Voracious Reader

All of these stories follow the main series above and are listed in chronological reading order (not the order I wrote them in, but how they should be read).

(❤️‍🔥 = smut)

In the Dark You and Ben have tackled the insurmountable together, but no one said the recovery would be easy.

Checkerboard You’re not a supe. You’re breakable. Soldier Boy sometimes forgets that.

Wanderlust Your wandering hands are keeping Ben up at night.

A Simple Touch Annie still has reservations about Ben, and you dating him for that matter…until she sees it.

Love Actually ❤️‍🔥 - [MINI SERIES] Ben gets in late on Christmas Eve with a Grinch-like attitude, but you’re determined to force some holiday cheer into his system. At least, you hope you can, before he meets the rest of your dysfunctional family on Christmas Day.

⟡ Series Complete ⟡

Wake Me Up ❤️‍🔥 - [MINI SERIES] A few weeks after you and Ben celebrate your first Christmas together, he is returning from another mission with the Supe Affairs team. When he discovers that you’ve been taken, he’ll do whatever it takes to find you. And then, to help you heal.

⟡ Series Complete ⟡

Exposure Therapy ❤️‍🔥 You’ve tried dealing with it the “healthy way,” like talking it out with a therapist. But what you’re really hoping is for Ben to fuck it out of you.

Strong As Blood ❤️‍🔥 After you accidentally break through a solid wood table, you know there’s something wrong with you. You begin to have your suspicions, but can you keep it from Ben long enough to find out? 

(In other words: This is the story of how you and Ben discover that you’re pregnant.)

Part 1 || Part 2 - Complete

Sleigh Ride Yet again, you convince Ben to indulge you in a new Christmas tradition.

Until Morning A quiet moment between you, Ben, and your newborn daughter.

This One's For You Late one night, finding no other recourse, Ben sings to his infant daughter to help her sleep.

Lesson Learned ❤️‍🔥 There’s only so much teasing Ben is willing to take. He has no choice but to punish you. (Sequel to This One's For You)

Green ❤️‍🔥 Ben spends the day alone with his daughter, to varying degrees of success. When you get home, it prompts a serious conversation.

Calculated Risks You and Ben argue about your commitment to being a working mom. When a rogue supe gets loose at Supe Affairs, mayhem ensues, putting not only your life at risk, but your daughter’s as well.

I've Got You ❤️‍🔥 Being pregnant with a supe’s baby isn’t easy, even the second time around. The good news is your husband is all too willing to help you relieve a certain craving.

Imagines:

Getting jealous. ❤️‍🔥💚 Ben needs new clothes, but the shop girls think your boyfriend is fair game.

Ben’s reaction to his girlfriend on her period.❣️ How he takes care of you.

Ben loses you. 💔 Includes a “twist” ending…

Talk to Me 💞 In the wake of his vivid nightmare, you confront Ben about his fears and get him to open up. [Sequel to “Ben loses you.”]

Headcanons:

Inspiration behind the Part 17 plot twist. It has to do with my love of Smallville. (Spoilers for BMD Part 17.)

How many kids would you and Ben have? The answer is...

Ben's reaction to his daughter Lila's first crush (vs. his son's). The double standard here is ridiculous!

How Ben would react when Lila gets a boyfriend (or girlfriend). Dad!Ben is pretty much what you'd expect...

How Ben reacts when his daughter (Lila) is dating an asshole. He sees an unfortunately "kindred" spirit.

What if Lila caught Ben on a bad day? Featuring reactions from young!Lila and teen!Lila.

What (BMD) Soldier Boy/Ben Would Say to His Younger Self Ben has the opportunity to meet his counterpart from the 1980s. What advice would he offer?

Imagine Soldier Boy (Ben) "Sliding Up" to You in the Club Despite what you might think, he's got moves...

Domestic headcanons with Ben After you get through the wall of bravado, you can expect...

Moodboard below created by @chernayawidow:

"But you move me, baby. All my livin time..."

Moodboard below created by @spnbabe67:

"A fight for love and glory, a case of do or die..."

Did you like this series? If you'd like to keep supporting me as I continue the BMD-verse, you can:

Join My Patreon ⟡ Get early access to new stories, bonus content, and first looks at upcoming stories. Top-tier patrons can even send me requests!

Soldier Boy Masterlist

Main Masterlist

from the moment you first met dean winchester while working a case, you knew you wanted to fuck him.

which was a little strange, because you didn't think like that outright about too many men— not ones you knew in real life, anyway.

but here the stupid bastard was, with his annoyingly pretty face and those stupid, big, rough fightin' hands that could touch you everywhere, pull the prettiest sounds right from you—

oh, we're getting way too far ahead of ourselves. you shoved those thoughts away. come on, this was a freakin' case. lives were at stake.

and once the initial secret lust you had finally went away, you realized you were experiencing something much greater than some stupid crush on dean.

because the more hunted with him, you got to see not just the tough, hard-as-nails side of him— but you saw the other side.

his people side.

you got to see the way he interacted with every single person he encountered on a case, not resting until the threat was completely gone and ganked. and sometimes, when a case hit too close to home, he treated victims and affected family no less than his own fuckin' family.

and you knew from your own personal experience that he'd do just about damn near anything for the family he did have. saw the way he got all soft and sweet around kids— and after a good while, even around you.

and that's when you knew you were in trouble.

you'd known dean for years now. and nothing had ever come of you two except him being one of the greatest friends you'd ever had.

but god help you if you didn't want more.

and nothing like a quick fuck, either. no, you wanted to be there for everything— even on those deathly-quiet nights when dean's thoughts got too loud and the debilitating weight he was carrying all alone just got too heavy, you wanted to be the one keeping him afloat.

it was something dangerously close to love.

you tried to ignore it at first. push it down. and it did work-- for a while. until fucking dean started acting weird around you, too.

and now things were... complicated.

you didn't know exactly when things had shifted so much to the point that it almost became unbearable to even be in the same room as dean without either of you knowingly holding back just spilling your guts-- but god, it was worse than dying.

inevitably, one night, it all just snapped.

there was no dramatic fight, or screamed confessions from either of you. no, it happened late in the darkness, when you both were sharing a motel room.

which would have made you fond of all the times you guys had shared motel rooms in the past— you would've smiled at the thought of younger you trying to make the most out of the fact that you had to share a room with a fucking boy.

but dean was now much more of a man than ever before now.

thank god there's two separate beds, you initially thought.

now, though? there wasn't a need for two beds anymore.

because you still somehow ended up in dean's that was closest to the window.

in his lap.

and kissing him.

you were sure you were in just another one of your dreams or fantasies you conjured up to get off— but you could feel dean's hands on you through your shirt, grasping at the fabric. so this had to be real— but just for precaution, you roll your hips into dean's a little.

yeah. that sound he made when he grinds his hips up into your own was definitely real— and right in your mouth.

you knew you were probably moving too fast— but fuck if you cared. your hands sneak in between you both and trail downward on the front of dean's shirt, not stopping until you reach the hem— and your voice is a whisper against dean's kiss-swollen lips.

"arms up, de."

and dean obliges in a heartbeat, raising his arms up over his head immediately— and he's silently praising the fact he decided to just wear a t-shirt to bed.

you actually somehow had only seen dean shirtless once or twice over the years— the latest being last summer when the air conditioning in the bunker was broken, and you conveniently and hurriedly stated that you had to stay in your room the entire day—because it was so much more skin than you were used to seeing.

but now?

you're staring.

dean's looking at you looking at him— and if the motel room wasn't so dark, you could've sworn his face got a little pinker under your gaze.

but you don't dwell on that for too long. because your hands are itching to reach out and just touch— and the moment your fingers start to graze on dean's biceps first, his eyes flutter shut and he lets out a shaky exhale, fighting to keep himself under control.

because it's you that's touching him.

you're still touching him when you lean back and kiss his lips again— and dean is very aware of the fact that you still have your shirt on.

but you have to break the kiss after a while to get stupid air— and your hands are reluctantly taken off of dean's skin, much to his protest. but the words he was about to say die in his throat when he sees where your hands were going.

you grasp the hem of the oversized shirt you were wearing, tearing it over your head and discarding it in the same motion— all while you were silently thanking whatever had possessed you not to wear shorts to bed.

or a bra.

and now, dean thinks he might die.

it was his turn to stare, eyes raking and flicking over every inch of you as you're straddling his lap like he didn't know where to look first— and dean's just so in awe, he says what he was thinking out loud in a barely-audible.

"god, you're beautiful."

you can feel a blush burning your cheeks at dean's words-- and judging by the way his eyes widened ever so slightly when he uttered those words, you knew he meant it. you smile softly down at him, your voice just as quiet as his once was.

"you're not so bad, yourself.''

and that makes the corner of dean's lips turn up in a small, soft smirk. god, he loves you. and he's gonna show you that.

all night long.

dean starts with his hands, the rough callouses trailing up your thighs, hips, waist, stomach, tits, arms, back— fucking everywhere on your bare skin as he stares up at you.

but your hands move on dean, too— touching him everywhere you could reach before you go lower, your fingers grazing on the waistband of his boxers— but you look back up at him again, a silent question in your eyes.

dean looks confused for half a second— until he realizes you're asking for permission. then he nods, his heart feeling warmer than it was before.

you tear his boxers off in one fell swoop— and holy goddamn.

you stare— again. and dean's fighting the urge to roll you over onto the mattress and just taking you.

instead, he forces himself to stay still under you— because the urge to do that and see what you do next is stronger.

dean's smirking up at you. the damn idiot. and then he quietly murmurs out—

"your turn."

you'd almost forgotten you still had your underwear on— oh, but dean didn't forget. the speed at which you yank down the fabric and discard it somewhere in the motel room should be a world record.

you look back down at dean again when you get situated back on his lap— but he's not looking at you anymore.

no, the man gulps at the sight of your pussy being exposed to him— and it takes him a while to look back up at you, his voice low and rough.

"c'mere."

you obliged, one of your hands reaching down and grasping dean's own that had been resting on your thigh.

this was new. oh, so new. dean wasn't new to you by any means, and that familiarity, that bond was still there— but he was new in this sense. this was different.

this was real.

dean was a man who rarely ever got what he really wanted— so you wanted dean to get whatever he wanted out of what was about to happen between the two of you.

"tell me what you want, dean," your voice is a mere whisper. "tell me what you want me to do, and i'll do it."

dean really thinks you should be illegal. you're all he's ever wanted—and you're asking him what he wanted.

he doesn't answer right away— dean's eyes rake over your naked form in his lap, and he's got his hands resting on your thighs as he meets your gaze once more.

"touch me."

you knew what dean meant by that. dean knew what he meant by that. and you both were fully aware of the line you were about to cross. but you weren't even nervous. and neither was he.

so take your hands, reaching down and trailing a path on dean's lower torso before you take him all in your hands.

and dean thinks he might die.

again.

because you start stroking him slowly— you weren't an idiot, you knew if you went too fast at first, it would hurt dean like a motherfucker rather than feel good.

and you're just looking at him, reading his reactions, making sure that it feels good.

all dean can get out at first is your name. he had opened his mouth to say something, but that's all that came out in a broken groan. he's letting out these little broken noises of pleasure— and his head has to fall back on the shitty motel room’s headboard so he doesn't cum right there.

you keep your pace of your hand on dean's dick steady, only increasing the intensity after a few moments when you can tell he needed more— by the way he gripped onto your hip, his rough fingers curling into the meat of your skin— and by the way he was fighting back the moans that had been treating to escape his throat.

it was definitely embarrassing how close dean was to cumming already, he knew that. but he also knew it was because it was you who was bringing him there. not some quick fuck with a chick he'd met that night, or his own hand— no.

it was yours.

and that thought combined with the way you're still looking at him— in awe, like he's something out of a museum, gets him way closer to the edge you were guiding him to.

"i'm— fucking christ, jesus—"

your name along with the man upstairs' son had come out of dean's mouth in a desperate attempt to warn you that he was right there, all because of you.

"i gotcha, dean," you whisper, and your free hand not jerking him off reaches to cup the side of his face as his head's tilted up towards you.

"just let it happen."

and that does it for him.

dean cums hard, his hands clutching on your thigh and part of your hips with all he's got, gasping and groaning, letting little out broken moans the whole way down.

you just guide dean through it with your hand, watching him under you as his skin was all flushed and red now, hair sticking up everywhere (courtesy of your hands), his pupils blown out and half-lidded before shutting fully.

"y'okay?" you whisper, your eyes flicking over dean under you. his own eyes continued to be closed— and you take that time to grab a tissue from the nightstand, wiping your hand clean before looking back and giving dean your full attention.

your other hand was still on his face, your thumb grazing on his cheek now, and for a split second, you almost think dean must not have liked it, or you went too far, because he wasn't saying—

"holy shit."

the curse leaves dean's mouth as his eyes open— and all he can do is reach his free hand up that wasn't grasping yours between the two of you already and rest it on the one cupping his face.

you can't even open your softly smiling mouth to respond, because the next words are coming out of dean's mouth, his voice still raw and rough from the way you just broke him apart.

"you know what i wanna do right now?"

you tilt your head a little to the side, still looking down at dean below you with his back resting against the headboard as you so desperately wanted to know.

"what?"

dean's downright devilish smirk reappears— and his eyes flick down to your almost dripping pussy that was spread as you straddled his legs before looking back up at you, his voice still rough as ever.

"I wanna taste you."

and a strangled sound gets stuck in your throat at the mere thought of dean eating you out. maybe it was a little embarassing how breathless your voice sounded when you leaned just a fraction closer to him.

"then go ahead."

an actual growl escapes dean at that— and you don't need to tell the man twice. he's got you flipped over and pinning you down, your scorching back hitting the cold motel sheets before you can even blink. you stare up at him when he hovers over you, both hands on the sides of your head, holding him up— and he's just looking at you.

but dean doesn't stay like that for too long. his lips hit your neck immediately after he leans down enough— and he starts just attacking at your skin, nipping, biting, sucking— he draws a path all the way down, until he reaches your now sopping pussy.

dean changes his position when he does, spreading your slick inner thighs further apart and settling between your legs, wrapping a strong arm around the meat of your thighs.

but he hesitates for a brief moment. he likes eating out pussy, but did you enjoy it? his pussy-drunk eyes flick up to yours— and you're a sight all spread out for him, your back against the pillows and sitting up a little so you could watch.

"i ain't gonna be gentle. y'know that, right?"

you knew that dean had always been considerate of you, long before this night— for as long as you'd known him, for that matter. but hearing him tell you that he didn't want to be gentle made your gaze soften and a smile tug on your lips as you nodded in response.

"yeah, i know."

and in that moment, dean thinks he loves you.

well, in all actuality, dean knows he loves you— but seeing you all soft and just so goddamn pretty in the moonlight that's filtering in through the motel room window, he's well aware of the blessing that's before him.

dean gives you one last smile— softer this time. then he dives in, burying in his face and going at you full force, his tongue flat and working against your puffy, slick folds before letting out a groan that vibrates everything.

and dean was right.

he was not gentle about it.

your eyes threaten to flutter shut as dean's tounge works on you— but you force them to be half-lidded as you look down at the sight of dean eating you out like a starved man.

and he's looking right back at you as he does it.

your hand flies to grasp onto dean's that was still resting on your thigh as his mouth continues to attack you— and he gladly takes it in his, not faltering his pace once.

you couldn't help but bite down hard on your bottom lip, attempting to contain the moans and noises that were threatening to spill out of you— and dean isn’t having it.

“nuh uh, darlin’,” dean shakes his head between your thighs, talking right into your pussy between flicks of his tongue on your clit. “i wanna hear you— wanna hear how goddamn good i’m makin’ ya feel right now.”

and with that, your mouth drops open almost immediately. it's like a switch flipped in you— and the first moan you let out is his fuckin' name.

"dean..."

christ on a cross. dean had wanted to hear just anything come out of your pretty mouth, but his name being the first thing on the tip of your tongue does things to him.

dean's imagined you moaning his name countless times, of course, but nothing can compare to the real you right now— tits heaving, groaning and eyes fluttering a little each time he brushes on a few sensitive spots on your pussy with his tongue.

now, it's embarrassing how close you are to cumming on dean's tongue. and oh, he notices. he holds your bucking and writhing hips down with his free hand that's not grasping and holding onto yours—

and goes to fuckin' town.

"fuck— dean!" you think you're gonna pass out— because you could barely hear the sounds of dean slurping up your juices and sucking on your clit when you cum without warning, back arching off of the sheets and grinding into his tongue, your grip on his hand becoming almost bruising as the pleasure cascades over you in waves.

dean doesn't look away from you for a second as your pussy flutters on his tongue, moving his mouth slower once more to not let a drop of you go to waste, making sure you're completely spent, pulling soft groans and gasps from your lips.

your legs tremble and shake under the arm that dean had wrapped around your thigh— and he takes a second to just watch you in the post-orgasm state you're in.

"y'okay?" dean's voice is rough but soft at the same time, looking up at you from his position between your legs like you're the night sky itself.

you open your eyes again, lifting your head off of the pillows just enough to see dean's eyes looking right back at you— and oh, he's a sight, his lips, nose and chin absolutley covered in your slick— and his hair's even more messy than before now.

"yeah", you breathe out softly, managing a nod against the pillows. "yeah, i'm all good. c'mere."

dean sees the soft look in your eyes— and his own gaze melts as he obeys, lifting off of the mattress and out from between your legs to hover over you, your faces just inches apart again.

dean can't look away.

and he never wants to.

"you're goddamn gorgeous, y'know that?" dean murmurs as he looks down at your moonlit face.

at that, you reach your hand up in the distance between you two, cupping the side of dean's face— and his head immediately leans into your touch before you whisper back.

"and you're perfect, dean."

dean's chest tightens at that— and his gaze somehow softens even more. no one's ever called him perfect before, and he couldn't think of one person in his life who even believed that to be true.

but you were looking at dean like he was.

you notice dean's reaction immediately— it was hard not to with how close you were.

you meant those words you said to dean— because being perfect wasn't about having absolutely no flaws or weaknesses.

it was about knowing that, and still carrying on anyway.

and then it clicks. because you could talk all you wanted to dean.

or you could show him how perfect he was.

"lemme show you," you whisper before dean could even open his mouth to deny it. "let me show you how perfect you are, dean."

and those words are completely breaking down what little resistance dean had left. his eyes actually get a little misty as he’s looking down at you— because he can't believe you're here, telling him everything he's never heard before.

dean nods— and his voice is shaking with anticipation mixed with pure awe.

"yeah. yeah, okay."

and that's all you needed. you look at dean's face one last time before lifting your head to close the little distance between the both of you, kissing him with everything you had to give him.

you didn't kiss dean like before— that was in a state of pure lust, desire, and want. now, you're kissing him softer, slower, and with purpose.

and purpose was exactly what dean needed. he tries to keep himself upright and hovering over you, but the way you're kissing him has his arms trembling as you're literally melting him.

you only take my lips off of dean’s when the air he and you had been breathing through your noses wasn’t enough— and your thumb grazes on his cheek again as his forehead rests on top of yours, eyes fluttering a little as i whisper against his lips.

“lay down for me.”

you don't have to say it again. dean obliges in a heartbeat, lifting off of you and rolling onto his back in one fluid motion— and you follow behind, tossing your leg over his to straddle him once more

dean’s hands go to your hips once you’re straddling him, looking up at you now— he still looks a little wrecked from earlier, and his chest is rising and falling in a slower, steadier rhythm than before, like he’s trying to calm himself down.

but seeing your naked form straddling him like this once more is just making his heart start to thump against his chest— again.

your hands find dean’s own on your hips,your fingers trailing on his skin, grazing past his wrists and up his arms— you're not exactly slow, but you're also not very fast with it, either.

no, you take your time touching dean all over again, fingertips tracing over every scar and dent you could see and feel as you're straddling him. your eyes flick up to his face, meeting his gaze once more— but you just keep touching him.

"oh, look at you," your voice is an awed whisper while your hands move on dean’s chest, grazing on the anti-possession tattoo he had on his skin. "see? you’re perfect."

and dean can’t help the little shiver your touch brings him right now, even though he's literally just laying below you, half-propped up by the pillows like you once were. he just can’t help it, because you’ve always been able to get the best reactions out of him.

dean swallows hard as your hands continue their journey over his body— your fingertips roaming over his skin, tracing all the scars he’d earned, right across his chest and down to his stomach.

and his breath actually hitches when you touch his anti-possession tattoo again.

your fingers trace on dean’s tattoo, watching and loving his reactions to just your freakin' hands.

and your hands stay resting on dean’s chest, but a little closer to his shoulders, shifting closer to him in his lap, pressing the entirety of your bare body completely against his.

your voice is still a whisper when you talk again, searching his face as you ask him to do what you've always wanted to.

because you needed to show dean how much you wanted him.

"can i ride you?"

if dean was hard before, it's nothing compared to the way his dick almost hurts now, throbbing at the way you asked permission to ride him.

"god, yes" is what comes out from dean's clenched jaw, and his gaze is locked onto yours as his hands rest on your hips.

a soft smile tugs on your lips again, your gaze flicking down for a brief moment when you hear how strained dean’s voice was— and the sight of him hard for you sends a wave of heat that pools in your stomach, making you clench around nothing.

because you needed dean just as badly as he needed you.

your eyes flick back up to dean’s green ones. and you notice that neither of you are nervous for his to happen. this was dean, after all. you'd wanted him in the least friendly way possible for as long as you could remember— and now? it was actually going to come true.

you didn’t have to ask dean anything else, or even say something. he wanted all of you— and you were going to give it to him.

so that’s why you shift a little, reaching down and guiding yourself to sink onto dean, keeping his gaze while your hands are still on his shoulders.

a broken groan escapes dean when you start to lower yourself down on him— and his own body’s reaction to your walls sucking him in just makes him want you even more.

dean lets his gaze travel all across your face— and he’s still looking right into your eyes when he lets himself go completely slack underneath you, letting you take the lead.

your fingers dig a little into dean’s shoulder at the burning sensation of your pussy being stretched— and your breath hitches, hard. your head falls forward a little as you screw your eyes shut.

your mind had felt like it was going over a thousand miles per second, but when your legs finally hit dean's and your pussy hits the base of his dick, everything just... goes away.

and dean couldn’t keep himself completely still anymore. he actually growled a little when he felt you fully sink down on him, and the sound that left him when he feels your tightness around him was a little more primal-sounding than he’d like to admit right now.

"oh, fuck," he breathes out your name, "you’re tryna kill me."

you can only respond to dean’s words with a strangled noise as the burning sensation was becoming full-throttle now, your grip on dean’s shoulders a little tighter, your head still hung as you try to keep my breathing steady.

because you literally couldn’t move yet. it was still the best feeling you'd ever felt— but you had to get used to dean's dick being buried deep inside of you before you could actually start to move on top of him.

and the way you’re holding on to his shoulders right now and how you’re trying to hold back little noises is driving dean insane.

he’s gripping your hips so tight that it has to be almost painful, and his eyes are fixed on you, still watching you while he tries to stay still for you. but it was taking a hell of a lot of effort on his part.

dean's chest is rising and falling fast, and he can’t help it when he finally chokes out your name in a whisper, unable to keep it in anymore.

"move. please."

at dean’s plea, you flick your hips just a little to see if you were adjusted yet.

and oh, were you ever. your fingers finally release their death grip on dean’s shoulders, one of your hands finding and grasping one of his own that was on your hip— and you finally start to move on top of him, rocking your hips into his.

the groan that escapes dean is the deepest one yet, his hand clutching onto yours and his eyes shutting for a moment as he feels you moving, his free hand tightening on your hip again.

"oh, god," dean gasps out, "jesus—"

you let out a raggedy exhale mixed with a moan, attempting to stop your eyes from rolling back into your head as you continue to ride dean's dick. it was hard, but you managed to keep your eyes open and half-lidded and on him, wanting to see his face— and you grind your hips into his faster and harder.

seeing you like this was getting to be borderline unbearable for dean.

your tits are bouncing a little in dean's face, and you're just not letting up, and you're so tight and warm, and he just fuckin' loves you—

dean realizes he's gonna cum if you keep this up.

and the embarrassing part is you barely even started riding him.

so it’s a damn good thing he’s still got a shred of control over himself right now.

"je— s— slow it down for a sec, darlin'," dean manages to get out, gritting his teeth as his eyes screw shut. "please."

the moment those words leave dean’s mouth, you immediately do as he says— you don’t abruptly stop, instead gradually slowing your movements to allow for an easy transition.

your hand trails up from dean's shoulder to cup on the side of his face while your're still on top of him— your eyes then search his when you breathlessly whisper to him.

"you okay?"

dean opens his eyes when you ask him if he’s okay right now, knowing that was pure concern in your words. he’s taking a moment to let his body level out a bit, since you stopped like he asked you to. and when he does, he manages a nod once he’s able to somehow form words.

