge, the pleasure completely consuming you. His expert skills pushed you right over it into an even stronger orgasm. The brilliantly, blinding white light overtook your vision and your entire body shook beneath him. Your pussy clenched him so hard in quick spasms that he lost control himself. He groaned out your name as his grip on you tightened. Ben shot his huge, hot load deep inside you, your walls continued to milk him of every last drop. 

Ben, still bracing most of his weight on his forearms on either side of you, lowered the rest down on you, his face buried in the crook of your neck, chest heaving against yours. Every muscle in your body felt completely heavy, utterly spent, melted down by the absolute ferocity of what he’d just done to you.

After a moment, he flipped you both over and pulled you on top of him to rest on his chest. Ben’s massive arms wrapped tightly around your back, pinning you against him as his own breathing slowly began to level out. The deep, rumbling vibrations of his chest beneath your cheek were incredibly grounding, anchoring you to reality after the blinding heat of the climax that had just shattered your body and your mind.

For a long minute, neither of you said a word. The only sounds in the sprawling, dimly lit penthouse were your synchronized, ragged breaths and the distant, muffled hum of the city below the floor-to-ceiling windows. Justin, the bar, the betrayal—it all felt like a lifetime ago. A completely different world.

Slowly, Ben reached up, his heavy hand burying into your hair. He didn't pull this time; his fingers just lightly massaged your scalp, a surprisingly tender gesture from a man who had just nearly wrecked the bar and the couch with you.

"Damn," he finally murmured, his voice incredibly deep, rough, and thick with a smug, lazy satisfaction. He shifted slightly beneath you, his grip tightening just a fraction around your waist. "You're a handful, aren't you, sweetheart?"

You let out a weak, breathless laugh, too exhausted to even lift your head off his chest. You just tilted your chin up slightly, looking at the sharp line of his jaw in the shadows. "You didn't seem to have any trouble handling it."

Ben chuckled, the sound low and dark against your ear. He turned his head, his lips brushing against your sweat-damp temple, trailing down to the sensitive skin of your neck where he had left his mark.

"No," he drawled, a wicked, familiar smirk returning to his voice as he gave your hip a possessive squeeze. "Not at all. In fact, I'm thinking that's a hell of a good start."

You let out another soft hum, your cheek rising and falling with the heavy, steady rhythm of his chest. The absolute exhaustion was a warm, heavy blanket, pinning you to him, but the lingering sparks of that double orgasm still danced under your skin.

"A good start?" you echoed, your voice a sleepy, raspy murmur. You finally found the energy to shift, sliding one of your legs higher up his hip, embedding yourself comfortably between his muscular thighs. "Ben, you practically took down half the bar and shattered a couch. I don't think my body could handle whatever you call a finish."

Ben’s chest rumbled with a deep, vibratory chuckle that felt incredibly good against your skin. His large hand slid down from your scalp, his palm tracing the curve of your bare spine before resting in a heavy, warm weight right at the small of your back.

"Don't sell yourself short, doll," he drawled, his lips moving against your hair. "You were matching me step for step on this couch. Pretty sure you're the one who almost broke my ribs back there with those nails."

You glanced down, tracking the small, faint crescent-shaped marks your nails had left— near his collarbone, on his pecs and lower on his ribs— standing out against the older, rugged scars that mapped his skin. Instead of feeling guilty, a distinct spark of pride flared in your chest. You didn't just survive Vought's legendary soldier; you had actually made him lose that cool, untouchable composure.

The silence of the penthouse stretched out again, but it wasn't awkward. It was comfortable, thick with the scent of high-end bourbon, leather, and the heavy musk of what you'd just shared. The sheer reality of the situation finally started to settle in—not with panic, but with a strange, empowering clarity.

Justin was an afterthought. A small, pathetic speck in the rearview mirror.

"What are you thinking about down there?" Ben asked quietly, his tone dropping the heavy teasing, though his fingers still casually traced light circles on your lower back. His sharp eyes were fixed on you in the dim light, studying your face with a level of intense, focused interest that made your pulse give a little tug. "Still got that fuckin’ dumbass on your mind?"

You lifted your chin completely, propping your arms on his massive chest so you could look him dead in the eye. A slow, genuine smile curved your lips.

"Who?" you asked softly.

Ben’s smirk returned, slow and devastatingly handsome. He hooked his hand behind your neck, fingers gently gripping the nape, and pulled you into a slow, deep, possessive kiss that tasted like the last remnants of the alcohol and pure, unadulterated victory.