"yeah, 'm good, darlin’—" dean swallows and takes a big gulp of air. "just got a 'lil too close to the edge for a second there. don’t wanna blow it right now."

an exhale of relief you didn’t know you were holding in was let out at dean’s confirmation— and your thumb almost absentmindedly grazes on the skin of his cheek as your hand was still on the side of his face.

"oh," you also nod, gaze softening as you look down at dean under you still. his words make you feel warm inside, along with a little sense of pride, too— but you still had to confirm. "it doesn’t hurt, though, right?"

"doesn’t hurt,” dean responds immediately. and that’s a bit of a complete understatement, because being inside of you right now felt like heaven. his own hand comes up to where yours is, his fingers skimming over your skin as he smiles softly up at you once more. "just wanna be able to last a 'lil bit longer for you, 's all."

your eyebrows scrunch together at that, and your expression is almost goddamn melted at this point as you look down at dean. you weren't sure why those words impacted you so much, but your chest tightens with emotion before you speak again.

"oh, de," you literally whisper, your thumb still skimming back and forth on dean’s cheek. "y'know you don’t have to do that."

"yeah, i do," dean murmurs immediately in response, looking right into your eyes the whole time he talks. "i've wanted this— you for goddamn years. i'm not lettin' this end yet."

so you don't.

you nod, leaning in and pressing a kiss on dean's lips before you talk again.

"okay," you nod against his forehead. "just move me when you want to, alright?"

dean gratefully nods, too, appreciating your understanding. his hands find and hold your hips again—this time, with less of a death-grip. and after he takes a steadying breath, he starts to move you.

you just let dean work and grind your hips into his own, holding his shoulder and face with your hands, allowing him to take what he needed and set the pace.

after a while, though, dean lifts you up off his dick by your hips a few inches before setting you back down fully, repeating the motion— starting to actually fuck you a little.

you'd been quiet for the most part so far— but once the head of dean's dick brushes against that spongy spot deep inside of you, a string of broken moans and gasps spill from your lips.

and that just spurs dean on.

you'd both waited long enough now. it's been years of stolen looks, suppressed jealousy, unspoken thoughts and feelings— and tonight, you're making it all come true in the darkness of the motel room.

thank god dean's hands had been guiding your hips— because you're starting to unravel faster than you can comprehend. and so is dean.

dean's fucking up into you now like he'll never be able to fuck you again— which you both know wasn't true. and after tonight, you know you'd happily sleep with dean's dick buried inside of your pussy.

it takes only a whimper falling from your lips for dean to know that you're close— and your hand flies down to one of his on your hips again. he gladly takes it, wanting to hold your hand when he cums inside of you—

wait. is he allowed to do that?

"y— oh," dean groans out your name— he has not been silent throughout this entire ordeal, either. broken noises of pleasure and little groans of your name escaped his lips whenever your walls clenched around him. "can i— god—"

you didn't have to ask what dean meant by that. you nod almost frantically as his hand are still gripping your hips, guiding your pussy up and down his dick— and you squeeze his other hand tighter, the one you were holding.

and only then does dean let himself go, again.

your orgasm comes at the same time dean's does— and you both arch into each other and trembling as your moans echo off the motel room's walls. dean's face buries between your tits and groans into the skin while he spills up into you, your juices mixing with his.

you both stay like that for a while, naked, sweating, slick and gasping for air for god knows how long— until dean's raw and breathless voice vibrating on your breasts breaks the silence.

"i think i was made for you."

D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

You pretend you don’t know, but he’s not that good at hiding it. Your underwear doesn’t just grow legs and walk off by itself. Before you were dating, Dean used to steal it used, clenching your panties in one fist and beating his cock with the other. He’d smell that little wet spot and moan your name against the fabric, the arousal and need in his chest just managing to outweigh the shame. Once you’re together, you start just passing them into his hands without a word. The day you let him eat you out through your panties, then keep them after? One of the best of his life.

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)

Dean’s the first to call himself a whore, as if it doesn’t bother him in the slightest. And it didn’t used to. Sex was for fun, to feel good, to forget about the pain and—for once in his damn life—do something useful for someone else. But after you, it’s different. The experience was just practice, just building up to this. To knowing exactly what women like, exactly what makes them feel good, and using his mastery to turn you into a pretty little puddle beneath him. He’s a champion, and you’re quickly the only game he wants to play.

F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)

There isn’t really a position Dean doesn’t like—he can make anything feel good, and he takes pride in it—but his favorite position soars above the rest of the already high standard. When he’s got you in his lap, brows pressed together, mouth slack and easy to kiss, it’s close to heaven. Your boobs bounce and push against his chest, your ass wiggles in his massive palms, and your cunt hugs his cock just right at the angle. You can ride him until you get whiny, and he can pin you down and fuck up like an animal, watching your face go slack with pleasure, your eyes glazing over and tiny moans of his name falling from swollen lips. You cling to him, and he holds on back, keeping you just as close as you’ll allow.

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)

Dean lets you set the tone, every time. He’s just happy to be there, and he can make anything work. If you need to be treated like lace, he’s serious and gentle, murmuring low praise and worshiping every inch of your body. If you fall into bed after a date or climb on top of him in the middle of a movie, he’ll tease and joke until you’re whining and glaring at him under lidded, glossy eyes. His shit eating grin won’t fall until you’re screaming his name, and it turns smug and proud. He knows you love it, when it’s easy. He loves it too.

H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

He tries to stay groomed, but life on the road makes it hard. Even when he gets to settle in the bunker for a week or two, shaving isn’t very high on the list of priorities. He does his face because a beard is hard to maintain, and basic maintenance around his cock to keep it clean, but not much else. The look of the tool doesn’t matter much. He knows how to use it right either way.

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)

When it was just hookups, he sometimes wouldn’t even bother to learn the right name to moan. It wasn’t about being vulnerable or romantic, it was about being a fleeting, passing ship that lent another some warmth. A shadow of intimacy, to stead over the gap in his chest from sinking too deep. But then he had you, and even when you’re play fighting before sex or giggling while he fingers you stupid, there’s a thin layer of adoration under every single kiss and touch. It’s rawer and sharper in the dead of night, when he cradles you in his lap and presses his face against your neck, or folds himself over your body and drives in with slow, torturous thrusts. He’ll never say it allowed, but that’s how he loves you. With a real good show and undying attention, whether the sex is rough or slow or quick in the bathroom, it’s all just to be close to you.

J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)

Sam used to joke about him taking long showers, but he had no idea. Dean tries to ignore his cock when it gets demanding—when you’d bend over in a skirt or brush past him in the hall—but he started feeling like a teenager with no damn control, and he’d storm into the bathroom to care of himself, quickly and brutally. It gets better after you start dating, but sometimes you have to be apart. Then old habits return, and he finds himself kicking Sammy out of the motel room just so he can pull out a picture of you and jerk himself off.

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)

There are more of them than he cares to count, but three stand out above the rest. There the only three that can still make Dean, of all men, blush. 

Cockwarming until the sun comes up. Holding you around him until you’re dripping and wiggling and whining his name, until he’s so hard it hurts and ends up just rutting into you like a dog. It’s not the filthiness of the act that gets him, but the intimacy of it. You’re so close he can’t tell where he stops and you end, and it makes him so dizzy he almost loses control. He’d trade a life to keep you like that all the time. Soft and completely, totally his.

The first time you call him sir, he almost feels something in him shift. He’d always said he didn’t get that kind of shit—sex was supposed to be give and take, not just a girl doing everything for him—but then he had you below him, babbling the word by sheer accident, and his cock twitched like it had been jumpstarted. He liked it. He liked it too much. He’d follow you like a dog to the end of the earth, but right here, when he was making you feel good, he was the one in charge. He had a handle over the situation, you trusted him to be in charge of you like this, and that tiny whimper of sir made him lose his goddamn mind.

And the breeding kink he tries to hide. He’s not trying to baby trap you, or reduce you to just a body for him to knock up, but the idea of it makes his mouth water. Fucking you so good a little bit of him sticks. Forcing his cum into you until you’re stuffed up, your eyes rolling back in your head from the pleasure. Making you round and glowing with his baby, letting the whole world know just how well he treated you. You notice it, because you always do, and son of a bitch, you encourage him. You let him press his hand flat on your stomach so he can feel his cum spurting into your heat, you cling to his shoulders and moan when he asks if you like it, and he can’t help it. He wants you good and bred. He wants you to be his.

L = Location (favorite places to do the do)

He wouldn’t call himself an exhibitionist, but there aren’t many places he won’t do it. As long as it’s not a crime and you’re comfortable, the bathroom in a police station is as good to go as the kitchen in the bunker. However, there’s nothing he loves more than his bed. A good mattress, the sheets sticking to your skin, the smell of you all around him, it’s almost enough to get him hard all on it’s own.

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

The list is so long, he stopped trying to understand it a long time ago. There are the simple things—your mouth around a banana, the curve of your ass, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw, when you get mouthy and bratty and he wants to drag you over his knee or pin your to the wall—but then there’s… other stuff. The time you shoved him and spat in his face after a fight, and he was seconds from splaying you out on the table, squeezing your jaw with one hand and fingering you with the other, all while rutting against your leg like an animal, kissing away the drool when dribbled down your chin. The other time you drove baby for five seconds, and he made you pull over so he could eat you out in the backseat. He’s starting to think it might just be you. He doesn’t really care, either way.

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

When he was younger, Dean would try anything once. The benefit of that is that now he knows what he really doesn’t love. He doesn’t get piss stuff or age play, but he doesn’t count himself one to judge. The one time he let a girl tie him up, he ripped his hands out of the bonds and had a knot in the top of his chest for a week after. Life is hard enough as it is, and as fun as a lot of that kind of stuff looks, there can be too many deep, serrated scars in him for it to feel good.

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

While he’ll never say no to getting some head, the only sight better than you on your knees with his cock in your mouth is you flat on your back, grabbing at anything you can reach as he tongue fucks you into oblivion. He thinks he could live and die between your legs, your pussy gushing on his face and his name falling from your lips. And he’s good at it. He knows he’s good at it. He’ll shoot you a wink before he kisses his way down your body, because he knows you’re never even try to resist him. Once he convinced you to sit on his face, and he’d never known anything closer to heaven.

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

He can read and match the tone well,  depending on what you want. When he’s rough, he bullies his cock into your like a drill, making the bed creak and tears spring into your eyes from the almost overwhelming pleasure of being fucked over and over and over like some sweet little doll. When he’s slow, he’s slow, taking his time to make your feel every thrust, every kiss, every brush of his fingers over your clit. But even when he’s slow, he drives into you with the force of a man falling into a black hole. He can’t help himself. The way your gummy walls squeeze him just feels too good, to not make them clench and flutter around him.

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

If you’d let him, Dean would just fill the whole day with quickies. Wake up and fuck you between the sheets, get breakfast then have a second meal between your thighs, interview a few vics and cradle your head while he drive, pulling off to the side when you suck his cock a little too well, and his vision starts to go blurry. Sometimes he’ll spend a whole day teasing you, just to try and get you to start it. It’s a great victory, if you drag him into a supply closet to bang one out. It’s all he’s ever wanted in the world.

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)

Anything once really did teach him to know what he liked, so at this point it’s more indulging any risks you’d want to take. He knows his lines, and he’s more than willing to help you find yours. If you shyly ask him to tie you up or wrap a hand around your throat or fist you, he’d have to be a madman to tell you no.

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

Even at his age, Dean counts himself impressive. He might not be pulling the day long marathons he did in his twenties, but he can go the whole night if he keeps the focus on your pleasure, which he finds easy to do. If you make him cum in your mouth or hands, he’ll dedicate as long as he needs to teaching you a few lessons and opening you up, before he’s hard and ready to go again. Once he’s in you, though, he’s no chump. He can hold himself off for over an hour on the best of nights. Sure, there were the few cases when you were just too soft and pretty and he couldn’t stop himself, but you found it hot anyway. The loss of control, just from looking at you, you’d never felt more beautiful. And it wasn’t like he didn’t make it worth your time.

T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

He’s tried a few toys on himself, but they’re all complicated, and he lives with his damn brother. Knowing each other’s porn habits is bad enough, the idea of sex toys getting exposed makes him feel a little sex. He’s got a perfectly good hand, and a hot girlfriend, and that’s all he’s never going to need. If you want him to pull out that vibrator you keep in your nightstand, though, he’s never going to protest. Watching you come apart—your thighs rolling against the head of the toy and your mouth hanging open—is always too good an opportunity to pass up. The toy might be the one giving you the pleasure, but Dean’s the one holding it. He’s the person you’re crying for when you cum, and he usually gets to fuck your already swollen pussy after. Doesn’t get much better than that.

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

Some might call him a monster. And the some is you. You didn’t know how much you could get worked up, until Dean came around and showed you. Through the day he’ll make you flush with little comments, then trace his fingers over your inner thigh in the car, making you flush and pant before he just kisses your cheek and walks away. And you thought that was bad, until he actually got his hands on you, and you learned how much the asshole loves edging. Getting you so wet and flustered your almost sobbing for him, whispering dirty praise until your face is burning, somehow keeping you on the edge with teasing touches, even as his cock drives right into that gummy spot inside of you. He says you’re too adorable not to tease. You roll your eyes, but never ask him to stop. It’s always, just a little, too good.

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

The mouth on him should be worthy of a lawsuit. Between the moaning and grunting, the strangled, rumbling sound he makes when he pushes himself inside of you, and the deep, filthy dirty talk, you think you might just be able to cum from his voice. It’s not fair, but Dean doesn’t play fair, and you don’t want him to. One day, when you’re brave, you’ll ask him to test the theory. He’ll oblige, and you’ll certainly end up right.

W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)

Dean’s never in it for himself. If his partner wants him to hand over control, he’ll do it, but it’s never going to be what he prefers. He spends every day of his life begging for the people he loves to listen to him, for once in their damn lives. He’s got a grip over his own world, even if his hands shake on the worst of nights. It’s not liberating for him to be degraded in sex when all he’s known is bruises and spit from the people who were supposed to love him. He wants to be trusted more than he’s ever going to be able to say, to be the only person you turn to for pleasure, to take his hands and mouth and body and have them feel safe for just one, one fucking person. He might be in control during sex, but it’s still all about you, and that’s exactly how he likes it.

X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

He doesn’t get his confidence from nowhere. For a while—before you—it was sort of the only kind of confidence he had. Dean didn’t count himself for much, but no one could deny their own eyes. The size of him is one thing—long enough to hit spots you didn’t know you had, veiny and uncut and almost pretty—but the girth- It makes your mouth fall open, the first time you see it. You’re not sure you can stretch that wide, and when Dean tells you that you will, sweetheart, you almost roll your eyes. But, damn him, he’s right. You mold around that thick, big cock like a glove, and feel him in every inch of your body.

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

If anything, he only gets worse with age. In his younger days, fucking was something he could work himself up to almost any day of the week, even if he wasn’t sure he wanted to an hour ago. A pretty girl and a good drink, the engine could get itself going. Then you came along and made him feel things, and then he let you get close and start making him eat well and drink water and go for stupid walks, and suddenly there isn’t a second that’s enough. If life didn’t get in the way, he’d never let you leave the bed.

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

He’ll push through the exhaustion for some proper aftercare, but the moment he’s sure you’re good, Dean’s out like a stone. He doesn’t sleep well under any other circumstance, but you work him hard, then let him use you like a human body pillow, and he finds the closest thing he knows to peace, right there, with you in his arms.

✦Dean Masterlist - Main Masterlist - read on AO3!✦

✦Author's Note: i think about him. all the time <3✦

The lights are off in the bakery, Dean's not surprised- he was supposed to be here hours ago- he figured you'd be back in the apartment by now. He glances up to the second floor- he's right, there's light flooding through the gaps in the blinds. He smiles, moving out of the Chevy and grabbing his duffle.

He buzzes for you to let him in- it only takes a second for the door to click open. By the time he's up the stairs you're already opening your door. You're grinning from ear to ear, legs bare, the rest of your body covered in an old band t-shirt. You light up when you see him, eyes sparkling, grin growing even wider.

"Dean!" You can't help yourself, stepping up to him to pull him into a hug.

He drops the bag, one hands finding your hip instantly, the other snaking up to your cheek. He presses his lips against yours, both of you smiling against each other. He holds you for a moment, letting himself settle against you, before pulling back with a hesitant chuckle.

"Sorry I'm late-"

"Almost sent out the search party!" You laugh, shuffling back to welcome him into the room.

"Sorry- there was this pile up and I-"

You wave him off, "You want something to drink?"

Dean smiles, thankful that he never has to explain himself with you, "What've you got?"

You move towards the kitchen, "Beer, wine- think I've got some of that whisky you left last time-" you open a cupboard and pull out a small box "-or I could do something hot?"

"What's that?"

You read the box out "Berry and cinnamon tea-" then look at him, "-tastes like a slice of pie."

You'd know, he trusts that more than anything. "Yeah- I'll do that."

You turn back to the kitchen. Dean takes the opportunity to slip away- you'll know where he's gone. He always needs to freshen up when he first gets to yours, god knows how many hours he's been driving.

He washes his face- trying to get the drowsy feeling out of his eyes. He spends too long thinking about your soap as it runs down his arms and into the sink- he's thought about stealing it before, but he can't imagine it'd smell like you in a grimy motel three states away. Part of the allure is that it comes with the apartment, that it reminds him he's somewhere safe.

By the time he comes to he's got wet patches on his jeans from the splattering water. He lets out a slow sigh, frustrated that he can't just look swarve in front of you for once- the universe always seems to find a way to make him look like a chump. He shuffles out of the bathroom awkwardly, hoping the air will dry them and you won't notice.

Of course you do- it only takes one glance towards him for your mouth to grow into a smile, holding back a laugh.

"Don't say anything-" he speaks, firm, trying to hide his own amusement.

You hold your hands up, "I wasn't going to!"

"Don't think anything then." He dusts his hands over the wet patches, like that'll help, "Your sink's clearly broken."

"Oh yeah? That's the problem, is it?" You laugh.

"Well obviously that's why you're not wearing any pants." He looks down at your legs, bare and beautiful, just tempting him to forget all about the tea.

You nod, pretending he's made a good point.

He looks back up, your tee slung over your body, confused "That's mine-"

You glance down at your clothes, "I was really hoping my other fuck buddy would turn up so I could make him jealous, guess you'll have to do."

For a moment his face falls, that feeling that you've got a whole other life when he's not there.

You raise an eyebrow, "I'm teasing..."

"I know, I know-" he says, defensively. He's pretty sure he knows. But he still can't get the feeling off his chest.

"...I'm not expecting him until tomorrow." You push the joke.

Dean rolls his eyes, "Oh? Need him to finish the job after I leave?"

"Nah- my hands can take care of that." You smirk.

Dean shakes his head, holding back a laugh.

There's a small pause, your expression falters slightly. You chew at your lip before speaking again, "The hunt go okay?"

Dean nods, "Yeah, yeah it was easy enough."

"I mean it- you alright?" You're trying to get a gauge on how the night will play out for you. It'd be easier if you didn't need to speak in code, if you could just ask 'what kind of sex do you want?', but Dean's never been easy.

"I got hit pretty hard, think I might have fucked up my skull some, but Sam's fine, and no one else got hurt once we turned up."

Hit pretty hard - I wanna go slow.

Fucked up my skull - Don't judge me when I can't last that long.

Sam's fine - I'm gonna be nice to you.

No one else got hurt - I'm gonna be real nice to you.

You smile, that's good enough. You grab the mugs off the side, walking back over to him as you guide him towards your couch. He's comfortable enough sinking against it as you hand him his mug, settling next to him, your legs thrown over his lap. You don't make a comment about the wet patches, despite how much you want to.

He ghosts his hand over your shin, gently, feeling you relax into him, "Been uh-" he coughs slightly, "-been thinking about you a lot."

"Oh?" You question, goading with your tone.

"That thing you do-" he looks towards you, eyes locked, "-that noise you make..."

You turn away, a small giggle, "There's no noise!"

"Come on-" he joins your laugh, "-you know the one."

"There is no noise!"

He sets his mug down- you glance at it. You almost want to talk more- you like talking to Dean. He's kind. Kinder than he realizes. But you know what it means- other than the fact you'll get a tea stained ring on your coffee table- he's ready to move to the reason he's here.

You set your mug down next to his.

He pulls you into him as he shifts his body, lying back against the couch, his hand finding your cheek again. He grins up at you as you relax against him, legs tangling into each other, "There's a little noise-"

He doesn't let you reply, leaning forward to press his lips against yours gently. You melt into him, body sinking against his. His lips feel soft against yours, careful- almost hesitant- as his free hand glides over your body. He pulls at your t-shirt slightly, pushing it up your body until his hand snakes around your hip, the pads of his fingers running against your skin, keeping you close, breathing you in slowly.

He starts to move messier, mouth opening to pull your lip in between his teeth, tongue pushed against you. His fingers press against your hip, not cruel, but solid enough that it feels possessive.

Dean might be sweet, soft to the touch and slow when he wants to be- but he'll always remind you that you're his. Maybe not forever, maybe not even tomorrow, but right now- with your bodies tangled together and your lips locked- right now you're on his time.

He shifts, freeing your hip for a moment as he moves his hands to your thighs, dragging them up until you're straddling his waist. You can feel how hard he is through his jeans, pressed right against your panties. He grinds up against you, pushing a small breath out of you at the sudden contact, his hand moving back to grip you tight.

He bites down harder on your lip, still pushing his hips up to meet you. Your own hands stumble over him, one running along his jaw, the other feeling his arm shift next to you. He drags his hand up higher, under your t-shirt, up your ribs, over your back, nails digging against your skin.

He allows himself to break away for a moment, "Bedroom?"

You laugh as you kiss him again, speaking against his lips, "Yeah-"

He moves, snaking his hands around your thighs- taking the opportunity to squeeze your ass before he shifts his body, spinning back into sitting. For a moment he gets caught like that, still kissing you, fumbling around to find your lips. Then he remembers what he's supposed to be doing- lifting you as he stands.

You're pretty sure he only does it to prove he still can- but Dean always enjoys carrying you to the bedroom. It makes him feel like he's whisking you away, like he's doing taking you somewhere special- despite the fact it's your apartment and your bedroom and your bed.

Whatever the reason- he keeps hold of you tight as you move through the space, clearly trying to remember exactly how to get to the bedroom while focusing on just how sweet your lips feel.

He gets you past the threshold, still groping at your body as your hands thread through his hair. His mouth starts wandering, dragging his lips across your cheek, your jaw, clumsy as he buries his face into your neck, spreading kisses across your skin.

He finds your bed off memory alone, careful that his legs are touching the mattress before he drops you onto it.

There's a pause- only a second- but it feels like longer as you stare up at him. Both of you are stuck smiling at each other, giddy on each others excitement that you're together. Dean feels his heart pumping so hard it's like his whole body is pounding. He plays it down- maybe he shouldn't have carried you, he's getting too old to do teenage shit like that.

Then you move, quick, pulling your t-shirt- his t-shirt- off your body and throwing it over to the side of the bed.

His eyes gloss over you, that giddy feeling going straight to his pants, "Fuck-" he mutters, "-you're goddamn beautiful-"

He makes quick work of his own shirt, starting to unbutton it before he gives up and drags it over his body. Once he pulls it over his head he watches your eyes mirror his, glancing down his body as you suck your lip between your teeth. He tugs at his belt as he moves towards the bed, taking a moment to undo it before he forgets about it completely, too focused on getting you in his hands again.

He crawls onto the mattress, pulling you into him until you're lying back with his body above yours. He runs his fingers over you, light, feeling the way you shift below him. One hand moves along from your waist, up your body towards your chest.

He's gentle with it, touch soft as his lips press back against your neck. He runs his thumb across your nipple, his other hand finding your thigh as he slots his body between your legs. Your own hands wander over his body, feeling the muscles on his arms- etched with scars- dragging down his back to pull him closer.

His mouth moves lower, breath ghosting across your skin as he trails down, past your neck, pressing light kisses across your collarbone, down towards your chest. You relax against the mattress as he focuses on your breasts, one hand kneeding you gently, his tongue working down to wrap around your nipple.

You let a shameless moan escape your lips as your back arches up to meet him. He smiles against you, offering you a small glance as he watches the way you react to him. His teeth graze you as he sucks you into his mouth, tongue still circling, fingers still playing with you.

He moves between both of your tits, tongue working over you, planting light kisses across your chest. You allow small moans out as he teases your nipples, his free hand moving down your body, wrapping around your ribs to keep you close. His fingers splay out across your skin, needy for you. You reach down, threading your fingers through his hair- he smiles up at you in reward.

You push him lower- you both know what this is. This isn't you begging for more, this is you finally giving him permission to take what he's wanted since the start. He looks up at you, wetting his lips with a look of glee like he can't imagine anything better.

He traces your body with his lips, light over your skin as he finally breaks away from your chest and moves down. He kisses down your sternum, your ribs, your stomach- tongue darting out to taste you. You keep your fingers knotted in his hair, keeping him steady as you react to every touch.

He reaches your underwear, tongue dragged along the waistband as your hips lift into him. He runs his fingertip along it, teasing himself more than he's teasing you as he feels the fabric. You take a steady breath as he bites his lip hard, eyes dark, starting to pull them down, gaze stuck on your body.

He drags them down your legs slow, shifting his body so he can pull them all the way, eyes shimmering over you, watching you like he's high on the sight. You kick them off your ankles, letting them fall to the side of the bed as he kneels between your legs.

"Jesus-" He sucks in a sharp breath, hand going to his groin- he fumbles around with the fly of his pants, freeing his boxer clad bulge. He strokes himself slightly through the fabric, staring down at you.

You tilt your head, "Been a while since you've seen a naked woman?"

He laughs, shaking his head, "Be quiet and let me admire you, huh?"

You spread your legs for him, a grin on your face as you watch his smooth expression falter again. He reaches out, lifting your ankle and pressing his lips to it. He kisses along your shin, your knee, up the inside of your thigh as he pulls your legs over his shoulders, sinking down against the mattress.

He buries he face between your legs, tongue dragged through your folds. You moan out, fingers back in his hair, pulling him closer. He wraps his arms around your thighs, fingers digging into your skin.

His mouth presses against you, tasting you, tongue pushed into you, moving up to circle your clit. It's messy- he doesn't care, clearly too focused on making you feel good as his he laps at your pussy.

"You taste like sugar-" he speaks against you, breathless, "so fuckin' sweet-"

His broad tongue works over you slowly, pressed against your clit with lazy circles. You're soaking over his chin now, your body shifting under him as you grind against his face. He moves lower, pushing his tongue into you again, looking up at you as your back arches off the mattress.

His hand splays out across your stomach, pushing you back against the bed as he feels your abdomen tensing. He moves back to your clit, keeping himself steady as he builds up a careful rhythm, tongue darting over you. His hand goes higher, teasing your nipple between his fingers carefully.

One of your hands stays in his hair, tugging at him, as the other grabs the pillow below your head, gripping it tight as you twist on the mattress.

"Right there- oh god right there-" You moan out, your heels digging into his back, desperate for him to stay close.

You feel him grin against you, cheeks glowing at your words, attention focused on your pleasure. His fingers curl into your thighs, a pointed tongue as he speeds up.

"Dean- fuck- don't stop- please-"

He loves that he can get you like this- practically begging for him. He'd never admit it, you'd never let him, but there's something about the way you act during sex that sends his brain spinning. Like you need him, like he matters to you. He could come off that feeling alone, that feeling that you're his, that he's yours.

"-please-"

You come- back arching off the bed, hand tugging at Dean's hair harder than you mean. Dean groans against you, feeling your thighs twitch and pussy clenching, it's like he's in heaven. He pushes you through it, keeping his focus on your clit, his fast pace unrelenting as you moan out into the room.

When you start to relax against the mattress he slows slightly, tongue moving more carefully, gentle not to push you too far as you twist below him, your breathing heavy- chest rising and falling quickly.

He breaks away, small kisses along your inner thigh, staring up at your hazed body, "You're fucking stunning-"

You don't make any note of his words, still coming down from the high of your orgasm. Instead you thread your fingers through his hair slowly, twisting knots into it, steadying yourself with the feeling of him below you.

For a moment he stays like that, just feeling you playing with his hair, then he pulls back, looking down at you, jaw tight.

You spread out across the mattress, head falling to one side, a dazed expression still spread across your face, "Jesus Dean- you get better at that every time-"

He chuckles as he stands, tugging his pants down his legs, "Well- thanks for letting me practice-"

You roll your eyes but offer a small hidden smile, eyes washing over him before you settle on staring at the bulge in his boxers. He grabs his cock through the fabric, teasing you with the size, enjoying the way your eyes seem to widen slightly.

Maybe that's his favorite thing about you- that you're always impressed by him. By his tongue, his fingers, his cock. Maybe he's not reliable, he's usually late and his texts aren't frequent, but you'll always allow him back when he treats you like this.

He pulls at his boxers, dropping them to the floor and kicking them off to join your clothes in a pile. His cock stands hard, precum already glistening at the tip.

You bite your lip, giving him a small smile. He grins back at you as he moves towards the bed again- you pull yourself up slightly on the mattress, opening your legs up to allow him to find his place between them. He moves back above you, kissing lightly up your body until your hips are aligned, his face close to yours. He keeps himself raised, hands on either side of you, your thighs pushed around his waist.

His forehead falls against yours, both of you staring at each other, eyes sparkling, a softness between you. He presses his cock against your entrance and you give him a small absentminded nod. He pushes himself into you slowly, grinding into you with a steady stretch.

You let out a soft gasp, pushed from your throat.

Dean grins down at you, "There's that noise-"

"Shut up-" you laugh, moving to kiss his jaw.

He shifts, catching your lips with his own- it's a slow kiss as he starts to roll his hips, filling you carefully. He breaks away, speaking against your lips, "It's a goddamn great noise-"

You laugh into his mouth, your hands moving up to his shoulders, feeling the way he shifts under your touch. One hand drags down, feeling the muscles on his back tense up on every slow thrust.

He scatters kisses across your face, lips on your cheeks and nose, across to your ear as he nips at the lobe. He speaks quietly, breath caught, "I missed this-"

He pushes deep, your body arching for him, legs wrapping around his waist. He keeps himself steady, despite how clearly he wants to speed up, making sure you feel every inch of him filling you. He builds a careful rhythm, keeping himself inside you just long enough that you feel used to it before he pulls out again, long strokes, trying not to rush.

"You look-" Your words are cut off as he pushes in again, lifting your body off the mattress slightly, winding any thought out of you.

He kisses your temple, speaking against your skin, "Yeah?"

You smile, catching your breath as you speak quietly, "Look so pretty, Dean."

He kisses you again, voice soft, "Says you-" he speeds up, only slightly, "-prettiest sight I'll ever see-"

You feel another orgasm rising, your body begging for it, "More, baby- need more-"

He catches your lips, then pulls back, "You sure?"

You nod, expression more desperate than you mean it to be.

He does what you ask, speeding up as he pushes in harder, the tight thrusts pushing your body into the mattress. He buries his face into your neck, one hand keeping himself up as the other finds your hip, holding you tight. You keep your hands feeling his back shifting, the way the muscles behind his shoulders seem to shudder as his body moves.

He drags his teeth across your neck before biting down, only slightly, sucking a dark hickey against your skin. He knows you were only teasing- maybe he's just playing into it- but he wants to prove you're his to any man that sees you, prove he's got you tonight. If some imaginary fuck buddy turns up tomorrow, it'll be Dean's mark on your neck.

"I'm close- fuck I'm so close-" You gasp, keeping your hands on his body.

He smiles, thankful to hear those words- he doesn't want to confess how desperate he is, holding back his own orgasm for longer than he'd like to admit, "Yeah, baby?"

You nod, unable to get any words out.

"Gonna make you feel so good-" he speaks against you, "-fuck honey, let me feel you-"

Your second orgasm hits you in a wave, pleasure flowing through you as you grip Dean's body tighter. Your hips rut into him, your back arching, digging your nails into his skin.

He comes deep inside you, his movements slowing as he tries to push through it. His hips keep stuttering, a deep groan stuck in his throat, his forehead slick with sweat.

After a moment he pulls out, rewarded with a needy whine from you. He grins as he kisses your cheek, sinking down on the mattress next to you. He pulls the sheet up to his waist as his hand finds your thigh, fingers curling against your skin, tracing over it lightly, feeling you under him.

His breathing slows as he relaxes into the bed, eyes closed. You turn your body, leaning against his shoulder, your own fingers tracing over his chest. You drag the sheet higher up your own body, covering yourself slightly as you both take a moment to breathe.

Minutes tick by as Dean's breathing falls deeper, a dazed smile spread across his face.

"You falling asleep?" You laugh, looking up at him.

He makes no attempt to open his eyes, just gives a half hearted shake of his head.

It takes him a moment, then he speaks up, eyes still shut, that smile still on his face, "We forgot about the tea-"

"It's not very good." You admit, trying not to laugh.

His eyes crease open as he looks down at you, "You said it tastes like pie-"

"It sort of does- pie soaked in hot water-"

He shakes his head, "Don't lie about pie."

"You want a real slice?"

That perks him up, he shifts his body, sitting slightly higher on the bed, "You been holding out on me?"

You laugh, "There's leftovers in the fridge, blueberry."

He grins, "I'll get it in a minute, when I can feel my legs again-"

You laugh, leaning your cheek on his chest, feeling his heart still pounding, "Felt good, Dean. Felt real good."

His hand finds your nape, thumb rubbing against your skin, "Always feels good with you."

🥧🥧🥧🥧🥧🥧🥧🥧🥧🥧🥧🥧🥧🥧🥧🥧🥧🥧🥧🥧

Asked to tag: @lunarwisteria @isaspn @feminineintuitionsposts @teamackles96 @aylacavebear @megara0224 @mystic-mara @xxgarciaxx @angrydragon90 @bellathebookdevouer @bitchinwallaby @maximummischief-theangerwithin @wh01e10tta10ve @iloveneilperry @just--doing-my-best @herogasm70 @ticklish-leafy-plant @mrs-cactus69 @thesundontshineontheseeyebrows @ackleskisser-mp4 @butterfly-lover @winterstar67

It was a low bar. You just had to not egg him on like Butcher, or try to give him a free, unlicensed therapy session like Hughie. You just sat there, and glowered while he grinned, and everyone said you had Soldier Boy on a leash.  

“What’s wrong with you,” you hiss during the meeting, and Ben shoots you a sideways glare.

He still doesn’t say anything. When you poke his arm, he recoils, flinching as if he’d been shot.

That’s what makes you freeze.

Ben doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t wince, and he doesn’t whine or bitch or moan. You’ve seen a rocket launcher slam into his chest, and he’d roared like an animal before throwing the thing back at the shooter. You’ve poked and slapped him almost every day for the past year. He’s only ever looked down at you with raised brows and a smirk, like you were a misbehaving bunny trying to eat his socks.

But this time, his eyes are black, and his brow is knit. There’s a tension in his jaw that makes your breath hitch, and his nostrils flare. The table whines under his grip. You’re rooted to your chair, unable to rip your gaze away. He grunts your name, low and rough, and you’re suddenly all too aware of it. The space between your bodies. Your knees aren’t pressed together under the table. His fingers aren’t grazing your arm every few moments, like they have every single day since Butcher tossed you into his den and told you to keep the old man from blowin’ something up.

There’s a heat radiating from his body that makes your head spin. It’s not the radiation or the bomb. His eyes aren’t empty and there’s no glow coming from his chest.

Ben runs warm. You’re more aware of it than he’s ever going to get to know. Ben’s always made of the kind of heat that pools between your thighs and makes your heart skip, even when you’re shoving his chest and flipping him off.

But this.

This feels like a fever.

Soldier Boy isn’t supposed to be able to get a fucking fever.

You open your mouth to ask what’s wrong again. Ben looks away, and leans back in his chair. His body is angled away from yours. Your feet bump, and he jerks away with a low, almost feral sound. You swallow, a bile rising from the back of your throat. He’s never passed up a chance to touch you.  

Through the entire debrief, there wasn’t one word. He grunted in response to questions.  Not an insult or crude joke, not a brag or boast about how much they’d needed him, not even an attempt to get into your pants. He’d sat, stiff and silent, then left the moment Butcher waved for everyone to fuck off.

You watch him go, your hands clasped under the table, worrying at the cuffs of your sleeves. You’re not worried about him. You don’t get worried about him. He’s an old ass with a pretty face, who spends more time trying to make you spread your legs than listening to plans for missions. But there’s an uneasy feeling in the pit of your stomach, and it feels like a ship, rocking back and forth in a storm.

“Butcher?” You call, still watching the door Ben vanished through.

Butcher turns back to the table with a groan, glaring at you in your chair. “Fuckin’- I was about to go get Waffle House, love, so if you’ll excuse me-“

“What happened?”

“What-“ Butcher cuts himself off, running a hand down his face. “You mean on that mission Ijust fuckin’ debriefed-“

“No, I mean with Soldier Boy-“

“Ah, your sweet lil Ben-“

“No- I mean- He’s not-“ You shake your head. “Butcher, I’m fucking serious, he’s being- He was quiet.”

Butcher shrugs. “So? Far as I can see, he’s learnin’ how to be a good boy.”

“But he’s not,” you say flatly. “He’s not a good boy, and- You fucking know that.”

“Maybe. But I don’t go ‘round lookin’ for holes in good things, Love-“

“Oh, fuck off, that’s all you do-“

“Well, I’m a changed man.” Butcher gives you a lazy grin. “You got anything else for me? Gonna whine about grandpa actin’ too polite?”

You narrow your eye, holding Butcher’s stare. His tone is indifferent. His posture is bored. “You know I’m right about this,” you say, cold and quiet. “Don’t try and- And fucking dance around this. Ben’s acting weird, and-“

“Ben,” Butcher coos, and you snap your mouth shut. “Ain’t that sweet-“

“Butcher, I swear to fucking God-“

“What? You’re gonna tattle on me to your Ben-“

You shoot to your feet. “I am worried about the safety of our team, you dipshit-“

“Then go talk to your sweet Benny Boo, and maybe he’ll let you tickle his balls for an answer-“

The door slams open, and you and Butcher both freeze.

You’ve never found Ben as scary as you maybe should. He’s all muscle and talk and bite, but the teeth don’t seem sharp when they’ve only ever been bared for you. He tells you he’s a breathing fucking weapon, so you should watch your mouth. You ask him why you should bother, when he’s watching it for you. He laughs in that way that only you ever get to hear, and tosses his arm around you on the couch. Not a danger. A mountain of a man, that you know better than to try and topple with nothing more than moral hands.  

A mountain that you’re used to bowing down to your height. That usually looks at everyone else like he’s measuring the minimum amount of effort he can use to crush their skull, right before offering you a hand to climb. When you take it, his lips twitch. When you tell him you don’t need help, he stares at you like he’s still learning how to look.

You know what the team says about you. What they think about the peace you’ve found with Ben, and the way it lingers around him whenever you’re near. But that’s really all it is. An understanding. Something close to friendship that you’re not brave enough to name. You think about him in the dark. He tries to fuck you, and you turn him down because you know.

It would be easier to fall for him that it should be. Whatever things are broken inside of you, he’s made of a kind of gold that pours into the cracks and makes them shine. But it’s fool’s gold. It would crack under pressure, leaving you more hollow than before. He’s not the kind of man that would want to build something. You only want to build something. And so he gets nothing, and you remain empty in a way that still lets your heart beat.

And you never fear Ben.

Not until he’s looming in the doorway, glaring between you and Butcher with a white-knuckle grip on the door and a glint in his eyes.

Butcher takes a small step back. You can’t move. Ben makes a low, rumbling sound from his chest, and the air suddenly feels hot and wet. No one dares to move.

“Ben,” you breathe, and his gaze snaps to yours. “Wha- Are you okay-“

He vanishes. You feel the floor rumble, as he stomps away, leaving you and Butcher frozen in the room. You turn slowly, glaring at Butcher. He throws you a winning grin, and slips out the door before you can ask if that seemed normal. Your fingers curl on the table.

Something’s going on, and you’re going to figure out what the fuck it is.

In the days after the meeting, Ben seems to almost get better. He speaks again. He walks around and jokes and smokes on the couch like everything is normal. Butcher acts like nothing happened, but you catch MM and Hughie giving him cautious looks. Annie and Kimiko are hanging around you more, and Ben seems angrier about it than usual.

“I think we need a new dryer,” you mutter one morning, sighing when Hughie gives you a curious look. “It’s eating my underwear.”

“Eating your- What?”

“My underwear. Like- How washers eat socks.” You frown at your cereal, poking it with your spoon. “It’s all going missing, I think it’s the dryer-“

“The fuck is wrong with the dryer,” Ben grunts, dropping next to you at the table.

“She thinks it’s eating her underwear,” Hughie mumbles, watching you nervously. “Are you sure you’re not just like- Dropping it in the hall or something?”

“Yes, I- I’ve even gone back and checked, it’s all just- It’s getting eaten, I swear-“

“Well- Um-“ Hughie glances at Ben. “Has your underwear been eaten?”

“Fuck no,” Ben grunts, and you sigh.

“He doesn’t believe in the dryer.”

Hughie blinks. “What- What do you mean, doesn’t believe in it?”

“Too many fucking buttons,” Ben grumbles. “Never trust a fucking robot to do what you can do with your goddamn hands. I wash my shit in the sink.”

“Mhm,” you smile at your coffee. “And then I wash it with the machine.”

Ben glares at you. You smile in return, and his mouth twitches. You expect a smart little comment about whatever gets you touching his boxers. Instead his eyes dart to your cereal, then your mouth.

“What-“

“You’re not eating.”

You blink. “I- I was talking to Hughie-“

“Why.”

“Because- My underwear- And-“ You swallow. The room is getting hot again. Ben’s glare is almost like a laser, driving into your body. “Ben, I’m going to eat-“

He grunts, and pushes the food closer to your body. He doesn’t look satisfied until you’ve cleared the bowl. You glance at Hughie, who seems just as lost as you do.

“Um- The dryer-“

“I’ll look at it,” Ben stands up, his own coffee and bacon completely ignored. You and Hughie exchange another look.

“Ben,” you say gently. “You- You can’t even turn it on-“

“It’s just fucking buttons, I’ll figure it out-“

“But- Ben-“

He’s already walking away. You chase after him, and barely manage to stop him from ripping up the whole laundry room. You’re not sure if this is part of it. You’re not really sure of anything right now, except odd looks behind your back, and your increasingly declining supply of underwear.

You keep an eye on him, closer than you have to. You don’t want him exploding, or going feral, or getting sick. If he gets sick, you’re the one who’s going to have to deal with it.

If he gets sick, you’re going to have to watch him get pale and small, and the thought makes your gut turn into a tight, strangling fist that reaches your throat. You spend the night curled up, staring at the ceiling. You walk to Ben’s room and linger outside the door, then shake yourself and go back to your room. You’re not some foolish, doting nurse. You’re his friend, and he’s a grown man who can take care of himself.

“Are you feeling okay?” You ask him in the morning, because you can’t help it.

Ben laughs, rich and deep. “Feel like a million fucking dollars, doll.”

“Hm,” peer at him on the couch. He’s relaxed. The color on his face is back to normal, and his thigh is pressed against yours easily. Ben catches your gaze, and smirks.

“You got something you wanna say to me?”

“No,” you say quickly, and Ben laughs.

“You gonna take my fucking temperature? Ask about my sleep and my fucking smoking habits?”

Your nose twitches. “No, I’m just- You had a fever yesterday-“

Ben cuts you off with a grunt. “I don’t get fucking fevers.”

“You were sweating, Benjamin-“

“Room was hot,” he grumbles. “Don’t lose your damn head about it.”

You scowl, moving up to your knees. “I’m not- You were acting weird,” you hiss. “You weren’t talking, and you- You didn’t touch me once-“

You cut yourself off, face flooding with heat, and Ben’s smile becomes wolfish.

“Oh,” he drawls, turning in his seat. “You missed me touchin’ you?”

“I- That’s not what I said-“

“Isn’t it?” He leans forward, fingers brushing near the top of your thigh. “You want my touch, sweetheart, all you have to do is say please.”

You narrow your eyes, tipping your chin up like it can defend you. “Fuck you.”

“Don’t you want to,” he teases, and your jaw drops.

“I- You’re fucking- I hate you.”

He laughs. His fingers trace the hem of your shorts. “No, you don’t.”

“Yes, I do.”

“You’re a shit fuckin’ liar-“

“You’re a shit fucking liar.” You spit, hoping he buys the false venom in your voice. “You were sick, Benjamin.”

Ben shrugs. “And you’re givin’ me the sex look.”

Goddamn him. Every, massive, cocky inch of him, and how you can’t seem to figure out how to stop him from affecting you. “I- I am not- There’s no- No-“ You look around the room, leaning forward to hiss low enough no one will hear. “There’s no fucking sex look.”

Ben hums, looking you up and down with that dragging gaze. The one that makes your body hum in excitement, that feels like more pressure than any other man’s hands.

“Stop doing that,” you snap, and he laughs.

“You’re real mouthy this morning, aren’t you.”

You scowl, sinking back into the cushions. “I’m hungry.”

Ben goes rigid. His hand fists on his knee, and his eyes lock on yours with that gleam again. You blink, leaning slightly back. Ben’s mouth presses in a thin line, and a low grumble rolls from his chest.

“Wha- What-“

He stands up, and marches away. You don’t move, too confused to remember how. Things hadn’t been back to normal, but they’d been a stilted version of it. Then he’s gone again, leaving you with too many fucking questions and an empty couch.

You’re seconds away from following him, when he stomps back into the room with a scowl.

“Ben, what’s- Shit-“

He tosses an apple straight into your lap. You fumble with it for a second, trying to figure out if a secret code or something, then look up at him with an openly confused expression.

“I- Um-“

“Eat that,” he grunts.

You blink. “What?”

“You said you’re fucking hungry, didn’t you?” He snaps, jerking his head to the apple. “Eat.”

You stare at each other for a long moment. The apple feels heavier than diamond in your hand, but Ben’s gaze is a burning, impossible pressure. It presses down against your core and makes your thighs ache. His eyes have gone almost wholly black. He’s back to that predatory stillness. You look at the apple, then him, and slowly raise it to your mouth.

Ben watches you take a large bite, and hums in satisfaction. You chew, and his eyes gleam. A little juice dribbles down your chin, and your tongue swipes out to catch it on instinct.

He moves back. You sit up, the apple tight in your fist, and Ben stumbles backwards like you’d punched him.

“Ben, what the fuck-“

He marches away again. You’re alone again, this time with an apple instead of Butcher.

At least the apple is less judgmental, while still offering the exact same amount of answers. You stare at it for twenty minutes, before you move. Ben doesn’t come out of his room for hours, and when he does, he won’t even look at you.

And that heat. The air-waving, mouth-watering heat is back, rolling off of him like an approaching storm. No one else seems to notice it. You’d think you were going insane, if you didn’t still have that apple, tight in your fist.

“You didn’t finish it,” Ben grunts from behind you, and you yelp in surprise.

“Jesus fucking- Ben-“

You whirl around, and cut yourself off. He’s right behind you. His legs are pressed to yours, his arms braced at his side, the weight of him almost locking you against the counter. Your hold on the apple goes slack, and it thuds to the floor. Ben’s glare deepens. His brow is beaded with sweat again.

“Hi,” you breathe, and he grunts.

“You were supposed to eat the fucking apple.”

“I- I had eggs,” you say, and Ben’s jaw locks.

He takes a long breath through his nose, leaning further down. This is the kind of thing that should make you want to run. It doesn’t.

“Who the fuck made you eggs,” Ben growls, and you blink.

“Me? I- I mean- I made me eggs- And- Um-“ You scan over his red face, his black eyes, and God, all that heat is so intoxicating you might be getting dizzy. “Be- Ben?”

He grunts your name. His arms brace on either side of your body. You might be about to melt.

“Can I please check your temperature?” You whisper. “I’m getting really worried. About-“ You take a deep breath, closing your eyes and forcing the words out. “About you.”

Ben doesn’t answer. You don’t dare to look. There’s something hard and thick, poking into your upper thigh. You grab Ben’s forearm for balance, and a low, dangerous sound rumbles from his chest.

Then, suddenly, the weight of him is gone. And when you open you’re eyes, it’s almost like he was never there at all.

Hughie coughs from the dining table, and you blink at him. You hadn’t even realized he was there.

“What- What the hell was that?”

You shake your head, staring blankly ahead at the wall. “I- I don’t-“ You cut yourself off, then look back to Hughie. “You were on the mission.”

Hughie swallows. “I- Um-“

“Hughie-“

“What mission?” He says, moving to his feet. “I mean- We go on so many, it’s easy to lose track-“

You block his path out of the kitchen, and he swallows.

“Please don’t-“

“Sit,” you point back to his chair, and he obeys.

“I- I really- I think Annie’s calling me-“

“Talk,” you hiss, and Hughie swallows. “Now.”

Ben got hit with a chemical. Hughie doesn’t know what—none of them do—but you’ve got a theory.

It’s a fragile thing. The way he’s acting, how you could possibly deal with it. You walk into the kitchen in the morning and find that he’s made you eggs. The plate gets shoved towards you with a grunt. Ben doesn’t stop staring until you’ve eaten every last bite, and then he stomps away without another word. You do your laundry and catch him staring at your clothing with twitching hands. You shower that night and open the door to find him standing in the hall, his whole body tense and his mouth hanging open.

“Ben,” you say gently, and he takes another one of those stumbling steps back.

You sigh, as he vanishes down the hallway. He hasn’t had a normal conversation with you in three days. The last time you bothered to try, he’d pinned you down on the couch and stared until you whispered his name, and he ran again.

He spends most days locked in his room. He comes out to make sure you’ve eaten or follow you to the grocery store, pressing behind you in the milk aisle and glaring at anyone who comes too close.

“Do you want anything?” You ask him softly before you go to checkout, and he just stares at you. Some days he’s not even talking anymore. Last night Annie tried to walk past you both on the couch, and he snarled like a dog.

He leans down until his nose is pressed to your hairline. His lips drag over your brow, and you stare up at him, trying not to let your heart burst out of your chest. He inhales deeply, and a low rumble rolls through his chest. His hand finds your waist, massaging and kneading at the skin.

Your gaze drops down, and there it is again. The outline of his cock, tenting in his jeans. You bite the inside of your mouth. Your knees wobble, and your hand flies to Ben’s shoulder. He’s burning up, skin searing even through his shirt.

He yanks back again, eyes black and chest heaving. You sigh, and turn back to the grocery cart. You’re too used to it now. It makes you worry more.

You try to get a straight answer out of Butcher that night. It’s somehow more useless than last time.

“I know Hughie blabbed, ain’t no reason in tryin’ to talk to me-“

“You know what’s wrong with him,” you hiss, and Butcher shrugs.

“Maybe. Gonna make any fuckin’ difference to what you’re doin’?”

“Yes, that’s why I’m fucking asking-“

“Oh, like you ain’t figured it out yourself.”

You glare at him. He smirks back, challenge lining every inch of his expression.

“You gonna go put your money where your mouth is, doll?” Butcher mocks. “Or just keep whinin’ around about it?”

And you don’t have an answer. Because he’s right. You figured it out when Ben snarled at MM for offering you a cup of coffee, a boner pressing through his sweats that everyone pretended to ignore. It would take a true idiot, to not be able to figure it out.

“When did you know,” you mumble, leaning back against the counter. Butcher shrugs, watching you carefully.

“Moment it hit the fucker.”

“Where you there-“

“I was the only cunt in the room.” Butcher shudders. “He started moanin’ and gettin’ hard, it was the most disgustin’ thing I’d ever seen.”

You sigh, giving him an unimpressed look, and Butcher smirks.

“He was cryin’ for you, love. Almost had to put him back under to stop him just sprintin’ back to the house to take you. Like a fuckin’ dog.”

You blink. Your heart does a little flip that you refuse to acknowledge. “He hasn’t touched me-“

“Don’t know why,” Butcher mutters. “I thought I was gonna follow him inside and find him- Well, you know.” He winks, and you narrow your eyes.

“But he hasn’t. Which-“ You swallow, looking up to the ceiling and biting your tongue.

It’s fine. It’s fine if it’s not you he wants to do this with. Probably for the better. It helps you cling to that last shred of dignity. The sliver of an illusion, that you don’t think about him more than you think about yourself,.

“Do we think this- Can it hurt him?” Your voice is smaller than you want it to be. Butcher just shrugs.

“Ain’t gonna kill him. Probably hurts.” His lip curls. “Permanent fuckin’ blue balls. Hell don’t go deep enough.”

You sigh. “Well, what if we hire him like- a hooker-“

“Tried that,” Butcher dismisses. “Almost got punched through a damn wall.”

Your mouth opens, then closes. “What? That’s- Ben wouldn’t turn down a hooker-“

“He did,” Butcher gives you a pointed look. “And it ain’t a hooker he’s makin’ eggs for, genius.”

You blink at him. “No, that’s- That isn’t part of it-“

“You willin’ to bet his life on that?”

And you aren’t. You’re not willing to bet anything. Because it hasn’t just been boners and staring. Ben’s been feeding you, following you like all illusion of not being your personal guard doesn’t matter anymore, refusing to let you do anything that might get you hurt.

“But- If it’s just a sex chemical,” you say slowly, and he cuts you off with a raised hand.

“I ain’t holdin’ your hand through this,” he says. “You talk to him yourself, and-“ He looks you up and down, a smirk pulling at his lips. “Bring protection. We don’t need soldier tots runnin’ around the house now, do we.”

“Butcher-“

“Not just a sex chemical,” he shrugs. “And you know it.”

You do. You wish you didn’t but you do.

A sex chemical would be easier. You could climb into bed with Ben, get railed into oblivion, then collect your heart off the floor and move on. But this is more. This is possessive and targeted and that means something. Something you don’t want to know. Something you have to know.

Butcher leaves you in the kitchen to collect yourself. You close your eyes, and try to control your breath, but it’s useless against your pounding heart. He turned down hookers. He moaned your name.

If this means nothing, you’re going to fucking kill him.

If it means something, you’re ready to deal with it. You don’t think you really have any other choice.

“Ben?” You knock on the door once, forcing your voice to steady. “Ben, can you please- We need to talk.”

He doesn’t answer. You weren’t expecting him to. The knock was more of a polite courtesy, then a question. You steel yourself, holding the doorknob with shaking fingers, and push into his room.

You barely make it a step inside, before all the will is knocked out of your body. It’s as if you walked into a wet dream. One of the private, dirtiest ones that make you wake up with the sheets bunched between your legs, that make reality feel like a slap to the face.

The room reeks of sex. Salty and heady, sweat and something rich that just smells like Ben. The sheets have been ripped and tangled on the floor, the pillows tossed off the unimportant corners of the room with piles of boxer and shirt and panties.

Your panties.

Ben sits, silent and dark-eyed on the bed, completely naked. One hand is fisting on of your panties, the other is wrapped tight around his thick, red cock. It’s veiny and so big it makes you sore just to look at. It throbs in his grip, and your cunt pulses in return. White pre-cum leaking from under his thumb, and his balls sit heavy between his thighs.

Your tongue darts out over your lips, and you force your gaze to drag up. Ben’s staring at you with a vein in his brow and that same burning intensity. The heat lingers in the air, humid and electric. Sweat falls from his neck, over his broad, flushed chest. His thighs are locked, his lips parted and eyes narrowed. 

You glance back to the panties in his hand and swallow. You suppose, at the very least, you were right.

“I lost those,” you breathe, and Ben grunts.

“I’ll give ‘em back later.”

You blink, then glance at the pile in the corner of the room. Ben doesn’t look away from you for a second, and a low chuckle rumbles from his chest. It sends a thrill up your spine, and you have to lean back against the door to stay upright.

“You here just to collect your panties, doll?”

You shake your head, looking back to him hopelessly. You’d had a whole speech, about how he needed you to fix this, how you knew it must hurt, how if he asks nicely, you’ll let him take what he wants. It’s misting into thin air, with every thin, fraying thread that had been holding your dignity. Ben doesn’t make it easy. His gaze rakes over your body, a strange, blurred line between worship and hunger etched over his handsome features.

You don’t know how you’re supposed to pretend like this. With all of him at your fingertips, only a few steps away. You’d prepared yourself to be a toy, but you’re a lamb to slaughter. An offering to a god who won’t take anything else, who holds your sanity like a delicate bird in his rough hands. He could destroy you, and you’re going to thank him. He could recreate you, and you’d never know a better blessing.

Ben leans back, something iron lining his words. “You should go.”

You shake your head, and his jaw ticks.

“Go.”

There’s a low, deep command in the word. You almost obey.

“Those are mine,” you breathe, nodding to the panties, and Ben sighs.

“Fuckin’ Christ- Go-“

“Why are they mine?”

The question is soft. You know he hears it, because he goes quiet again. You stare at each other for another long moment, and you take the smallest step forward. A low groan pulls from Ben’s throat. Your knees almost buckle.

“Don’t,” he gives you a look like it’s a command, but there’s something thinner under the word. Something soft.

“I- I know about the chemical,” you whisper, and Ben’s throat bobs. “You could’ve asked-“

“Ask what? For you to suck my cock? Like some limp-dick pussy who can’t handle his booze?”

Your lips twitch. “Your dick isn’t limp.”

Ben gapes at you. His cock jumps in his hand, and you take another step.

“You’re- Fucking unbelievable,” he grunts, and you laugh. “This shit ain’t funny, doll-“

“It’s a little funny,” you murmur, stopping right above him.

No part of you is touching. Every inch feels gravitational. He has to be the one to crash first.

“You turned down hookers for me,” you whisper, and Ben scowls.

“It doesn’t want hookers.”

You glance at his cock, then his tight face. “What does it want?”

He glares. You don’t back down. You never have before, and you’re not about to start now.

“Don’t be a fuckin’ tease-“

“Don’t be a dick,” you lean down. Ben’s legs part to make room for you. It’s an effort, not to just touch him. “What does it want, Ben.”

What do you want.

He hears the invisible question. His jaw works, and his eyes drop to your lips.

“I’ll fuckin’ break you,” he rasps, and you smile.

“No,” you say. “You like me too much.”

Ben’s gaze rips back up. You raise your brows, daring him to do it. To say it. To put you both out of your misery.

A low growl rips through his chest. “Go. Now.”

You don’t move, and watch as the last line of Ben’s control snaps.

He grabs you by the waist and drags you fully into his lap. You gasp as his lips smash against yours, the kiss rough and demanding. There’s so part of you that isn’t consumed by it, that doesn’t mold into his touch. Your legs spread so you can straddle his lap, and Ben grabs your ass with a grunt, forcing you up so his cock is pressed against your clothed cunt. You moan against his lips, and he presses his tongue into your mouth.

“Be- Ben-“ Your nails scrape at his shoulders, and he squeezes your ass with a grunt. “Fuck- Ben-“

“Already whining,” he mutters, dragging his free hand up to rest on the back of your neck. “Barely fuckin’ touched you are you’re already sayin’ my name like I fucked you.”

Your face burns, and Ben weaves his hand through your hair, gathering it in on fist and pushing it down to deepen the kiss. You almost don’t know what to do with yourself. His touch is hot and possessive, sending shivers through your whole body. His cock rubs against your underwear with every shift, and the pressure makes your legs spread wider. You start to grind down to chase the friction, and Ben moans, deep and low.

“That’s it,” he grunts, massaging your ass with shockingly gentle hands. “That’s a good girl. Show me what you’ve got, doll, prove that you’re gonna take this cock for me.”

You try to drag him closer, but he’s immovable. When you push, his hand moves from your ass to your lower back, pushing down so you can feel every inch of his dick, rubbing between your thighs. You make a strangled noise, and Ben chuckles. It’s an even rougher sound than before. His mouth has started to wander over your cheeks and jaw, pressing open, sloppy, kisses everywhere he can reach.

It’s almost like you’re being seduced into the same, sex-focused daze that’s taken a hold of him. The kisses light undying fires over your skin, spreading and spreading until you think you’ll die if he moves away. Ben’s started to lose focus himself, pawing at your ass like an animal and growling against your skin.

“Bennn,” you moan as his fingers graze on your inner thigh, turning your face to bury in his neck. “Mmmm- Ben- M- More-“

He growls again, and his hips slam up. It knocks the air from your lungs, and he’s not even inside you. Your arms wrap around his neck, trying to hold on as he starts to rut against your core, broken, desperate sounds falling from his lips.

You manage to lean back to look at him, and he’s thoroughly wrecked. He grabs your jaw, still rutting, and you try to smile. His nostrils flare and he kisses you again, the fervor only seeming to build as he chases his own orgasm. You hum against his lips, trying to make yourself pliant and soft, easy for him to use.

“Smell good,” he rasps against your skin, beard tickling against your neck. “Always smell so- So fuckin’ good-“

He cuts himself off with another groan, his cock twitching between your thighs. He shoves you further down, rocking his hips back and forth as he keeps trying to get there against your body.

“Gonna wreck you,” he mutters, mouthing at a pulse point. “Fuck you ‘till you can’t walk, fuck you stupid, fuck you mine.”

You moan happily, dragging your hands down his bare, thick back. The muscles ripple under your touch, and Ben moans like that touch is almost enough to set him off. You kiss over his cheekbone and beard, along his jaw, and slowly guide his mouth back to yours. He lets you lead this kiss, mindlessly focused on trying to fuck himself against your body. He’s panting so hard you’d be worried about anyone else. 

He groans against your lips, clawing at your clothing with blunt nails. “Off- Get- Fuck- Get this shit off-“

He whines like a dog when you push on his chest, and you expect him not to let you up, but his grip loosens. You smile down at him, moving back to your feet, and he stares at you with a slack jaw.

“Get back here,” he growls, one hand still splayed on the back of your thigh. “Now.”

“I’m helping you,” you tease, slowly pulling down your shorts. “Say please.”

Ben’s eyes flash, and his jaw locks. You know he won’t beg. You don’t really want him to. This—the undivided, adoring attention, the way he’s staring at you like you’re the only thing he could ever possibly want in the world, when he’s spent a century of life indulging in sweet things and easier desires—is more than enough.

You sink to your knees, and he lets you. That hand on your thigh drags up to fist back in your hair, and he goes back to that predatory stillness as you rub his thighs with light hands.

“I ain’t beggin’,” he grunts, and you hum, letting your fingers brush against the base of his cock.

Ben’s hips jerk up, a moan ripping from his chest. You giggle, guiding his hand away, and he glares at you under hooded eyes.

“Something fuckin’ funny?”

“Mmm,” you shrug, wrapping your hand around his cock, and god, he’s even bigger than he looks. “I’m just… Learning.”

“Learning,” Ben echoes, the awe pushed through gritted teeth. “Jesus fuckin’- Christ-“

You lick a long, slow stripe up the length of Ben’s cock, and he tosses his head back like he’s praying.

“Holy- Fuckin’ hell-“ He tugs at your hair without actually trying to move it, biceps bulging as he tries not to overtake your mouth. “You’re- warm-“

You giggle again, pumping your fist as you kiss the tip. Ben makes a low, sinful sound, his free hand fisting at the sheets. You’ve never seen him in such control of himself. A living god that could skullfuck you until you sobbed, trying to let you lead your way. You think it’s something in the way he’s holding you like you’re made of lace instead of silicone. It makes an unbearable ache return to your core.

You take Ben in your mouth until he bumps against the back of your throat, and he groans your name so loud it must echo through the city. You work what you can’t fit in your mouth, sucking on his cock like it’s candy.

“Fuckin’- You can suck some fuckin’ cock, doll-“ He chokes out, hips bucking when you squeeze him near the base. “Best mouth I’ve ever felt- Son of a-“

His words turn to moans, and you look up at him under your lashes. He’s leaning back with a glazed eyes and veins pushing at his neck. His shoulders are tense, his abdomen flexing, and you can’t control your own hips as they start to chase relief against the air. Ben catches the movement, watching it as if he’s under a spell. His cock is heavy and pulsing in his mouth, and it just makes your cunt ache more, imagining the weight of him buried inside of you.

“Jesus, you’re a needy thing,” he mutters, his thumb dragging over the soft skin behind your ear. “You fuckin’ like this? Like choking on some proper dick?”

You whine, eyes rolling back as he presses back against your throat. You press your shoulder forward, forcing your tits further up for him to see. Ben jaw clenches, and you feel him try to not move. His pre-cum is getting thicker, and who knows how long he’d been going before you.

“Ben,” you pull off for a split second, dropping your hand to massage his balls as you kiss over the head of his dick. “Please.”

You drop back down, and he understands in a second. He uses you like a toy, pulling your head up before slamming it back down. You make your jaw slack, moaning around him with every single thrust. Your eyes roll back in your head, and the need builds and builds between your thighs.

You drag you’re hips forward shamelessly, grabbing Ben’s leg and angling your clit to rub against whatever it can reach. Ben groans at the sight, and the sound just floods between your legs.

“Shit, I can feel how fuckin’ wet you are,” he growls, and you whimper, watching him under glossy lashes. “Shit- Lookin’ at me like that, gonna make me-“

You moan eagerly, and Ben’s control snaps again.

It’s fun to see the edges of it. How the pit of his restraint is far deeper than you would’ve imagined a week ago. He tries to drag you off his cock as he cums, but you push yourself back down. It comes in thick, sticky ropes, shooting down your throat until you’re gagging and almost unable to breathe. You try to swallow, but there’s so much it falls out of your mouth like drool, dripping down your cheeks and onto your breasts.

“Jesus, thought you were gonna drown in it,” Ben pulls your dazed head off, grinning down at you. “Look at you, baby. Little fuckin’ trooper.”

You blink at him, still trying to lick the remains off your lips. You glance down to his cock, and it’s still hard. How the fuck is it still hard.

“Hasn’t been goin’ down since that shit hit me,” Ben mutters, dragging his thumb over your lower lip. “Needs it’s pussy.”

“It’s pussy?” You breathe out, and Ben sighs.

“Your pussy,” he mutters. “Needs you, smartass.”

“It needs me?”

You give him your best innocent look. He glares at you, and you just tilt your head, smiling like you’re made of honey. You sort of feel like you are. You’ve never been this gooey, just from sucking a guy off. You’ve never even liked sucking someone off.

But this is Ben. Rough everywhere, but made of tiny divets that go soft when pressed. The kind of man you can crawl into and never have a harsh hand find your body again.

He swallows, his thumb lingering on your lips. You kiss the pad of it, then the knuckle, before slowly wrapping your lips around him and sucking. Ben’s cock twitches, somehow getting harder. You don’t think you’re ever going to walk again.

Worth it.

“I need you,” he rasps, pulling his thumb away. “Feet. Now.”

He taps your nose, and you scramble up. You’ll fight him tooth and dirt when he’s fighting back. When he’s not, you can’t think of a single reason to deny him a thing.

Ben grabs the back of your thigh again, watching you with an expectant glint in his eyes. You swallow and pull your shorts down, trying not to fall over when he stares at your core like you’re showing him a treasure. His fingers dig into soft skin, and his free hand wraps around his cock, pumping slowly as you continue to strip in front of him.

You peel off your shirt, and Ben’s tongue darts over his lips. His grip on your thigh tightens, and he slowly coaxes you forward. You rest your hands on his shoulders, shoving down the bubbling, electric nerves in your chest.

“Ben,” you whisper, and he hums, dragging a massive, rough hand up your side. “E- Easy-“

“Oh, doll,” he coos, pressing a soft kiss to the side of your breast. “This is easy.”

Your legs wobble, your confidence quickly waning. The doubts start to pool like rainwater in a gutter, as Ben takes in your naked body. Maybe you weren’t the dream doll he had in his head. Maybe you pushed it too far with the teasing. Maybe he doesn’t really want you in the same, volcanic kind of way you want him.

He drags two fingers along your inner thigh, teasing the sensitive skin as he mouths at your breast. You close your eyes, trying to just breathe, and Ben chuckles.

“And you wanted me to say please,” he drawls. “Look at you, all fuckin’ sweet for me. You gonna beg for me again, baby? Or that mouth only good for sucking my cock?”

You whimper, a gush of heat flooding between your thighs.

“Yeah, you like me talking,” Ben mutters, kissing over your sensitive nipple. “Like knowing you’ve got the only fuckin’ pussy in the world that makes me act like an idiot. Pretty girl, pretty fuckin’ tits,” he  sucks a dark spot on your breast, his thumb slowly dragging between the lips of your cunt. “Pretty fuckin’ pussy, wet like a whore in the summer for me.”

Ben thumbs at your slit, wrapping his lips around your nipple and sucking hard. His thumb drags up in the exact same moment, finding your clit and rubbing tight, unrelenting circles. You vision blurs and you stumble forwards, wrapping your arms tight around his head.

“Be- Fuck- Bennnn-“

He hums around your nipple, grazing his teeth over the perked bud. His mouth is warm and wet, his tongue flicking back and forth until you’re in a sex-addled frenzy. You press your face into his hair, gasping his name as he drags his thumb back and forth across your clit.

He wraps a massive arm around your body, fingers splaying over your back and cradling you close to his body.

“Feel that fuckin’ mess,” he drawls, kissing over your breasts. “No one else gets you this wet, do they?”

You shake your head, and Ben leans back with  narrowed eyes. He slaps your pussy with a harsh little tap, and a broken cry escapes your lips.

“Do they,” he growls, and you shake your head.

“No- No-“ You try to lean down, desperate to just kiss him, to get as close as he’ll allow. “Just you, Ben, just you-“

He smirks, slaps your cunt again, and goes back to making out with your nipples. You moan, slumping over his body as the tension becomes almost painful. You don’t know what he’s getting out of this until you feel his hips rocking beneath you. His cock rubs against his stomach and your thigh, already smeared with pre-cum again. You gasp and Ben moans around your nipple, the sensation vibrating through your whole body. 

“Oh- Oh my god-“ You squirm, the pressure getting unbearable. “I- I’m- Oh my god-“

You’re babbling, but you’re not sure what else there is to do. You cunt his clenching around nothing, the thick scent of Ben clouding your head as he works you like a toy. Ben nips at your nipple and pushes his thumb down hard. Your knees buckle, almost making you fall back to your knees on the carpet.

Ben’s arm around your back tightens, and he rolls you both over, tossing you back onto the mattress without even a grunt. You almost cry out at the sudden cold, the lack of Ben all around you. It only lasts a second before he grabs your ankle and drags you forward.

You’re lain on the bed, staring at Ben with an open expression. His jaw clenches and he rubs your thighs, slowly pushing your knees up to your chest. Your cunt is on full, open display to him, and your breath catches as he drags his thumb between the swollen lips of your pussy.

“Look at that,” he almost purrs. “Mine.”

You whimper when he flicks your clit again, but it quickly falls into a moan as he leans down and presses an open mouth kiss to your pussy. Your eyes roll back in your head, your hips arching to meet his chapped, full lips. Ben groans against your cunt, his grip on your legs tightening.

You’ve had men eat you out before. You’ve had them be good at it, and horrible.

Ben does it like it’s a job, and he’s never hated work a day in his life. You were already on such a thin wire that the first press of his tongue against your clit makes you snap, a cry falling from your lips and your hands flying wildly to catch a hold of something. Ben grabs them and pins them against your stomach, forcing you down into the mattress as his mouth keeps working against your cunt.

He’s open with it, moaning and sucking and pushing his tongue into your fluttering cunt as he rocks his face back and forth, dragging your orgasm out until you’re almost floating. The heat hasn’t stopped building. Every time you think you’re going to come down, Ben kisses your clit, and darts his tongue back and forth like he’s trying to get a high score of most orgasms in an hour.

Maybe two hours. You can hear the bed creaking in a steady rhythm, as Ben’s fucks down into the mattress, but then he drags another orgasm out of you, and the only thing in the world is Ben’s mouth against your cunt. The sounds he makes, the way he’s watching you under hooded, smug eyes, the way his massive back forces your legs further apart whenever you try to close them and exposes you to him further.

You writhe when your third orgasm hits, shoving at his head with weak hands.

Ben draws back, pinning your legs down to the bed and fixing you with a stern glare.

“Stay still,” he grunts, and you swallow.

“Too- Too much-“

“You want cock?” He snaps, and you nod frantically. “Only good girls get cock, baby. You bein’ a good girl when you whine?”

Your lip wobbles. Your face burns. Ben raises his brows, daring you to be a brat, and any other day you would. You’d stick your tongue out and mock him, you’d test his buttons, you’d see just what you could say, to get bent over his lap or tossed around the bed.

But there are tears streaming down your cheeks, and you’ve never been so totally aware of how empty you are. You really think the chemicals might be contagious. You really don’t fucking care.

“No,” you whisper, shame burning at your cheek and between your thighs. “I’m not.”

Ben hums, spits on your clit, and starts to rub it with a fast thumb. “You gonna be a good girl?”

You nod, and Ben smirks.

“Yeah. I know.”

He dives back down, and stars burst behind your eyes as another orgasm overtakes your body. You’re trembling and gasping for air, pulling at his hair and only earning another moan that makes your back arch. Ben laps at you through the orgasm, hips still slamming against the bed.

Then, one second, his beard his grazing over your inner thigh and his lips are pressed against the over sensitive, pulsing bundle of nerves. The next you’re face down with a thick arm around your stomach, dragging you back against Ben’s chest like a ragdoll. 

“Need to get in that pussy,” he growls, dragging his cock between the lips of your cunt. “Give you this cock real good, show you who the fuck you belong to, right now.”

Ben bites and sucks on your neck, the head of his dick bumping against your clit, but he still doesn’t push inside. Your nails dig into your forearm, the wet sound of him sliding against you filling the room, and you almost don’t know what the fuck he’s waiting for.

“Please,” you breathe out, dropping your head against his shoulder and giving him your best, sweetest eyes. “Please, Ben- Fuck me.”

Another one of those feral sounds rips from Ben’s chest, and his hand drags down to press two thick fingers against your clit as he slowly pushes himself inside. The breath is knocked from your lungs at the first inch, a broken sound escaping your lips.

Ben’s free arm wraps around your neck, the bulging bicep forcing your head back further so he can kiss over your open, drooling mouth.

“That’s it,” he coos, rubbing your clit back and forth as he presses deep into your cunt. “That’s a good little slut, takin’ just what I give you, come on-“

You whimper, and Ben deepens the kiss, pressing his tongue down your throat as he pushes another inch. You clench down around him and he groans, kissing you brutally as he bullies the last few inches inside of you.

He’s so big it makes sparks dance on the edge of your vision. You’ve never been this full, every single nerve in your body all too aware of the delicious split of Ben’s cock. Between the head lock and his mouth against yours, the tears can’t stop streaming down your face. Ben growls your name, kissing a stray one near your lips, his tone a warning you can barely hear.

“Christ- You’re fuckin’ tight- Gotta- Relax-“

You can’t. You’re overstimulated and so needy you can’t think, can’t move, can’t do anything but feel the smeared arousal between your thighs, the drag of Ben’s cock against your g-spot, the muscle and heat of his body wrapped all around you.

You clench down again, and the very last bit of Ben’s resolve snaps.

He cums inside of you suddenly, moaning down your throat as he ruts up in short, rough thrusts. The cum spills into your until you’re warm and stuffed, then runs down your ass and over your thighs. It’s so wet you think he’d slip right out of you, if it wasn’t for the headlock. You’re so full you don’t even remember how to breathe, until Ben squeezes just under your breast and groans your name.

“Don’t go out on me, doll, c’mon-“ He groans and kisses you again, his hand dropping back down to spread against your tummy. “Fuck- You feel so fuckin’ good- Better than coke, baby, Christ-“

You make another broken sound, your voice hoarse and small from the arm around your throat.

Then Ben starts to fuck you, and you think you might ascend.

He rolls his hips in long, deep thrusts, dragging in and out of your cunt like a machine. The sound of your cum mixing—sliding between your bodies with every single shift—is obscene. You’re being used like the most tended to, adored fuckdoll in the world. Ben cradles you like he thinks you’ll break, and fucking you like he’s trying to take you apart.

You feel him everywhere, with every single slam of his cock against your g-spot. Your vision swims, the tears falling freely, and Ben kisses every single one away with another, brutal thrust.

“Fuckin’ crying for me, babydoll?” He nips at your lower lip, and you whine a sound like his name. “Pretty girl can’t fuckin’ take it after begging? So sensitive you need to fuckin’ whine?”

You turn your cheek, giving him your best, pleading doe eyes. You can’t tell if his gaze sharpens or focuses. His thrusts become deeper, and his thumb finds your swollen, pulsing clit again. You sob, and he kisses the sound away with a hum.

“Bein’ such a good fuckin’ slut,” he mutters, pinching your clit and rolling it between his fingers. “Takin’ this cock like a pro, baby, like you were fucking made for me.

You babble his name again, and Ben smirks. This kiss is slower. Almost loving, and in a stark contrast with how he’s drilling into your gaping cunt.

The orgasm washes over you like a wave, and Ben moans your name as you squeeze down around him. Your vision goes white and you thrash, your body being wracked with so much pleasure you can only scream. Ben’s cock slams home against your g-spot, and rush of something wet and hot flood out of your pussy, and you think you might pass out.

At the least, you’re floating out of your body. Ben cums with rough, spat out praise, then slowly lowers you back down to the mattress. Weight shifts around. He rubs your back as you gasp for air, then slowly rolls you over and pushes your legs back open.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, the words far away, but his voice softer than you’ve ever heard it. “Didn’t know you could get this fuckin’ dumb and quiet. Should’ve been fucking you every day.”

He laughs to himself, and your hand flies up, unsure what it’s looking for.

Ben catches it, twines your fingers together, kisses your knuckles, and presses it back into the mattress.

“Need more, doll,” he rasps, and you whimper. “I’ll go easy. Not tryin’ to break my-“

He cuts himself off. You don’t have the words to push him. You don’t have the energy to do anything. Ben kisses your stomach, then lower, then lower. You gasp softly, when you feel his tongue lapping at your pussy. It’s gentler than before. Slower, almost careful. He works you open, mixing your releases together and tasting it almost for the sake of tasting it.

Your eyes cross, as the soft, tickling sensations. They’re strangely relaxing, even if they make your pussy flutter hopelessly.

“Easy,” Ben murmurs, kissing over your clit. “Nice and fuckin’ easy.”

It is. You go limp again, letting yourself get lost in the feeling of his tongue. He’s not trying to make you cum, or get you ready. God knows you could probably take a fist in there right now, with how he’s left you soaked and open. You can hear his fist working against his cock again, and find the energy to look up again.

He’s almost art, above you. Hair mussed and tangles, dominating your vision, whole face wet and eyes blown out. You squeeze his hand in yours and smile. He blinks, and his jaw sets as he understands. 

This time, he doesn’t ask if you’re sure. He must understand by now, that you might be more depraved than even he can dream up. You’d sit on his cock for the rest of your life, if he let you. And there are worse ways to be worshipped, than with everything a man—a broken, titan of a man who’s made of more than he can understand—has to give.

You let yourself lose track of it all. Ben moves you into positions you didn’t know you could make, hauling you back into his lap, flipping you over and dragging your ass in the air, sitting you on top of him and guiding your hips back and forth until you’re mewling his name and shaking around his cock. The whole room might have to be burned, when this is over. There isn’t an inch of your body he hasn’t cum on, kissed, spanked, or grabbed.

He ends up on top of you again, holding your knees back against your chest with a single arm, fucking you slow enough to drag long, loud moans from your lips every time.

“That’s my girl,” he mutters, watching his thick, swollen cock slide in and out of your cunt, smearing and spreading hours of cum between your thighs. “My pretty fuckin’ doll.”

You moan, reaching up with shaking hands to cup the back of his neck. His gaze drags back to yours, and you smile. You don’t know where the delicate, flowering thing inside of you is coming from. You think it’s always been there, and Ben’s stripped you so bare there’s nowhere to hide it, no way to make it wither. With his hands so gentle on your hips and thighs, his gaze so clouded with adoration you think that—to anyone else—he wouldn’t look like the same man, there’s nothing left to do but let this bloom.

“I love you,” you breathe out, the first words you’ve said in hours. “I love you, Ben.”

His eyes go impossibly darker. His fingers dig into you, and he crashes forward with a groan.

Ben cums one last time, and you pass out at his kisses all over your face, murmuring words you feel more than hear.

He doesn’t say it back. You didn’t think he would. Ben coddles you like a child after, wrapping you in a shirt that somehow survived the damage and carrying out back to your room. You get a warm bath and glass of water. Your stomach rumbles, and suddenly there’s food in your hand. Ben rises you both off in the shower, his breathing heavy and his face pressed into the crook of your neck.

You can feel it with every single touch. That he’s trying to find a way to tell you. That it’s carving through his chest that he doesn’t know how.

And you’ll wait. Telling him he doesn’t have to will do nothing but make him more frustrated, and you’re happy to have whatever he can offer after… this.

He figures it out faster than you thought, though. He lays in bed with you, glaring at the ceiling and rubbing your side. You watch him, your head propped on his chest, and smile. You lean up and press a kiss to his jaw, and he grunts in surprise, his gaze dropping to yours.

You smile again. His throat bobs. He opens his mouth. Closes it. Looks back to the ceiling and lets out a slow, deep breath.

“Marry me.”

You blink at him. If you had an ounce of strength left in your body, you’d sit up. “What?”

“You heard me,” he grunts, glancing back down at you. “You mean what you said?”

“Of- Of course I meant it-“

“You sure?”

“Fuck you,” you shove his chest, and his mouth twitches. “I wouldn’t have said it if I wasn’t sure, asshole. But-“ You point a stern finger. “I’m not marrying you.”

That makes him really, deeply frown. “Why not.”

“Because I’m not crazy.”

“That ain’t crazy, doll, you love something, you fucking marry it-“

“Marry it?” You snort. “What, are you gonna marry the fucking TV?”

“No, you brat, I’m marrying you.”

Your mouth falls open. Ben glowers at you, his fingers digging on your hips again, like he’s worried you’re going to run. “Me?” You whisper, and Ben grunts.

“Don’t see me fuckin’ proposing to anyone else, do you.”

You laugh weakly. “But this is- Ben, this is a bad proposal-“

“It is not bad-“

“It’s horrible-“

“You’re going to say yes,” he snaps, and you sigh, tracing over the line of his pecs.

There’s something raw under that demand. Something you don’t want to mock or poke at. That you want to nurture, to get him to show without barbing it in a defensive wire.

But you’re also not marrying him after one sex marathon.

“I want dinner,” you say, and he frowns.

“I’ll get you a fucking ring-“

“No.” You lean down until your noses bump. “Dinner.”

Ben glares at you. You glare back, rubbing his chest, and he slowly relaxes under your touch.

“Dinner,” he mutters, and you beam, pressing a quick kiss to his lips.

He grabs the back of your neck, holding you above him. “You’d say yes, though,” he rasps, and god help you, you would.

You just kiss him instead. Long and slow and deep, telling him in a language you know he prefers to speak. And you can feel it, under every single touch. How much he really, truly means it.

Five dinners, you tell yourself, but if Ben keeps holding you like this, you know. You’ll only last until he asks you again, and then—just like before—you’ll all too happily give in.

✦End note: theory answered: yes he can ✦

✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦

✦Buy me a coffee!☕️ (and get early access!)✦

Your forehead creases, "It's not too sweet is it? I was thinking of adding-"

"No- no it's perfect- you're perfect." Dean grins, blueberry still stuck to his teeth.

You kiss him, blueberries and all- and he keeps smiling at you, like you're just plain wonderful.

It's not about the pie- not really- not even that he can wake up to the smell of cinnamon, the sound of you dancing around the kitchen. It's more than that. It's how you listen to him, how you respect his opinion, how you'll let him be soft.

He's not allowed to be soft. No, not Dean- the soldier, the warrior. He's never allowed to be soft.

But you'll look at him with flour dusting your cheek, you'll let him kiss it off you, his arms wrapped around you as you feed him another bite of something new. The pie doesn't taste like pie, it tastes like so much more.

The pecan pie tastes like conversation over coffee. Like you asking him about his most recent hunts, listening intently with a squeamish smile plastered at all the details.

The cherry pie tastes like sex. The way you'll let him hold you through it, let him go as slow as he wants. Those nights when he's had weeks of hunting, and he just needs to let his body dissolve.

The apple pie... the apple pie tastes like home. Like family. Like he can see the rest of his life stretching out from this moment, like he can see himself waking up to you every morning, falling asleep with you every night.

Dean wishes these moments could last forever, but he knows they won't. That's okay. He'll leave soon, you'll go your separate ways until the next time he's in town. You'll keep baking and he'll keep hunting.

And that's okay. That's really, really, okay.

☾𖤓☾𖤓☾𖤓☾𖤓☾𖤓

Part of the tarot series - 22 unrelated short stories exploring different Dean x Reader archetypes.

Just comment/message to let me know if you'd like a tag. Asked to tag: @pieolsen @bitchinwallaby @icedteabee @angel1withacigarette @lydia-caldwell-writes @eddiemunsonistheloml @bearymuchso @magic-sprinkled-daydreams @leysol @angrydragon90 @globetrotter28 @robynn9436-blog

☀️ As always- I'd love to know your thoughts ❤️ Comments are very much appreciated ☀️

Trinity didn't even have sex with you. Just languid, sporadic kisses and exploratory hands skating over sensitive skin. Trinity ended up sleeping on her side that night, facing you, nose tickled by your hair. Your fingers pressed lazy, deliberate circles into the plush over her hipbone. It was the most wanted she'd felt in a very long time.

It's been three weeks since you showed up at the hospital, after Trinity ghosted you. Not quite a Shakespearean tragedy, but discovering Trinity was the one who reported your brother for stealing meds from the ER while you're bleeding from the head?

The look on your face was enough to send Trinity into a downward spiral of self-destruction. She can only imagine what you were thinking. How much you must have hated her in that moment.

She's not relapsed, not yet, but the urge has bubbled up like acid in her stomach more than once. More urgent matters have distracted her for now.

Huckleberry nearly setting the apartment on fire by way of a frozen pizza and a wayward oven rack.

Javadi asking her for advice on a patient through the stall door.

Garcia's brusque-yet-efficient 'you up?' texts.

The last of which is how Trinity ended up on her back, feeling like a stranger in her own bed, a thin sheen of sweat over her glassy skin.

Garcia pants beside Trinity, and the two share a breathy laugh as they recover.

The afterglow's always the best part with Yolanda, Trinity thinks. That five to ten minutes where neither of them has anyplace to be but right here, no agenda to serve because they've both already gotten what they want.

All body warmth and slick skin and a distinct lack of pressure.

Trinity isn't sure why she reaches for Garcia's hand, but she does, and of course Garcia jerks away.

"Whatcha doing?" Garcia laughs in that humorless way, arching a brow at Trinity.

"I dunno," Trinity looks away, going pinker. "Sorry."

"Don't worry about it," Garcia shrugs it off, then moves to plant her feet on the ground. She reaches for her shoes. Trinity is certain this has all to do with her silent request for affection.

That's the thing about Garcia. Nothing's a problem, until it is.

And once it is, then you'd better make sure all the furniture's nailed down. Because she's about to whip out of there with the same urgency as a tornado.

"I'll see you at work tomorrow," Garcia clears her throat as she steps into her pants. Her dark curls stick out all over the place. She adjusts the waistband, then shoves her feet into her shoes. "Have a good night, Trinity," she adds, then disappears out the door as quickly as she came in.

The top sheet falls down Trinity's chest as she rubs her hand over her face, feeling as empty and bare as she looks.

She slides on a t-shirt and jeans, then grabs her keys off the hook without so much as a glance back to her bed.

When you open the door, you're surprised to find what is decidedly not the Indian food you ordered, but one Dr. Trinity Santos.

"You're not Saffron Palace," you say dumbly, blinking at her while your arms flop to your side.

"No, but I walked up the stairs with the delivery guy," her lips stretch out, thin and uneasy, before she lifts her hand to reveal the tied plastic bag. "Saw your name on the ticket, offered to bring it to you."

You frown. "I usually tip when they get here."

"I gave him twenty bucks," her throat bobs. She shifts her weight from one foot to the other. "Could we talk, maybe, while you eat your dinner?"

It's an imposing request, one you'd deny if you didn't have so many questions for this specific person. Warily, you pluck the bag from Trinity's hand, leaving the door open behind you in place of an answer.

Trinity's eyes shift in the open doorway while she selfishly drinks you in. Sweatpants hang off your hips as you slink towards the sofa. Cropped t-shirt curling at the ends, messy braids trailing down your neck.

This is as good of an invitation as any, right?

She crosses the threshold into your teeny apartment, closing the door and locking it behind her.

You've set up shop on the sofa —more of a slightly extended loveseat, really— with your back against the arm and legs out in front of you. This leaves Trinity no other option but the ottoman on the opposite side of the coffee table. She sits, forearms braced over her thighs, lips pressed into a narrow, pink line.

It's not lost on her that she sits this same way when she's about to break bad news to a patient.

As you unearth the styrofoam box from the bag, you wear an uncertain expression, avoiding eye contact.

"How's your head?" Trinity asks, eyeing the scar on your temple. It's been three weeks since you wound up with a laceration on your forehead in the very ER where Trinity works. She can see from where it pokes out of your hair that the skin has rejoined itself.

Nothing more than a pink scar remains, then pretty soon all evidence of your visit to the hospital will disappear altogether.

Like it never happened.

You resist the urge to make a dirty joke, instead busting the spoon from its plastic wrapping. "It's fine." You leer up at her. "Is that why you're here, Trinity? I didn't realize the ER did home visits now."

"All part of a new effort to boost our patient satisfaction scores," Trinity replies, and you have to blink before you realize she's joking.

You lob a pointed hum at that, then dig your foil-wrapped garlic naan out of the bag. You set it on the small, open spot of cushion beside your leg. When you crack open the styrofoam container, the savory, rich smells of butter chicken infiltrate your nostrils and fill your mouth with saliva.

"What spice level do you get?" Trinity makes conversation like you're old friends, her hands clasped between her open legs.

The spread is balanced both impressively and precariously in your lap. You scoop your spoon under a piece of sauce-dripped chicken, using your other hand as a spillguard while you raise it to your lips.

"Five," you say, covering your mouth as you chew.

"Impressive," she muses.

You sigh between bites. "What are you doing here, Trinity?"

"I just…" she fiddles with her fingers. "I wanted to talk to you."

"Oh, you mean like we did in the ER? Where you accosted me for trying to understand why you straight-up ghosted me?"

She noticeably grimaces at this. As though she wasn't prepared to dive right into all of it.

You shovel one more bite into your mouth, then snap the container shut. You plunk it onto the coffee table.

When you allowed her inside, you were determined not to let Trinity ruin your appetite, but your confusion and anger looms to large to ignore. "How'd you even know I was home?"

"I, uh," she curves in on herself, her back in a distinct C shape. One hand shoots up to rub the back of her neck. "I went by the restaurant. They said you weren't working today."

"So you're stalking me now."

Trinity doesn't find any of that familiar teasing behind your eyes, Just a blatant statement.

She blinks.

"Well, no… not exactly," she blusters. "I think stalking is more like following you around." A hardened seriousness crosses her face. "Which I'm not doing, to be clear."

You swing your legs over, then plant your sock-covered feet on the rug. "Why don't you just say what it is you came over here to say," you suggest with a perfect curve of a frown. "So that I can eat my dinner in peace."

"Yeah," Trinity relents. "OK, well I wanted to apologize, first of all, for being so…" she waves her hand around, searching for the word.

"Emotionally constipated?" You offer without hesitation.

She frowns. "Not exactly the phrasing I would use, but—"

"But it's pretty fucking accurate, huh?" You cut in, crossing your arms over your chest. Your head cocks to the side, lips stretched in a flat line in that overly confident, all-knowing look Trinity has only ever seen once before.

The day of Pitt-Fest, at the hospital. On your brother's face. While he was bitching her out in a trauma room in front of eight other people.

This would all be so much easier if she could hate you. If she could box you in with your brother. Must be a Langdon thing, she'd croon to whoever would listen (probably only Huckleberry).

Her stomach tangles into even more knots. Maybe she should have jotted her thoughts down before coming here.

She doesn't like being out of control, and she thought —foolishly, she's now realizing— she could waltz in here and lob an apology at you rather than actually face the consequences of how she'd acted.

But you're right. She wasn't being kind, and you'd done nothing to deserve it.

"Did you just come here to ease your conscience?" You ask before she can say anything. Your eyes steel into hers. "Because if so, let me reassure you. I was fine before we spent the night together, and I'm fine now. Nothing to repent for."

Trinity's jaw tightens, her lips pursing. She's all angles again, jagged and untouchable. "I came here because I thought I owed you an explanation."

"You explained yourself perfectly at the hospital, remember?" You bite back. "Something about how I take up too much space, just like my brother? And how you expected me to hate you the second I found out about you reporting him?"

Trinity recoils at the reminder. Clasping her hands behind her neck, she hangs her head. There's silence for a long time, maybe a full minute, before she speaks again.

"What do you know about your brother's dismissal from the hospital?" She asks, braving to meet your eye once again.

"I know he was asked to leave the day of PittFest," you say, crossing one leg over the other. You sit all pretzeled now, various attempts to protect yourself with your own limbs. "I know he was swiping benzos off his patients. And, if my deductive reasoning is up to par, you're the one who called him out on it."

She absorbs this with a slow nod. It's more information than she expected you to have. She only spent one shift with the guy, but Frank Langdon struck her as the type of guy who wouldn't self-enforce accountability, especially not when it's an immediate threat to his precious ego.

But if knowing you has taught Trinity anything, it's that people can be surprising.

A long silence hangs between the two of you. It's taut and polarizing, but Trinity only notices it when she realizes she's waiting for you to reprimand her for reporting your brother.

You don't.

"That's all true," Trinity picks at the fabric of her jeans. "I don't regret reporting him, either," she adds in a stubborn grumble.

"I didn't ask you to apologize for it," you look like a restless toddler as you shift around, the plane of your stomach peeking out from your shirt. Frustration leaks out of your voice like air from a tire. "I'm not going to buy you a fruit basket or anything, but you did the right thing. My brother's getting the help he needs for a problem nobody knew he had."

The words are blunt, prompted by frustration, and yet they hit something in Trinity, reverberating through her like a gong.

You did the right thing.

She's been ostracized at the hospital for weeks, everyone whispering when they think she's out of earshot. But she hears them, calling her a snitch. Ambitious. Steamroller. She's kept the details to herself because it's none of her business, but god, has it been hard.

If she could just explain to everyone that Langdon was stealing, then they'd understand why she blabbed on him. She's gone through it a million times in the past two months.

She was labeled a pariah the second she started asking questions, so she's not sure what good spilling the beans would do.

Someone saying she did the right thing, and Langdon's sister, no less, patches a wound she didn't realize was bleeding. Relief floods her, the feeling so overwhelming that she has to screw her eyes shut.

When they open, you notice they're glassy with tears. Those seagreen eyes, wet with unshed emotion, clear away all the brambles guarding your heart in an instant.

"Trinity?" You're taken aback by the sudden shift in emotion. But a realization dawns on you shortly after. Of course.

PittFest was her first day at the hospital. She'd told you that. And yet, she challenged an authority figure. A young woman who'd yet to establish any kind of rapport with anyone, sticking to her principles. She prioritized what was right over any sort of standing among her fellow physicians.

"I don't hate you, Trinity," you state, because it feels important. Slowly, you untangle your limbs and rise to your feet. "I couldn't hate you, not for this."

"Not everybody sees it so black and white," Trinity sniffs. The tears don't fall, but they linger in the corners of her eyes. "People were really pissed at me once word got around."

"I don't think it's black and white at all, actually," you disagree, gathering your takeout. You head for the kitchen. It's a whopping eight steps, but it might as well be a ditch between your body and hers. "Life exists almost exclusively in grey areas. People don't do things for one singular reason."

You don't look back just yet, but words keep spilling out of your mouth before you can think better of them.

"So what is it, then?" You ask. "You don't like being reminded of Frank when you see me? You hate him so much that you hate me by association?"

"I don't hate you," she shakes her head. As she stands, you shove your takeout in the fridge.

By the time your back hits the closed refrigerator, Trinity's already trailed after you into the kitchen.

She's come to the brutal self-realization in the past few weeks that she's almost constantly thinking about power. Who has more of it in an interaction, how she can use the dynamic to her advantage. But all she can think about right now is your soft midriff peeking out from your crop top, and how she's never felt so desperate for someone to forgive her. Until now.

"So we don't hate each other." Your voice tugs Trinity back to the present.

"That about sums it up," is her lame response. Her cheeks are almost ashen, lacking color in the warm kitchen light. She looms like a tree in the doorway, as though she's forgotten how to operate her own body.

"Why'd you come here?" You ask from your perch against the refrigerator. It comes out soft, hoarse, tired.

"I told you, I wanted to apologize," she murmurs.

"No, I mean, what… what led you to coming here?" You swallow. "It's been three weeks."

Trinity's tongue juts out to rest between her lips. She'd be lying if she said her trip here wasn't at least partially fueled by a craving to kiss you again. You left this sweet aftertaste on Trinity's palate that no amount of casual hookups with Garcia could cleanse.

She recalls the text you sent after she panicked and left your apartment the morning after the two of you spent the night together.

Trin, I spent my entire shift thinking about you. I know that's earnest and people don't really do that anymore, so I hope that isn't weird for you to read.

Earnest is not a word often used to describe Trinity Santos.

Calculating. Overconfident. Emotionally stunted. Certainly not earnest.

Now's as good a time as any to give it a shot, she supposes. Oh, what the hell.

"I-I think you're really amazing," Trinity says, taking a wobbly step into the kitchen. Her forearm flattens on the countertop, using it for support. "I think about that night a lot. And I was with…" she trails off, glancing at the floor guiltily. She draws a line along the linoleum with her shoe.

"I was with my… situationship, I guess you could say, and I just felt so empty afterwards. I missed you. I don't know that I've missed someone I've spent less than twenty-four hours around before."

You arch a brow, crossing your arms over your chest. Something mean and dark boils under your skin at the thought of Trinity with someone else, and you know you have no right to feel this way, but you still do.

"What exactly are you saying?" You manage to croak out.

"I guess I came here tonight, to, like… feel this thing out," she meets your eye, providing a fruitless gesture between her body and yours. "To see if you hate me, to offer some kind of explanation. To tell you that I was a dick when you were at the hospital. And that I'm sorry."

You twist your lips in the side of your mouth, mulling over the words she's imparted.

The moment stretches the walls of your tiny kitchen.

"Can you say please something?" Trinity asks after a solid minute, nibbling on her bottom lip.

All you can do is shrug. “I don’t know, Trin. Maybe it’s… maybe it’s better we went through this now.” Your eyes fix on the floor. “Stop the bleeding before it has the chance to hemorrhage.”

An airy, uneven laugh. “Are you using a medical metaphor?” Her lips quirk up, like the puppeteer just barely tugged on the string. 

You nod, still not meeting her eye. 

“Is that what you want?” Trinity asks, stepping closer. She doesn’t touch you. She doesn't feel that brave yet.

You shake your head, shrug your shoulders. Every noncommittal gesture in the book, you make it. “I don’t know,” you whisper. 

“Can you look at me?” Trinity’s voice drops to match yours. Then your name rolls off her tongue so delicately, caught in a breeze. 

When your eyes find hers, she’s positioned right in front of you. She glances down at the minimal space between her body and yours, then flicks back up. Seeking permission. 

Your chin dips. 

Trinity tugs you by the forearms til you shuffle closer. One hand graces the small of your back, the other bends at the elbow over your shoulder. 

You lean in to her embrace, shields coming down. Her sharp corners melt into round ones. 

You have to slouch a little to fit under her chin, but then you slot right in. Arms tucked against your chest at first, but then you slide them around her middle. You missed this. You only had it once but that was enough to get you hooked. 

Trinity holding you like this is a relief you never knew you needed. 

Holding you like this is a warmth Trinity never knew she could provide. 

The two of you stand like that for a while. Trinity’s hand swipes up and down the soft cotton of your crop top. The warmth seeping beneath the fabric is so tempting. 

“I missed you a lot,” Trinity whispers after your heartbeats sync up. “I don’t know that I’ve ever actually wanted somebody’s company this much.” 

“Maybe you’re just hanging out with the wrong people,” you murmur. 

“Yeah,” Trinity agrees, sucking one of her front teeth. “That’s probably it.” 

You pull away after another minute, but Trinity’s hands stay loosely on your forearms. The question hangs heavy and unspoken between you. 

“I’m not sure, Trin,” you sigh, though instinct screams at you to just kiss her and be done with all this. To ignore the cracks in the foundation and keep building. “This really sucked.” 

She nods. “I know, honey,” she agrees. The endearment is a gut punch, but the only reaction you give is a faint twitch of your lips. “Can we…?” Her eyes flash up to the ceiling before reluctantly dragging back down to yours. “Can we try being friends?” 

You feign a gag at the word. 

“I know,” her laugh melts into yours. “It’s gross, right?” 

“Cheesiest thing I’ve ever heard,” you snicker, tugging your hands back. Trinity does the same, and the space between you, though it was less than before, becomes a chasm. “But yeah,” you add. “I would love to be your friend, Trin.” 

“My buddy, Officer Hiro,” Jack answers immediately, through a series of panted breaths. “High-velocity GSW, warehouse robbery gone sideways. He’s getting harder to bag.”

The windowless trauma room swallows you whole as you wheel the gurney inside. The four walls swell suddenly with the scent of coppery blood and bitter chlorhexidine. Nurses rush to wake the surrounding monitors with a set of electronic chirps, while Jack escorts the officers he came with out of the room. “We’ll take care of him, I promise,” you hear the man say as you slide your stethoscope into your ears.

You press the chestpiece to the man’s bloodied sternum, bare from where his uniform had already been cut down to his waist and sticky with fresh blood. His heartbeat is weak and rapid in your ears, barely maintaining enough pressure to reach his brain.

“Pulse is thready,” you murmur and slide the diaphragm half an inch higher. “Diminished breath sounds on the right…” 

Jack appears across from you, mouth curling into a familiar crooked grin. “We have got to stop meeting like this, Doc,” he jokes in a gritty deadpan.

“That’s crazy— I was thinking the exact same thing,” you quip and slip the stethoscope back around your neck. “Dr. Santos, let’s make sure these lungs are up.”

“You two know each other?” Robby wonders aloud. He glances between you and Jack with a pair of suspiciously narrowed eyes as he plucks a pair of scissors from the metal tray beside him.

“Yeah, you could say that…” Jack huffs with his eyes on the blade, which slices mechanically through the end of the endotracheal tube protruding from Hiro’s throat.“Pulling out,” the man announces before sliding the thing out through his mouth. “Bag.”

A silver-haired nurse, whom you’ve yet to come acquainted with, squeezes at the valve mask at Jack’s instruction. Air bubbles at the wound.

“He’s not moving any air,” you call to the crowded room. “Get me a neonatal mask.”

“Neonatal?” Santos echoes with furrowed brows.

“Yeah, we’re gonna put it over the wound to keep his airflow up while Dr. Abbot cuts a full-length tube and Dr. Robby shifts his trachea back into place,” you explain with a firm nod, smiling softly as you turn back to the attendings across from you. “Sound like a plan?”

Robby glances up at you from where he’s hunched over Hiro’s body, with two gloved fingers searching for his vocal cords. A faint smile lifts the corner of his mouth. “Do you always explain procedures like you’re assigning homework?” he laughs.

“If you’re asking if she’s always been this bossy, yes, she has,” Jack quips with a crooked grin that widens at the edges when you roll your eyes, turning away to accept the neonatal mask a nurse passes from behind you. “And yes, it saved my life— Santos, cut me down a 6-0 ET tube, will you?” 

“Oh, do tell…” Robby hums.

“There’s nothing to tell,” you huff and set the mask of the neonatal tube over the bubbling wound, helping the air move in and out of the unconscious man’s lungs. “It’s just the kinda stuff that happens when you’re an army medic— you win some, you lose some.”

“Oh, she’s just being modest,” Jack croons drily as he irrigates the wound with saline, washing away clotted blood until the displaced trachea emerges beneath the crimson. His gloved fingers move alongside yours as he rambles. “She had orders to leave me after I got hit by that IED… The rest of ‘em were pulling back— didn’t have much of a choice but to, really, but… She didn’t… She dragged me about… What was it? Two-hundred meters?” 

Jack’s eyes lift and find yours have gone strangely distant. Your gaze zeroes in on the neck wound below; your mind wanders against your will.

The freezing A.C. of the emergency department grows sweltering in an instant, burning like the familiar desert heat that feels like dry fire in your lungs. Black smoke threatens to fog your vision all at once. The antiseptic smell turns suddenly to burning fuel. And the blood on your hands becomes darker, fresher, running over your fingers like an open faucet. 

Your hands start to tremble the same way they did when you tied the tourniquet around Jack’s wounded limb, made of nothing more than exposed nerves and tendons from the knee down. You feel your legs weaken the same way they did when you dragged Jack’s weight across unforgiving ground beneath earth-shaking explosions and whizzing bullets. 

Jack apologized through his guttural screams — because, even now, he swears the pain from the tourniquet hurt more than losing his leg — as you sat him up behind an unmanned tank.

“Shut. Up,” you commanded, covering his mouth with your bloodied hand. “Or I swear to god, I will kill you if we make it out of here— Do you understand?”

You made it out. And it became a funny story everyone told back at the VA — that time you threatened the life of the man you were saving — though you still struggle to laugh about it even still.

“…Right, Doc?” Jack presses, head ducking in an attempt to catch your eye.

Your hands remain firm over the small mask pressed to the wound in Hiro’s neck, but your face has emptied into an expressionless sort of look. It takes a long moment for your brain to will your eyes to blink, and only then does the sun-bleached desert in your mind return to the hospital where you plant your feet — buzzing fluorescent lights, beeping monitors, blinding white walls. You list everything you can see until your brain recalculates its surroundings.

Your wide eyes flit across the unblinking stares looking back at you, each of them waiting for a response. Your heart lurches in your chest. Your mouth opens and closes as you struggle to recall the last thing you’d heard. 

“Uh, n-not quite two-hundred,” you stammer with a trembling smile. “We had a team find us before then, I’m pretty sure.”

“See what I mean?” Jack hums with a surer smile, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. His softened gaze remains fixed on you, studying you despite all your attempts to hide. “Modest.”

The automatic doors of the ambulance bay sigh open and shut every few seconds behind you. Each mechanical breath exhales waves of freezing air into the thick July evening, which smells overwhelmingly of hot asphalt, cigarette smoke, and gunpowder from far-off fireworks. 

You stand next to Jack beneath the overhang, with summer wind whipping through the thin fabric of your tied isolation gowns as you wait for the incoming trauma together — roughly five minutes out, Dana had said.  

“So…” you start slowly, wringing the loose pair of gloves in your anxious hands as your eyes fall to the man beside you. He’s still wearing the baggy camo pants he’d arrived in, though he’s since traded his heavy plate carrier for the fitted black t-shirt underneath it, which clings ardently to his muscular torso. “…SWAT, huh?”

“My therapist said I needed a hobby,” he jokes with a lazy shrug. “And, turns out, I suck at golf, so… I chose the next best thing.”

You shake your head and turn away, exhaling a quiet laugh in response — perhaps your first real one since the unforgiving shift started. The corner of Jack’s mouth lifts into a grin, proud of himself for having heard the pretty sound. He hadn’t thought to miss it until now.

“…How long has it been, you think?” he wonders suddenly, with a pair of squinted eyes.

You draw a deep breath through your nose. Your eyes scale the milky pink and orange skyline beyond the ambulance bay, where a molten gold sunset streaks across the sky. “A while…” you settle on after a few long moments.

“Anything new with you I should know about?” he asks, rocking gently to ease the weight on his prosthetic. 

You scoff like it’s funny — maybe because you can’t remember the last time anyone other than your therapist was asking after you. “Nope…” you sigh. “Unfortunately, I am still the exact same person you knew back then…”

“Doesn’t seem so unfortunate to me,” he insists, brows furrowed, like he’s half-offended by your own self-degradation.

“Well, you’d think after— I don’t know— a decade of pretty intensive therapy that I might be a little different,” you quip with an awkward laugh. The humor dissolves a second later when you realize how pathetic you sound. “But, uh… I’m still working through it, I guess...”

“Aren’t we all…” Jack trails off with a slow nod.

“I don’t know,” you lilt, eyes drifting unconsciously towards his hand, where a black wedding ring sits around his fourth finger. The sight of it makes your chest ache more than you’d like to admit — as if a not-so-distant part of you had expected him to be as single and miserably lonely as you, even after all this time. 

Of course, someone loves him, you think to yourself, how could they not?

“You seem to be doing pretty alright for yourself, I’d say.”

Jack follows your gaze and, almost instinctively, clasps his hands behind his back as if to hide them. His anxious grip tightens on the blue latex he holds between them. “Yeah, uh—” He clears his throat, eyes fixed on the street beyond the overhang. “My wife, she… She passed. A few years ago.”

The humid summer air becomes harder to breathe in an instant. Your mouth parts with shock, though it takes a long moment before any words of apology fall out. “Oh— Shit, Jack, I— I’m sorry. I—”

“It’s okay. You didn’t know,” he assures with a gentle smile, rubbing absentmindedly at the ring with his thumb from where it hides behind his back. “It’s my fault for still wearing the damn thing. I just— feel weird taking it off, I guess…” 

You nod slowly to yourself and glance away. You’ve gotten well acquainted with grief and its tricky rituals over the years.

“What about you?” Jack wonders aloud, smiling a little wider when you turn back to face him with a pair of raised brows. “You seeing anyone?”

Your first instinct is to laugh. “No. God, no.”

“Oh, c’mon…” he croons. “It can’t be that bad.”

You flash him a cynical look and a sad sort of smile. “Yeah, well… I don’t think most people are looking for a girl like me, to be fair.”

“Yeah?” Jack hums, crossing his arms over his chest. “What’s that?”

“I don’t know,” you scoff. “A girl who… works all the time. Who barely sleeps. Who can’t sleep if someone’s breathing wrong in the next room. Who… goes to therapy twice a week— three times if things are real bad— I mean…” A laugh sputters from your lips. “I’m a total nutcase.”

“Hey,” Jack argues, weathered face screwed in a playful offense. “Some guys are into nutcases, I’ll have you know.”

“Oh, really?” you hum drily.

“Me chief among them,” he nods.

“What?” you laugh. “Is that supposed to flatter me or something—?”

Boom! An explosion crackles across the evening sky. Your body reacts before your mind, going into panic mode in a flicker. Your shoulders jerk violently, your heart leaps into your throat, your eyes snap instinctively for cover. A red-hot spark rushes down your legs as though your body was telling you to run. 

Your brain catches up a second later.

It’s a firework… It’s just a firework, you think to soothe yourself, and to ease your suddenly pounding pulse. But as the fear fizzles slowly away, the self-hatred comes next — the undeniable fact that your body will always belong to a war that ended years ago.

You force your shoulders to relax once more and pray that Jack hasn’t noticed any of it. But you can see his expression softening in the corner of your eye — first with concern, which flickers thereafter into a softer sort of pity. 

At the very least, however, he gives you the dignity of pretending he hadn’t seen it at all as sirens rage in the distance — growing nearer and nearer until the red-yellow lights of the ambulance whip around the corner. The two of you snap your gloves on in tandem.

Jack steps off the curb first when it squeals to a park just in front of you. “You picked a hell of a day to come in, Doc…” he huffs and rushes towards the back doors. 

“I’d rather be here than working,” you scoff and follow behind him. “It’s less depressing that way, I think.”

“Is it?” Jack quips with narrowed eyes.

You laugh through your nose. “Yeah, jury’s still out on the one, I guess…”

Fourth of July rages across the city. You pretend not to notice. 

You stand in the muffled quiet of the breakroom, tucked away from the chaos of the emergency department, and watch the coffee machine in front of you sputter as it coughs up steam that smells like burnt grounds and vanilla creamer. You let the bitter stench singe your nostrils as the firework show begins in the heart of the city.

Boom!

A firework sounds off in the distance, closer than all the ones from earlier in the evening. You wrap both hands around the paper cup of coffee, letting the scalding warmth seep into your palms. The heat nearly burns you, but it’s half-grounding nonetheless.

Boom!

You swear it’s shaking the ground beneath your feet, and trembling the thick, concrete walls on either side of you. Though, with the way your day is going now, it’s impossible to tell what’s real and what lives only inside your head.

Boom!

Your fingers tighten around the cup to the point of trembling. You close your eyes and attempt to count your breaths — in for seven, hold for four, out for eight. Your brain tries to trick you — tries to convince you that the freezing cold of the emergency department smells like desert heat and metallic blood and burning gunpowder. It works.

“Counter…” you mutter aloud to yourself, despite how strange it seems, flattening your hand along the white laminate below, even as your shoulders jerk from another explosion in the city. You place your hand on the smooth curve of the cold sink next, and then on the rough cloth draped just behind it. “Faucet… Dishrag…”

Your attempts to anchor yourself to reality only halfway work. You opt to abandon your coffee on the counter altogether as your pulse continues to climb. You’re grateful to find the E.R. still waiting for you on the other side of the door, instead of a memory you can’t seem to leave. 

“Oh, hey— I was just looking for you.”

Your head whips over your shoulder to find Jack strolling down the half-empty corridor with a tablet in his hands, now dressed in his dark black scrubs instead of the tactical gear he arrived in. 

His shift has probably started now, or is about to, at least — which means you should be leaving with the rest of the day shift. But you fear what waits for you outside these walls and those automatic doors; the crushing certainty of solitude that always seemed to be waiting for you back home, to be more specific.

You exhale a trembling breath, falling into step with Jack when he walks by. “Where is everyone?” you wonder aloud.

“Day shift went up to the roof, I think,” he answers with most of his attention on the tablet as he scrolls absentmindedly through it. “Watching the fireworks and drinking beer, I’m sure… Lucky bastards.”

“Santos did invite me to karaoke today,” you tell him.

“A karaoke invite on your first day, huh? Impressive,” Jack croons, laughing softly through his nose when you lean to knock your shoulder against his broader one. He gets a faint whiff of the perfume still lingering on your clothes, beneath layers of antiseptic and hospital soap. He misses your warmth the second you’re gone. “You gonna go?”

Your shoulders sag with a sigh. “I don’t know… I’m kinda liking this adrenaline rush, to be honest. Might try and ride it ’til the wheels fall off.”

“Well, that always ends well, in my experience,” Jack quips with a lopsided smile as he slows to a stop in front of you, tucking the tablet under his bicep. He towers a few inches over you, close enough to make you lift your chin to properly meet his eyes. “But I do have something you could help me with, if you have a few minutes to spare…”

“Of course.”

“I, uh…” he trails off, turning to glance awkwardly at his left shoulder. “I took a hit… You know, in the field earlier… I’m pretty sure the vest caught most of it but—”

“You were—” You catch yourself before your voice can carry down the hallway. You take a step closer, lowering your voice into a harsh whisper as you scold him. “You were shot?”

“Shot at,” he corrects, with his brows raised to his hairline. “And it’s not as bad as you’re thinking. I tried to clean it up myself, but it’s pretty… inconveniently located…”

He rolls his shoulder in an attempt to ease the discomfort building there from his scrubs rubbing against the wound. His scruffy jaw tightens with a faint grimace, enough for you to notice the pain in his weathered features that he’d been pretending wasn’t there before now.

Concern flares white-hot in your chest. “Let me see it.”

The tone leaves little room for argument. It’s the same one you’d used on him all that time ago, when you ordered him to shut up and quit apologizing for bleeding out before the people trying to kill you could find you.

“Yes, ma’am,” he nods.

Jack leads you to the nearest empty exam room and slips inside while you gather the supplies you suspect you’ll need from the cart outside the door. You hold them to your chest when you return to the room, where you find Jack undressing, tugging his scrub top off by the collar. 

The pale tendons in his back flex unevenly when he pulls the fabric off completely. The milky white canvas of his back is exposed to you then, along with the raging scrape glowing a bright scarlet along his left shoulder.

The door clicks shut behind you and garners the man’s attention. Jack turns to face you. You find he’s grown strangely broader with age. His stomach is full but toned, and his chest is filled out with a similar strength. Both are dusted with faint freckles and light colored hair that trails down from his sternum and disappears beneath his scrub pants.  

He seems to mistake the subtle shock on your face for concern.

“I’ve had worse,” he assures you.

“I know, Abbot,” you deadpan, reaching for the glove dispenser on the wall with your free hand. “I was there.”

Jack settles on the edge of the exam table while you arrange the supplies on the metal tray before you — gauze, saline, antibiotic ointment, steri-strips. Your hands remember the motions before your mind has to. It comes to you as easily as muscle memory. You work with an effortlessness that only comes with years of experience; and Jack weathers the pain with an effortlessness that only comes with years of aching.

“You wanna know something funny?” he announces suddenly. The muscles in his back tense slightly when he twists to glance at you over his bare shoulder. 

“You getting shot at and not telling anyone for half a shift?” you answer in a monotone.

He exhales a quiet laugh and turns back around.

“I had… the biggest crush on you,” Jack confesses in an achingly gentle voice, and pretends not to notice when your hands still suddenly behind him. He inhales slowly through his nose, as if he’d been sitting on those words for some time, and crosses his arms over his bare chest as if to shield himself from them in some way. “I was, uh… I was gonna ask you out, actually. You know, when we got back home, but… You disappeared before I could.”

His quiet laugh sounds much louder in the silence that settles heavily between you.

“I, uh—  I’m pretty sure I still have the letter I wrote you, actually, when I figured out your address— in a box somewhere in the attic probably, but… It felt a little too stalkerish to send it, and… Then I met my wife, and I figured you moved on, too, and…” he trails off, struggling to find the right words. “I guess it doesn’t matter anyway. You’re here now.”

“It was probably for the best,” you tell him, and clear your throat when your voice shakes. You pretend not to notice your fingers trembling when you smooth down the edge of the bandage you press over his wound. “I wasn’t exactly… the best company back then.”

“You were always good company,” Jack scoffs. “Even when I thought I was gonna die, I was glad I was with you. I mean, I hated that you were gonna have to witness it obviously, but… I was still glad it was you— Even when you were threatening to kill me.” 

You’re pierced almost physically by his words. You blink rapidly to clear the haze of them when your vision starts to blur, another memory threatening to drag you under. Memories you’d spent years and a shit ton of money working through in therapy, that are now eating away at you from the inside out.

His shoulder beneath your fingertips is covered suddenly in shredded camouflage. The bandage on his freckled skin stains red until it gushes once more with warm blood. His laughter turns to screams. The air turns to smoke. The fluorescent lights turn to a white-hot sun.

Jack frowns to himself when he feels your hands freezing once more behind him. He glances over his shoulder and finds that your eyes have gone empty again, fixed somewhere far away — the same way they had earlier that day. His chest pinches with an instant worry. 

“You okay?” 

His words sound like they’re muffled by water or light-years of space. You can’t hear them over the heartbeat whoosh, whoosh, whooshing in your ears, pounding harder against your pulse with every second that passes that you can’t catch your breath. 

Another firework explodes outside like distant thunder. Your body jolts in response, and reality slams back into you a second later.

“I, uh…” You swallow hard, eyes flitting wildly around the room, like you’re struggling to place yourself inside it. “I-I’m all done here, I think.”

“Hey…” Jack coos and turns around to face you completely. “What’s wrong? What happened?”

You step back from him and rip off your gloves with two dull pops. You chuck them hurriedly into the bin, feeling overwhelmingly like the walls are closing in on either side of you. 

“I, uh... I just need… I’ll, um…” You shake your head when the words don’t come out right. The next ones leave in a whimper when you try and fail to catch your breath. “I’m sorry.”

You rush out of the room, gone before Jack can gather his shirt.

“No…” That’s the only thing you can seem to make out as you hide yourself in the breakroom. The word scrapes against your throat, still too narrow to properly let air flow through. You wedge your pointer fingers painfully in your ears when the far-off fireworks become unrelenting gunshots in your skull. Your vision tunnels, the room blurs, every breath seems to catch somewhere in your chest. “No, no, no—”

The words dissolve into a half-strangled whimper in the back of your throat. You crouch slowly down in the center of the room and curl inward on yourself, forehead nearly touching your knees. Every muscle draws tight enough to ache. Your body makes itself smaller on instinct, as if it still believed that smaller targets survived the longest.

You vaguely hear the sound of your name coming from behind you — far away at first, like a voice carried underwater — and then much closer, when a pair of warm, calloused hands curl gently around your forearms. Despite the inherent softness of the touch, you flinch violently in the sudden hold.

“Hey… It’s just me,” Jack coos. 

His voice cuts through the buzzing panic with a remarkable steadiness. Your head snaps in his direction. You find him looming just beside you, bent over at the waist. His face is slow to flood into focus. For a gutwrenching flicker of a second, he’s the same dark-haired, bloodied, and crying man that nearly died in your arms.

Reality settles in a moment later.

The silver threaded in his curls catches the buzzing fluroscents overhead. His light eyes, still so soft despite the carnage they’ve witnessed, dart over your features with a silent concern.

“It’s just me,” he continues. “You’re okay. Just keep looking at me.”

You try to until— Boom! Another firework crackles in the distance. Your eyes squeeze shut despite yourself. Your entire body recoils. “I can’t—” you whimper through a ragged breath that catches in your throat. Your chest sears white-hot accordingly.

“Okay. That’s okay,” he nods. “Just breathe with me. Don’t fight it, okay? Just breathe.”

Jack inhales slowly, drawing in one exaggerated breath until his chest rises beneath his scrubs. You try to mimic it, but it stutters painfully halfway through. Your lungs seize despite yourself. Your face twists into a pained sort of look.

“That’s okay. There you go,” he praises. The corner of his mouth lifts into the faintest hint of a smile. His thumbs rub softly along the buzzing skin of your arm. “I know it doesn’t feel good. Just keep trying for me.”

It takes several long moments for your breaths to finally even out. Jack holds you through every single one of them. Only when your hands slip from your ears and your shoulders stop trembling does Jack carefully guide you to your feet, with a pair of warm hands clasped gently around the outside of your elbows. 

He keeps you stable on unsteady limbs as he guides you the short distance to the plastic chairs gathered around the breakroom table. You collapse into one. He pulls up another to be nearer to you — close enough for your knees to slot between each other’s and for his fingers to thread with yours when he reaches for you again. His palm is warm and gently calloused; a little like velvet as it glides against yours.

You rest your other arm on the table beside you, hiding your face behind the palm of your free hand. When you regain your breath, the first thing you think to do is laugh — a wet, brittle, exhausted sort of sound.

“What the hell am I doing here?” you ask within a weak chuckle, shaking your head at yourself. “The VA recommended me because I was supposed to be good at this, but… I’ve been here for one shift… And all I’ve done is make everything worse—”

“C’mon,” Jack hums. “You know that’s not true.”

“Look at me!” you laugh, gesturing helplessly towards yourself when you lift your head to meet his eyes. Tears glisten in your gaze, clumping your bottom lashes together. “I’m supposed to be taking care of people, Jack! I’m not helping anyone like this!” 

The man studies you for a long moment. His eyes narrow with a careful curiosity. “Does this happen a lot?” he wonders gently. “These… spells?” 

You shake your head, eyes fluttering shut. “No. Not in— years. I thought they were gone. I mean, I certainly pay my therapist enough; they should be gone by now, but…” You end your ramble with a heavy sigh. “I don’t know… I think… Seeing you, you know, for the first time since… Since we came back home, it just… Opened something…”

Jack’s thumb swipes across your knuckles. You expect him to be half-offended at your confession. He smiles instead.

“Well, you know how we fix that?” he asks, with something short of amusement on the edge of his voice. “We go get a beer tomorrow night. Or whenever you’re up for it. And we talk about all this shit. All of our— trauma or whatever. We just… We have it out.”

Something like sunshine threatens to swell in your chest. It burns out quickly, though.

“But what about everything else?” you wonder in a small voice, wet eyes drifting towards the closed break room door. “I can’t go back out there. Not like this. What if… What if I freeze again? Three seconds is enough to… to kill someone if they’re in critical condition.”

“We’ll make sure you have dual coverage— if you freeze again, you’ll have another attending to step in for you,” Jack answers with a firm nod and unwavering gaze, confident enough to soothe you. “But, for now, we take you upstairs to neuro. Maybe do an EEG since you’re having new symptoms, just to rule out anything structural. And then tomorrow, you book an appointment with your doctor, and I’ll drive you— I don’t care when it is. Just call me, alright? I’ll give you my number.” 

You crumple under the weight of his tenderness, of his thumb running soothingly across the ridges of your knuckles. You shake your head, brows knitting softly together. “Why—?” you go to ask, but the words get caught halfway through. 

Why are you doing this? you want to say. Why are you doing this for me?

“Well, you pretty much carried me through hell, in case you forgot,” Jack answers with a tired laugh. “And I spent a long, long time wishing I could’ve helped you the same way you helped me.”

Silence settles comfortably between you once more. Your wet eyes fall to your joined hands, where his larger one engulfs your own. His are warmer, slightly rough around the knuckles, and calloused at the palms. It’s hard to imagine, you realize, that the hands that once clawed desperately at the sun-hot desert when you tended to his leg are now reaching so gently out for you.

A series of voices race down the hall all at once, yelling over the buzzing wheels of a gurney. “—What do you mean he lit it in his mouth?” 

“He thought it’d shoot out the opposite way—”

“Sir, please, stop trying to pull the bottle rocket out yourself—”

“There it is…” Jack huffs. “The annual reminder that fireworks are nature’s way of thinning out humanity.”

You exhale a quiet laugh through your nose, too weak for anything else, and follow Jack when he stands to full height. The distance between you is barely a step. You feel yourself closing it before your mind can catch up, sliding your arms experimentally around his shoulders and pressing your chest against his.

For the faintest fraction of a second, Jack goes still. His breath leaves him in a quiet rush at the feeling of having you so close. His arms raise slowly, wrapping around your waist with a tenderness that threatens to undo you all over again. One broad hand settles warmly between your shoulder blades, while the other spreads carefully along the small of your back.

You haven’t been this close to him since the day he almost died. In fact, the last time you held him, your hands had been slick with his blood — so much of it, that the dirt turned to sticky paste on your palms. But now, he no longer smells of the metallic blood and burning gunpowder and death that haunts your dreams. Instead, he smells of fresh laundry, expensive cedar cologne, and hospital soap. Like home. Like life.

You breathe in through your nose, inhaling him deep into your lungs. 

“Thank you…” you hear yourself say, chin bobbing on his shoulder, words brushing over the fabric of his scrubs.

“Don’t thank me,” Jack scoffs humorously, though his hands drift up and down your spine with an unyielding tenderness. “I’m still paying off a debt.”

“What debt?”

“You’re the one who refused to leave me behind, remember?” he asks. “Well, now it’s my turn to make sure nobody leaves you.” 

Outside, another firework climbs high into the starry summer sky and bursts into a thousand brilliant stars with another far-away explosion. Only this time, you hear it without hearing the war. 

Summer softens slowly into autumn.

The relentless early-July heat gives way to crisp mornings and cool evenings. Dusk arrives a little earlier every day, spilling through the closed bedroom curtains in silvers of honey-colored rays. Outside, a late afternoon breeze stirs the trees until the copper-colored branches brush the window — tires buzz across the worn pavement while the streets fill with the comforting chorus of the early evening.

Life always has a way of finding its rhythm, you find.

You continued working at the PTMC even after Robby returned from his sabbatical, settling into permanent dual coverage on the night shift with Jack. Your symptoms subsided after that first shift — no more blank spots since you switched medications; no more nightmares since you started spending the majority of your nights in Jack’s bed. Your mind feels like home again.

You lay there, tangled in the rumpled gray comforter, the majority of which you had unconsciously stolen during the night, and listen to the man’s even breaths as he sleeps soundly just beside you.

Jack lies on his stomach with his strong arms folded beneath the thin pillow under his head, facing away from you. You watch the gentle rise and fall of his back from where the dark sheet has slipped around his waist, exposing the freckled canvas of his back — and the healed scrape along his shoulder, now a thin scratch of marred, pink skin.

Your hand wanders slowly beneath the blankets — finding his clothed hip first, then crawling up the familiar landscape of his spine, before settling in the strands of silver curled at the nape of his neck.

The man wakes with a sharp inhale and turns his wild head slowly to face you, still not quite awake.

“Jack…” you whisper to him, fingers still twisting in his curls. “Jack.”

“Mm?” he grunts without opening his eyes, brows pinching in protest.

“We gotta start getting ready.”

Your hand parts from his neck to reach for the phone charging on the other side of you. You don’t make it far before a large, warm hand catches your wrist.

“No,” Jack grumbles halfway into his pillow, voice still gruff with sleep. He tugs your hand back to the back of his neck. “Keep going…”

You exhale a quiet laugh but oblige him anyway. His shoulders deflate with a contented sigh when your fingers return to his hair, scratching gently at his scalp. “Why is it you make me do this every morning, but when I ask you to scratch my back before bed, you’re asleep in two minutes?”

“I have a medical condition,” he slurs into his pillow, with his eyes still shut.

“Oh, yeah? What’s that?”

“Mm… Pretty sure that’s a HIPAA violation, honey.”

A laugh escapes you before you can help it. “You’re so annoying.”

“Here— We’ll do it at the same time,” Jack mumbles.

He grunts quietly as he twists on his left shoulder until his facing you properly. His right hand slithers around your waist, urging you closer until your knees bump beneath the blankets. His hand is warm and gently calloused when it slips beneath the hem of your oversized shirt. His dull nails scratch lazily up and down the length of your spine. Still without opening his eyes.

“See?” he hums. “Teamwork.”

You exhale a satisfied sigh, then joke drily despite yourself. “Your breath smells, by the way.”

He peeks a tired eye open at that. “Oh, yeah? And what do you think yours smells like, huh? Sunshine and rainbows?”

He leans in to kiss you anyway — a mere brushing of your lips for no longer than a second. But then the second lingers, and so does his mouth against yours. The kiss turns sleepy and slow, mouths gliding and tongues brushing.

Jack lifts himself onto the elbow of his free hand and urges you onto your back until half of his heavy weight is resting on top of you. The stiffness tucked in his boxers rubs against your thigh. A smile curls slowly on your mouth.

“We only have an— an hour to get ready—” You just barely manage to protest between his kisses. “You know that right?”

His mouth slides down to your neck to smear wet-hot kisses along your pulse. His hips flatten further against yours, pressing his hardening length more ardently against you. “I only need five minutes, honey. I promise.”

“Oh, trust me,” you scoff drily. “I’m well aware.”

Jack pulls off of you with the quiet smack of his mouth parting from your jaw. His sleep-swollen features twist in a feigned offense. Slumber clings stubbornly to every inch of him — curls flat on one side and wild on the other; stubble a shade darker on his jaw; pillow creases stamped along his cheek.

“Oh, you are just asking for it, aren’t you?” he squints.

“Clock’s ticking, Dr. Abbot,” you tease with a lazy smile, fingers dancing through his silver curls. “I’m gonna be in that shower in five minutes— With or without you.”

A flicker of amusement flashes across his face, right before he ducks back down to swallow you whole in a searing kiss. “Don’t threaten me with a good time.”

She wasn’t shocked. Everything he had done had been in service of the company rather than the country, whatever he believed. Unlike Homelander however, he never delusionally declared himself a deity and had people blatantly follow him. So, while she hoped that he would come to his senses, she knew in reality that it would never happen.

She also knew it was only a matter of time before he found her, no doubt to keep in line with whatever his son wanted. She didn’t know for sure, but considering they had been in search of V1 and now Homelander was acting more invincible than ever before, she had to conclude they had found the original serum. It would devastate her to leave the only refuge she had ever known, if it came to that. She knew she should go before either Soldier Boy or Homelander came for her, but she had never been one to back down from a fight.

She packed two bags and collected the money she had stashed, anyway. As a precaution.

She had a strange feeling of deja vu to a few years ago when she had tried to flee, and Ben had found her on that fateful night. The night that really changed so much between them. Well, for her at least, their fleeting tryst on the floor of her living room that gave way to feelings she didn’t understand. She knew what the exact feeling was, but she dare not say it out loud. He was everything she despised: leading with ego and arrogance, machismo to the max, entitled swagger that he didn’t know how to control, misogyny dripping off him; a complete brute. In between all of that, however, was a broken and vulnerable man that she had no intention of fixing.

Because she wasn’t the epitome of goodness, either.

She had done her best to save people, but considering it was crime fighting under Vought naturally it wasn’t what she had believed it to be. There were unnecessary casualties along the way, causing her to become cynical and bitter, the fire that kept her going being snuffed out  long before she finally couldn’t take it anymore. No amount of alcohol, drugs or sex could fix any of it, and yet those vices were all any of them had to keep going day by day.

So they were the same, and there was no denying it no matter how she tried.

After the way that she had left him, in quite literally the most explosive manner, she took some time to reflect on all that transpired between them. Through all the literal blows and vitriolic words, through the equally brutal sex and the euphoric haze that came with it, they had come to understand each other in some strange way. So after she cut ties in such a dramatic fashion, she knew she’d never see him again, but the realization didn’t delight her in the slightest. So, she did what she did best. She turned to those vices that sustained her yet again. Alcohol, drugs… and well, she supposed she’d have to abstain from sex for a while.

Who could ever compare to him anyway?

Soldier Boy had watched the demise of Homelander on live TV just like the rest of the country.

While he had planned to be on his way to Colombia by now, his son had other plans for him in the form of keeping him hostage. Rather than keeping him in the basement cells like others that had wronged Homelander, he had been on a permanent lockdown in his apartment. Which was now fully renovated after the brief halt thanks to Y/N’s pyromania. He supposed he should be thankful not to be locked away in the cells with the likes of Stan Edgar, but that didn’t mean he liked his plan being derailed. He had finally had enough of his son’s antics, and a clear line drawn in the sand with his departure would’ve been best for everyone involved.

Colombia had been a cover story for the most part.

Soldier Boy didn’t want Homelander knowing his real intention - to find Y/N. The last thing he needed was to be followed by crime analytics or by him. So he thought that Colombia was the best place to use as an excuse to make a quick exit, and use the last of Vought’s resources available to him to get to her. He remembered where she was located from his last conjugal visit, so that wasn’t the issue. It was the fact that she most likely wouldn’t want to hear him out, but she was going to have to. He had come to the conclusion that his decision to give Homelander the V1 was a bad idea, very soon after the fact. He told Homelander the words he wanted to hear - that Clara would’ve wanted him to have it in order to become the superior being she always believed they could make.

He as Soldier Boy had never been up to the task, and ultimately failed in her eyes. So maybe his son could be. It became apparent really quickly that it had only driven him to further delusions of grandeur, of becoming a god. Or rather, God. It was a ridiculous notion and one he wanted no part of, so he decided to part ways while he still could. He was met with protest, which he suspected had more to do with Homelander’s ego rather than actually wanting his father there.

And that was how he found himself locked inside his own penthouse, with no escape. He tried everything, hell he even tried breaking down the doors with his blast, but clearly they had found a weakness in him that even he wasn’t aware of. Whatever they had reinforced the doors with did seem to be weakening, however, and maybe he’d find his refuge soon.

It was the next morning when the broadcast from the White House started. He saw the way Homelander sat behind that desk, a desk he had seen many far more competent leaders behind, and the way he began his speech to the public. He decided it wasn’t too early for a glass of Bourbon. The events unfolded far too quickly after that. The camera falling to the floor, punches being thrown, glimpses of Butcher and Ryan as they fought Homelander, and then a bright light filled the room, not unlike his own power with the chest blast.

He sat forward in his seat, eyes glued to the screen as his son begged for his life, offered to suck dick and eat shit on live television for the entire country to see, all in the name of self preservation. Any feeling of respect or familial bond left him as he watched the disappointment that he turned out to be, his own flesh and blood. So, as he witnessed Butcher deliver the final blow, a crowbar to Homelander’s head, brains splattered against the presidential desk, he tipped his glass in a salute of cheers to the screen. Whatever contention he had with Butcher didn’t negate the fact that he did something no one else could, and he had to commend him for that fact.

He threw back the rest of his drink, stepping up in front of the shut doors. He felt the surge of energy flow through him, light glowing from under his suit as he growled, before it burst forward. It lasted several moments before he groaned in slight pain, the light dying and giving way to the doors caved in, completely scorched and melted by his power. Finally, without even a glance back into the apartment, he walked out.

Leaving behind the memory of his sorry excuse for a son. Leaving Vought behind.

A place he had been tied to for over 80 years. 40 in active duty, being used as their pawn under the disguise of fame. Another 40 as a ghost story, only to find out he was double crossed by his own team. It was strange to think there would no longer be a safety net, some sense of security, but in reality, he never really had it. Being handed over to the Russians was the first sign of that. So before Vought could do anything to him again, it was time to put his trust in something else. Someone else. Someone who had asked for it and he had stupidly betrayed in return.

With one member of the security team who was still a part of supe detail, they began the long drive to the home that Y/N had acquired from The Legend in retirement from Vought. Something they owed her after everything they had put her through. He had no idea what was awaiting him, all he knew was the fiery woman he had come to unexpectedly feel something for wasn’t going to make it easy for him. He wasn’t sure he wanted it any other way, either.

He just hoped that yet another reunion between them ended the way they always had.

Homelander with his head slashed open, lying on the floor of the White House.

A news report confirming him dead.

That morning had found her slightly more sober than she had been in the last few days. With every news report, it was very clear that things were unsafe out there. There was no one she could turn to, having cut all communication to The Legend knowing it wasn’t ideal for either of them to be talking. She decided that she needed to head somewhere outside of the States if things escalated. Somewhere she could be well hidden and no one would find her, until it was safe to return home. She had resigned herself to the thought that the bags she had packed were now absolutely necessary. After a quick turn into town to get some things she needed, she flicked the television on in the background, typing different destinations in the search, a cigarette dangling between her lips.

And that was when she saw it.

Something flashed across the screen in her peripheral, causing her to lift her head. She frowned at the low volume and picked up the remote, her eyes widened at the scene that unfolded before her.

Homelander. Dead.

She stepped back, fumbling to sit in the chair and steady herself. She could barely believe it. She had never known the full extent of his cruelty, but she had heard whisperings over the years, and now… it was all over. A small smile pulled at her lips knowing that he would never hurt anyone or spew absolute hypocrisy ever again. Just as quickly, however, the smile fell when she thought about Ben. Did he know what happened? Was he even alive? Did Homelander kill him before his one last mission to convert the masses?

She picked up her phone, staring down at the black screen. She wasn’t even sure who to call. It was quite possible that no one in that Vought building knew what happened to him. She wasn’t sure who of the Seven was still alive, and quite frankly, none of them could be trusted. She could go to him, she could pick up her keys, storm out of the house, drive like a maniac back to New York and try to find him. She could do it, she could finally make up for all the other times she had failed to find him.

Just as the thoughts rushed through her mind, she placed the phone down. She couldn’t betray the decision she made to leave him behind. He had V1, he was immortal and he was fine. He was probably off grid somewhere, enjoying copious amounts of booze, drugs and women. He was alive and he had the freedom to go wherever he wanted now. He didn’t need her. So he was long gone, and he was fine.

She repeated that thought to herself as night fell.

Feeling every part of herself relax knowing the threat was over, she rolled a joint for herself before she undressed. She tied her silk robe around her naked frame, taking the joint and tumbler of whiskey onto the back porch. She made her way to one of the chairs, sitting back before she clicked her fingers, bringing the small flame to the end of the joint. The wood deck overlooked a backyard that led straight into the forest, the chirp of crickets loud as the only light came from the moonlit sky. The days had gotten warmer, but the nights remained cold, the icy chill in the air kissing any exposed expanse of skin as she laid back in the lounger. She ran warm naturally, but every now and then the slight breeze managed to make her shiver. It felt good, to actually feel something. With no one around for several miles, she enjoyed the privacy she had, with no need to look out for anyone or anything as her hand slipped into the opening of her robe. She pulled it aside, exposing her breasts to the night air, the cold causing her nipples to stiffen into hard peaks, her hand descending further down between her legs as she took a drag of the joint, her eyes closing.

Flashes of those few days of bliss with him in Vought tower crossed her mind; every rough kiss, every hair pull, every thrust, every mind blowing orgasm that left her vision star spangled. There were moments in between all of that too: the lighter kisses, a tender caress of her jaw, filthy words juxtaposed with the act of whispering them softly into her ear, looks shared that left both of them ablaze, all things she didn’t think he even realized he was capable of. Coming from somewhere so deep within him, a place he hadn’t tapped into in decades.

And yet, it was all for her.

A soft moan fell from her lips as her fingers slid between her folds, the chill blowing over exposed body as she continued to imagine his hand at her wet heat instead of her own. His lips sucking at her swollen nub, his tongue delving into her tight canal before moving down to a place she hadn’t let many others explore. Quite frankly, no one had been as enthusiastic as him to do that to her. She bit her lip as her legs widened, getting lost in the fantasy of him pleasuring her, so lost she didn’t hear the crunching of leaves and twigs under heavy footfalls.   

“So this is how you take advantage of being all alone out here, huh?”

Y/N let out a terrified shriek as she sat up, pulling her hand away as her legs snapped closed, breathing heavily. She pulled her robe back over to cover herself, as she saw a figure cast in shadow, the familiar silhouette standing at the bottom of the porch stairs as the gold accents of his suit gleamed in the moonlight. She stood up slowly, unable to really see his face as she dropped the joint on the deck, putting it out with her bare foot and feeling it singe her skin before it healed just as quick. 

“Wh-What are you doing here?” she stuttered.

Soldier Boy took a few steps forward, the light cast from the moon revealing more of his face to her. It was set in an almost unreadable expression, his brows furrowed as he looked up at her. His stance was strong, shoulders squared and arms at his sides, looking like the perfect soldier but she knew better. The tightness in his jaw told her he was holding something back.

“He’s dead,” he said, his voice deep and rough as it cut through the chirp of crickets. He knew he didn’t need to elaborate on who he was referring to.

“I know,” she muttered, pulling her robe tighter around her body. “So you decided to come back here, now that he’s dead and do what exactly?”

He couldn’t help the smirk that crossed his features. “I think your little show was a good idea of what.”

“I don’t want you here,” she stated, glaring at him as she ignored what he said.

He watched the way she shifted her weight from one foot to the other, crossing her arms over herself, her hand lightly scratching at her neck. There were all tell tale signs that she was nervous, and all things that he could use to his advantage. She was lying to him, and to herself and he was going to have to do something about that. If he had to start with his own truth, then so be it.

“You were right, okay? About a lotta things, but mostly about him. There aren’t many regrets I have in life but trusting him over you… that was a stupid move,” he explained, clearing the first barrier between them.

He saw the way her shoulders slumped, no doubt surprised by his honesty. Hell, he was too but he was ready to clear the air between them. Slowly, he walked up the stairs, his eyes connecting with hers even through the darkness but she shuffled back the closer he got.

She shook her head, walking backwards towards the french doors leading to the deck. “I told you… I told you I wasn’t going to do this with you again and I meant it.”

“You know you can’t stay away from me for too long, Y/N,” he called her out, smirking.

She scoffed before turning around, rushing towards the doors back into the house. She looked over her shoulder as she attempted to shut them, but his hands came up to block her from doing so. She stumbled back as he followed her in, sauntering towards her. He was merely inches from her, his eyes intense as he gazed down at her.

“Look, if I gotta drag you to Colombia with me kicking and screaming… well I’d prefer to hear you screaming once we get there,” he stated, a slow grin pulling at his lips.

“I’m not going anywhere with you,” she snapped. “Not after what you did to me.”

“I meant what I said before, Y/N,” he started, his snark dropping instantly and giving way to sincerity. “What I did to you… I fucking regretted it the second I did it.”

She shook her head. “I don’t believe you.”

He leaned in slightly, his eyes flitting between hers and her lips. “Let me make it up to you, then.”

“No,” she spat.

A rough hum escaped him as he lifted his fingers, lightly holding her chin. “Oh come on, don’t be like that, doll. You and me, snorting, sucking and fucking our way through Bogota’s gonna be real swell. So, what do you say?”

She smacked his hand away, glaring up at him. “You think you can just fucking waltz in here and I’ll fold for you?”

“Well, yeah, you fold pretty easy,” he winked.

“Not this time,” she mumbled, her voice wavering. “I hate you.”

She didn’t know who she was trying to convince, herself or him, but it was no use. He leaned down further, their faces close as he peered into her eyes. His hands came up to rest on her shoulders, thumbs lightly caressing the soft fabric of her robe as he felt her tense, a sharp inhale of her breath causing him to smirk. He had her. He knew he had her.

He clicked his tongue, shaking his head at her. “You can’t fool me, sugar. I know you’re carrying a torch for me.”

She lifted her hands and pushed at his chest, her lips pursing in frustration when he didn’t budge. “You’re fucking insane.”

“Maybe so, but I’m sure as fuck not wrong about this,” he whispered, not breaking eye contact with her. 

“Yeah? What makes you sure?”

His lips brushed over hers as he smirked lightly, closing the small gap between them as his mouth fused over hers. She breathed in harshly through her nose, her hands grasping at his vest, clinging to him desperately as he wrapped his arms around her. She fell into the kiss immediately, and she hated that so much. She was mad at herself, but she was absolutely livid with the traitorous bitch between her legs that grew wet instantly from just a fleeting embrace. She pulled back harshly, lifting her hand and slapping him across his face but it made no difference. He chuckled, the sound a little sinister as they both knew he had already proven his point.

She huffed at the sound of his laugh, shaking her head. “Fine! I am, okay? I’m not emotionally stunted like you but it’s not like it matters. So, you can kindly fuck off now.”

She tried to push away him once more, but he stood his ground as he maintained the powerful gaze between them. Despite the lingering tension in the air, feelings only partially spoken, they both knew that while they feel something, it would never manifest in a normal way. They were supes, they would never have a sense of normalcy that everyone else did, which meant they didn’t have to express themselves the same way, either. He was quite sure that neither of them even desired to.

“You ain’t lookin’ for flowers and chocolates and all that romantic shit from me, are ya?” he asked, firmly.

She visibly cringed at the thought. “Fuck no, I hate that crap.”

He nodded, slowly. “Then what do ya wanna hear from me?”

Y/N opened and closed several times, trying to find the words she needed to tell him exactly what she wanted. Theirs would never be a traditional relationship, and she didn’t even want that. She had it once, and it ended up almost destroying her. With the lack of words, she tried once more to pull away from him, but his strong arms around her waist kept her in place. His eyes never tore away from her as the silence dragged on, the tension so thick between them you couldn’t cut through it with any weapon.

“You wanna hear that I think you’re a goddamn fucking knockout, is that it?” he asked, breaking the silence with his rough timbre.

She gasped softly as she saw his green eyes darken. Slowly, he turned around and guided her backwards by her waist, their steps trepidatious as their gazes remained locked on each other.

“Or that you’re the only dame that’s ever made my heart race as hard as you’ve gotten my dick, that what you wanna hear?”

With each word and each step, he deliberately moved them back towards the dining table. She whimpered at his words, an arousal building inside her at his honesty, something she never thought she needed. The curve of her lower back pressed into the edge of the table, and before she knew it, he bent slightly to grasp her thighs, lifting her up to sit on the surface in one swift move. His lips captured hers in a rough kiss, the intensity not easing in the slightest as he trailed a path along her jaw. He moved down her neck, lingering on the spot he had so ruthlessly shoved a needle into, now free of the discolored bruise. His lips roamed over her chest, pulling the tie of her robe to fall open and reveal more of her to him. His tongue left a wet line down her breast, her head falling back as his mouth closed around her nipple. She hissed as his teeth grazed over her, their eyes meeting as he pulled back slightly.

“Or maybe you wanna hear that knowing you were the only one who ever tried to look for me…” he started, his hands gliding over her thighs as he spread them apart, exposing her wet heat. He never broke eye contact as he sank down slowly, her eyes widening as he dropped to his knees in front of her. “Sets my soul on fucking fire and makes me a total goner for you, doll.”

He wasted no time as he lifted her legs and placed them over his shoulders, moving to the apex of her thighs, taking a brief moment to revel in the patch of hair he enjoyed so much before licking a long stripe over her folds. He repeated the action several times before he circled her throbbing clit, a soft groan leaving him at the taste of her. Her eyelids fluttered, but she willed herself not to close them as she peered down to fully grasp the gravity of what he was doing. The guy who once declared “I don’t get on my fucking knees for anyone” was now in that exact position, something she never thought she’d ever get to witness. She moaned wantonly as her fingers slipped between his silky locks, gripping firmly to keep him in place, anchoring both of them to that moment.

“Taste so fucking good,” he muttered against her mound, his fingers digging into the flesh of her thighs. “Can’t get enough of you, baby.”

Y/N shifted closer to him, not wanting any space to exist between them as she continued to hold onto his head. She gasped as she felt his tongue tease her wet canal, delving deeper into her as another groan from him vibrated against her and sent a shiver through her whole body.

“Oh, fuck, Ben, that’s… god, that’s so fucking good,” she moaned, loudly. One of her hands slid up her own body, squeezing at her breast as the other stayed in his hair, her hips leisurely grinding against his face.

It was all too perfect. The soft lighting in her own home casting a golden glow over them, his hands roughly clinging to her thighs, just as she pinched her nipple into a hard bud, her other hand so tight in his luscious locks she feared ripping out even one precious strand. All of the words he had said to her before doing something she thought was impossible. As his tongue continued to move from her clit, through her slick folds and down to her entrance, just before her mind became foggy from the pleasure she was receiving, she had a realization about him. 

She didn’t need him to drop the big L-word. She knew very well that sometimes that word caused more problems than solving them, and she was far more interested in other qualities from him. Trust. Loyalty. Passion. While he had played fast and loose with trust the last time they were together, she believed him when he said he regretted his actions that day. So no, she didn’t need some big love confession, with hearts and glitter, because she had something far better than that. She had finally brought this man - America’s Greatest Supe - to his knees as he devoured her like a man starved, practically worshipping at the altar between her legs.

That was the only kind of declaration she needed.

A whine suddenly slipped past her lips as he pulled back from her, her hand reluctantly falling free from his hair. Their eyes locked again as he smirked at her little protest, his mouth glistening with her arousal. He kissed her thigh, just as one of his hands slid over her skin and down between her spread legs, moving between her folds. She threw her head back when two of his fingers slid inside her, slowly thrusting in and out of her tight heat. His lips closed over her swollen nub again, his tongue circling around it at the same pace, eliciting another whine from her, only more desperate this time. His ministrations quickly gained momentum, the pads of his fingers pressing into her sweet spot with precision which caused her to squeeze harder at both of her hardened nipples.

“Fuck, r-right there,” she whimpered, gazing down at him through hooded eyelids.

Y/N could feel the familiar pinch in her core, the pressure slowly building inside her as he went on. She felt her inner walls clench around his digits, the wet squelch of her arousal lewdly making it known how close she was. She felt the coil tightening, a moan escaping her at the steady climb to her inevitable peak, but she didn’t account for him having other ideas as his fingers sped up. His mouth pulled back, being replaced by his other hand as his fingers harshly rubbed at her bundle of nerves, as he continued to work the others faster.

She saw the way his jaw clenched, brows set in determination as he kept his face close between her open thighs, and she knew. She knew what the goal was, what he wanted from her and he was going to get it at any cost. A sensation she had only felt the last time he had done this to her began to bloom, adding to the already growing euphoria within her.

“Want you to make a fuckin’ mess, sugar,” he muttered, peering up at her. His fingers worked so hard and fast, that you could barely see them as he continued to push her to the edge. “Want you soaking my fingers and my face.”

“Ben, oh god, you’re-you’re gonna make me… again,” she mewled, shaking her head frantically. “I-I don’t think I can…”

A hard smack landed against her inner thigh, causing her to jolt as she squeaked in surprise.

He groaned softly, biting at her soft skin. “Oh yes, you can, doll. I wanna see my favorite little party trick again.”

Her head tipped back, eyes squeezing shut as her hands slipped away from her breast and gripped the edge of the table. A string of expletives and moans fell from her lips as his fingers continued their delectable torture, and before she even realized it her vision turned white behind her closed lids, her voice bouncing off the walls of her home as she screamed his name. She felt a steady stream of liquid flow out of her, vaguely recalling a delighted chuckle escape him as she felt his tongue lapping at everything she had to give. She breathed heavily as she slowly opened her eyes, glancing down to see him swipe his hand down his dripping beard.

“That’s never gonna get old,” he remarked, as he stood and scooped her up into his arms.

Her eyes had barely begun to focus but she could see her juices running down the thick veins of his neck, before he pressed his lips to hers, roughly. She moaned at the taste of herself on him, fingers scraping against the fabric of his suit. She hastily tugged at the material, a frustrated growl leaving her as she reached for the tactical vest to remove that first.

“Get this fucking thing off,” she muttered against his plump mouth.

He captured her wrists in a tight grip, pulling them away. “We’ll get to that. Right now, I wanna fuck that dripping pussy of yours.”

Y/N gasped as he suddenly pulled her off the table and flipped her around, pushing the front of her body down on the surface. Her breasts pressed into the cool wood, her hands splayed out on either side as he kicked her legs apart. She bit her lip in anticipation as she heard him unzip, a wanton moan falling from her as she felt him slap the large head of his cock against her dripping folds. He roughly tugged her robe off with a frustrated grunt, throwing it somewhere in the room and leaving her completely exposed to his clothed form. Without another second to spare, she squeaked as her eyes widened when he slammed into her, her walls sheathing him completely as they stretched around his girth. It had been weeks since she had felt him, and while that wasn’t long in hindsight, she had been craving that delicious sting that she had only ever experienced with his impressive size.

“Fucking Christ, this fucking filthy little snatch,” he grunted, feeling her around him, briefly pulling out before his hips swung back, pressing harder into her. “So tight, every goddamn time. No matter how many times this cock fucks you open it just snaps right back, huh, doll?”

She barely responded, a weak “yeah” being pushed out of her along with shortened bursts of air as he skipped over warming her up. His pace was already brutal, his hips smacking wetly against the curve of her ass, her juices still clinging to her skin from making her squirt. His thrusts were deep, already reaching that sweet spot inside her that only he had ever managed to, the continuous careen of his hips hard and fast. Her fingernails dragged along the hard wood of the table, a shrieking moan spreading condensation of her breath along the surface, but she couldn’t help the smirk that pulled at her lips. Flashes of their first time together, the night of the shareholders party, came to her. They had been briefly positioned much in the same way, her bent over the table as he ruthlessly pounded into her, before the legs of the table gave out from under it and he pulled her away. She didn’t hope for the same outcome, but just like he never took pause then as he kept going, she didn’t want him to stop now either.

“Ben, oh fuck, you… you feel so good,” she whimpered, reaching one hand back to latch onto his forearm and anchor herself to him. “You fuck me so good.”

He smirked as one hand slid up her back, fingers splaying into her hair and gripping it tight. “You’re fucking right I do. No one else ever fucked you like this, did they?”

“N-No, no one,” she stammered, trying to peer back at him.

Using her strands as leverage, he pulled her up off the table and leaned forward, his chest meeting her back, his lips close to her ear. He bit at her lobe, sucking it softly as his hot breath fanned against her cheek, sounds of pleasure like a constant waterfall from her lips. She was close to the edge again, her walls clenching around him as he continued to pound into her, the wet slap of skin echoing in the room. The hand at her hip lifted up, coming down hard over the curve of her ass, making her body jerk at the impact as she moaned loudly.

“And no one’s gonna fuck you like this ever again,” he growled into her ear, his voice low but the deep rumble in his chest vibrated against her back. “No one but me, right?”

“Y-Yes,” she gasped, her eyes squeezing shut. “Oh, fuck, I-I’m so close!”

His eyes stayed focused on her side profile as his hand struck her again, harder than before. A pleased hum left him when she mewled, taking in the way her features morphed with pleasure. “I can feel it, doll. Feel you squeezing around me, gonna make you squirt all over my cock…”

Her hands were flat against the surface of the table, but her fingers tried to curl in and give her some support as she held herself up. He pushed her back down, her nipples dragging along the shiny surface with each thrust, his hands back on the globes of her ass. He pounded into her over and over, feeling how hard her walls were gripping around him. He smirked, spreading her cheeks apart and eying the way the puckered hole squeezed around nothing, tempting him. His gaze flicked up to the back of her head as he sucked his thumb, bringing it down and slowly pushing it past the tight ring. The air was knocked out of her as she cried out, and that was all she needed. He slammed into her once, twice before she instantly let go, screaming his name as she felt her wetness cover him and flow down around his hard cock. He pulled out of her before she could fully come down, whimpering softly at the slow trickle of liquid down her thigh. A disappointed whine left her as she felt empty again. It was a feeling she now truly hated, wanting nothing more than to have him buried deep inside of her yet again and as soon as possible.

As she tried to catch her breath, she glanced back with blurry vision to see him strip himself of all his gear, his suit and his boots. She turned slowly, biting her lip as their eyes met, suddenly feeling bashful in front of him. He stepped closer to her, his rough fingers lightly pinching her chin when her gaze dropped briefly, bringing her face up to stare deeply into her eyes. Seconds dragged on as neither one of them made a move, her mind working overtime to try and figure out what he was thinking. He leaned forward, his forehead pressing to hers in an unexpected, intimate way, catching her off guard. She suddenly wondered what he might do next, completely taken aback by this small display of affection.

His hands slid down her arms, rough against her soft skin, lifting them up and draping them around his neck. Quickly, whatever unrecognizable feeling was in his eyes was replaced by that snark and playfulness she had come to enjoy, a grin pulling wide over his perfect teeth. He pulled her close and hoisted her up effortlessly, making her giggle as her legs automatically wrapped around his waist. He crossed the room in hurried strides, reaching the couch and pulling a cushion into place as he laid her down. She shifted back against it, making herself comfortable, pressing her lips together as she took in the full sight of it. The amber lighting of the room shined across his skin, bathing him in a golden light as it bounced off the hard lines of muscle. She felt her walls clench around nothing in anticipation of having him again.

“Got any of the good stuff lying around?” he asked, hovering over her as he pecked her lips.

She turned her head and tipped her chin towards the coffee table, his eyes following her gesture to the small black box kept on top of it. He reached over and opened it, smirking as saw a few different selections, but immediately grasping the small baggie of white powder between his fingers. He looked down at her as he opened it, shifting on the couch so he was closer to her. She frowned as she watched him, but as he tapped a line across her chest she found herself biting her lip. Their eyes met briefly as he leaned down, that shit-eating grin plastered across his features before he dragged his nose across, taking the line in one quick inhale. She moaned softly, unable to tear eyes away from him.

“Fuck, it’s even better off you, doll,” he smirked, making another line down her breast.

He repeated the action with the opposite nostril, ending it with a lick over her nipple which caused her to squeal at the tickling sensation, pushing him lightly as she giggled.

“Your turn,” he said, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively as he held the coke out to her.

She pushed herself up into a sitting position, taking it from him as her eyes dropped down to his cock. He was so hard, the tip a deep pink as it leaked precum and made her mouth fill with saliva at the mere sight. She moved forward, tapping out a line of the substance over the thick vein that ran along the length of his shaft, looking up at him through her lashes before she snorted the whole line. He groaned as he watched her, throwing his head back as she sucked at the head, swirling her tongue around it. She pulled back to take another quick bump off his length, smiling devilishly as she took him into her mouth again. She bobbed her head back and forth, licking around the tip every time she came up, moaning around him.

“This fucking mouth is gonna be the death of me,” he husked, jaw clenching as he gazed down at her. “Almost as much as that diamond pussy of yours…”

His right hand slipped into her hair, fingers gripping the strands tight and tugging hard, pulling her back from his cock. She gasped, peering up at him as a small chuckle bubbled up from her throat. The thumb of his other hand pushed her chin down, opening her mouth as he bent over, gathering saliva in his mouth and spitting it onto her waiting tongue. She moaned wantonly as she felt it, her head automatically being jerked back down to take his cock between her lips again. He grunted with each thrust into her throat, the sound matching the soft glugging noise coming from her, her own saliva collecting at the sides of her mouth. He gathered her hair into a ponytail before he pulled her head back, a harsh gasp leaving as her lungs burned, air filling them once again.

“Fuck me,” she breathed, her voice wavering desperately. “Ben, I-I n-need you to fuck me again.”

He chuckled maliciously, his fingers sliding across her face before they cupped under her jaw, squeezing her cheeks together. “Can’t get enough of this dick, huh?”

“No,” she managed to get out between squished lips.

Ben pushed Y/N’s shoulder, making her drop back on the couch, her head landing on the cushion again. He shifted closer to her as he took hold of his cock, smacking the head against her folds before sliding the length over them. She moaned softly, trying to catch a glimpse of what he was doing as she stared down the line of her body.

“Look at me, Y/N,” he stated, one side of his lips pulling up when she did. “Tell me how fucking bad you want this cock inside your pussy again. Beg me for it.”

A distressed hum left her as she clung to his shoulders, her fingers digging into his muscles. “Ben, please, I need it. I need it so bad, give it to me…”

He spread her legs further apart, continuing his torturous actions as he teased her wet heat with his shaft. “You gotta do better than that if you want me to give it to you again, doll.”

“Just fuck me, you son of a bitch,” she growled in frustration.

He drew back, his eyes darkened as a devilish smirk appeared on his face. His hand replaced his cock over her folds, coming down to strike her hard over her swollen nub. She screamed at the sting, but her eyes fluttered closed as it gave way to a blissful sensation. Her arms fell back over the arm rest, head tucked into the crook as her lips pressed into her skin. He struck her again, a shrieking moan escaping her as she bit down on the flesh of her bicep, chest heaving with deep breaths.

“You know you gotta ask nice, Y/N,” he ordered, leaning over her with his arms caging her in.

She breathed heavily as she turned her head, eyes reflecting the frenzy of everything she wanted. “Please, please Ben, fuck me. Fuck me hard, wanna feel that big dick stretching me open, filling me up. Please.”

“Now we’re getting somewhere,” he muttered, staring down into her eyes. His cock throbbed with every word she spoke, lining up to her entrance as he settled between her thighs. “This the cock you want, sugar? No one else’s, huh?”

She shook her head, meeting his piercing gaze. “No one’s… just-oh god!”

Her eyes widened as he slammed into her in one full thrust. Her words and her breath were cut short by the stretch, one of her hands leaving the arm rest to wrap around his neck, fingers combing into his locks. He groaned, feeling her walls instantly clench around him again, completely accustomed to him by now and making him feel a sense of pride. He leaned in further, lips brushing against hers as he remained still with her.

“Just what, huh?” he asked, his voice deep and husky as their gazes were locked on each other.

“Just want… just want your big cock fucking my filthy little snatch,” she begged, wantonly.

“Oh, fuck,” he chuckled, partly in amusement but also at the fact those words coming from her aroused him in a way he never thought possible. He nipped at her bottom lip, wiggling his eyebrows lewdly. “Guess I rubbed off on ya, huh?”

She couldn’t stop the urge to roll her eyes. “You’re so fucking gross.”

He slowly began to shift against her, his cock drawing back before moving in, teasing her once more. “Really? If I’m so fucking gross then maybe I put a stop to this…”

“Don’t you fucking stop,” she snapped, fingers practically ripping his hair as they gripped the strands hard.

He guffawed, the sound turning into a deep growl as she tugged at his locks. The brief interlude to tease her had been enough of the slowness, his hips not missing the beat as he thrusted into her harder, a loud moan falling from her lips. Her breath was caught in her throat as the glide of his cock within her was instantly too much, the pace hard and fast, exactly the way they both preferred it to be. Her walls stretched completely around his girth, a light sting that added to the pleasure of it all, as he slammed into her and pressed right up against her cervix. She threw her head back, mouth hung open as she cried out, practically feeling him in her stomach. The sound reached her ears as it bounced off the walls, as it did the wet slap of his pelvis against her thighs, adding to the cacophony of their rapturous fucking. It was a sensation that no one had been able to give her, not in her entire lifetime of performing the euphoric act. No one but Ben.

And he certainly didn’t expect to feel the same way. His head tipped back briefly, relishing the feel of her walls gripped around him like a vice, the veins in his neck straining against the skin. All the women, from countless backgrounds over the decades… they really had nothing on her. He looked back down at her, watching her eyes flutter as she struggled to keep them open, and he knew with the utmost confidence that it wasn’t an exaggeration. He knew she could hold her own against him, could give it back to him if needed, so if she was willing to put up with an asshole like him…

She really was something fucking special.

Christ on a Cross, I’m fucking in love with her.

“God, you’re so fucking beautiful,” he groaned, cupping her cheek.

She closed her eyes briefly, an incredulous giggle leaving her. “You’re just saying that ‘cause you’re fucking me right now.”

His hand wrapped around the back of her neck, and firmly jerked it up to make her look up at him. His gaze was unwavering, his jaw tight as he continued to pound into her in hard thrusts, despite the softness in his eyes.

“Far from the only time you’re beautiful, doll…”

With that, he picked up the pace into the most overwhelming rhythm. Short, deep, fast thrusts that she could barely form coherent thoughts around, her hand on the arm of the chair fisting the fabric. Her other hand slid down his muscular back, her fingertips glowing with embers and searing the skin, making a sharp grunt fall from his mouth as it all healed as quickly as it burned. They continued to look into each other’s eyes, both of their pupils dilated from the drug working through their systems, amplifying their need. Her whole body quaked from the sheer force of his thrusts, her breast swaying, their skin rippling as their bodies clapped against each other. The sounds that came from them and echoed around the room were downright animalistic, a feralness to the act that she hadn’t experienced before.

They were completely ravenous for each other, and she never wanted it to end.

“Oh, fuck! Ben, yes!” she screamed, back arching as her toes curled from everything he was making her feel. “R-Right there, don’t stop… don’t fucking stop, p-please!”

“Wouldn’t dream of it, sugar,” he muttered, the words fanning over her lips. “Already know you’re gonna cum so fucking hard for me. Want your little party trick soaking this couch, want it gushing everywhere, you got it?”

Before she could say anything, he closed the gap between them and kissed her, hungrily. It was all teeth and sucking, swollen and bruised lips refusing to separate more than an inch. Her hand moved from his back and gripped his pert ass, tight. The hand that clenched the arm rest held on for dear life, using the leverage to meet his thrusts. Her core tightened, the tingling sensation burning hot at that point, feeling it just beneath the surface along with the pressure of his cock pummeling harder into her. She reluctantly ripped her mouth away from his, gasping for breath as she stared up at him, her third orgasm of the evening building up faster than she was ready for.

“You’re fucking close, aren’t ya, baby?” he smirked, his hand skimming down the length of her body. “Fucking shit, I wanna see you lose it, Y/N. Let me see you lose it on this dick…”

“Ben, oh my god!” she shrieked, throwing her head back.

His fingers found her throbbing clit, circling it with sure fingers. Her hand left the arm rest behind her, slapping over the back of his neck as a continuous line of screams left her. His pelvis smacked against her repeatedly, relentlessly, sweat beading on their skin as the inevitable happened, her eyes rolling back as he fucked her open so raw in tandem with his deft fingers.

“There she is,” he observed, his voice a velvety husk as it trembled with his thrusts. “That’s it, doll, go dumb on it… go dumb on my fucking cock.”

Y/N felt herself slipping fast, vaguely comprehending his fingers working faster on her swollen nub. She could no longer process anything, far too overwhelmed by everything she was feeling. That familiar pressure was at the precipice now, and with another swipe of his fingers along with a deep slam of his shaft into her, her vision blurred as she screamed. She wasn’t sure if she heard his words, a muffled “cum for me” making it past the barrier, but her body naturally reacted to his command. The release came in an overpowering wave, so strong that his cock slipped out of her, her juices flowing out of her in a steady rush. It all slipped over the couch, some of it on him as he marvelled at the sight.

“Fuck,” he chuckled, amazed as he smoothed a hand down her thigh. “I swear I’m gonna keep you over hydrated just to do this every fucking day.”

She breathed heavily, her breasts heaving as she came down from her high, a small smile pulling at her lips as she registered what he said. God help her, she might die from it but what a way to go. She let out a small whine as he pressed his cock into her overstimulated pussy, filling her up once more. He resumed the same pace as before, her limp body immediately reacting as she gripped onto his shoulders. His gaze locked on hers, the smirk never leaving his face as he continued to slam into her, hoping to get another release out of her as he also chased his own.

“You gonna give me another, Y/N?” he asked, his voice raspy.

She shook her head, tears brimming at her waterline. “I-I can’t-”

“What did I say about that word, huh?” he warned, clicking his tongue. “Come on, doll, give me one more and I’ll give you this big load you’re so desperate for, come on…”

His hips shifted against hers in long, hard drags as he grunted, the power it took slowly depleting. The rhythm faltered as he felt his cock pulsing inside her, her walls contracting around him again, ready to fall over the edge with him. His fingers moved down to the bundle of nerves, working them over in fast circles, causing a sobbing moan to escape her as she felt the dam burst once more. A few tears rolled down her cheeks, but the tired smile that split her lips told him she was more than okay, as he leaned in and licked the salty substance off her jaw.

“Oh, fuck… fucking shit, doll, you’re-you’re gonna make me-”

Ben threw his head back, his neck straining and a strangled grunt pushing up from his throat as he felt his cock throb. He groaned as he felt all his muscles relax, ropes of seed spilling out of him and coating her walls. She moaned softly as she felt him filling up, biting her lip when she realized he wasn’t lying about a big load; more spurts of his cum rolling deeper into her continuously. Once he gave her everything he had to give, his spent cock pulled out of her, but he made no effort to move off her.

In fact, her legs wrapped tighter around his hips and kept him in place, her arms around his neck as she pulled him close. His large hand came up and brushed her soaked strands away from her forehead, both of them surprised to have worked up such a sweat. It didn’t happen often being a supe, but something about it made her feel giddy inside.

“You’re… you’re never fucking teasing me like that again,” she stated through harsh breaths.

He chuckled, shaking his head as he narrowed his eyes. “Interesting that you think you can tell me what to do.”

“Well, maybe you should see what it feels like,” she challenged, lifting an eyebrow.

“Oh, you wouldn’t get the fucking chance, sugar,” he husked against her lips, nipping the bottom one. “I’ll make you a weeping mess in no time and you fucking know it.”

She grabbed onto either side of his face and brought him down, kissing him roughly as her thighs squeezed around him. She never wanted to let go.

“I guess I better give you a breather, but let me tell ya now, doll,” he said, smirking down at her. “You better be ready for me to fuck you all night long.”

“You’re incorrigible,” she whispered, a small giggle leaving her as he pinched her side.

He grinned. “You fucking love it…”

Yeah, she thought as she stared up into his stunning green eyes, ready to only admit it to herself at that moment, I really do.

It was the early hours of the morning, well past midnight. Y/N wasn’t sure, but it was possibly closer to 3AM if she was keeping track of the time. Which she most definitely wasn’t.

How could she when Ben had made good on his promise of fucking her all night. At some point they had moved from the couch to the floor, with more room for both of them. The coffee table had been pushed to the side, cushions and blankets covering the luxurious rug that provided comfort from the hardwood floors. The fireplace was on, the crackling low and soothing as the reflection of the fire danced across their undulating bodies.

She was on her side facing the fire, his chest pressed up against her back as he held her legs open, one thigh in his tight grip as his hips rolled against her from behind. Her arm was wrapped back around him, fingers tugging at his locks as he kissed along her neck. His other hand snaked under her body, coming up to curl over her throat, adding a firm pressure that had her moaning loudly. The hand on her thigh slipped down further, moving past the thatch of curls and finding her clit. His fingers rubbed hard circles over it, working in unison with the way his cock was splitting her open.

“Ben,” she whimpered, turning her head to look back at him, pulling on his hair. “Fuck me harder, please… I-I need it.”

He leaned in, kissing her breathlessly, hot breath fanning over lips as he pulled away. “I know what you need, doll. Don’t gotta tell me twice…”

The rhythm of his thrusts changed from long, hard rolls to short, hard and fast slaps of his pelvis against her ass. His fingers circled faster too, wanting her to reach that blissful peak quickly. Maybe it was the position, maybe it was the way his hand at her throat, at her clit and his cock all worked in tandem, but it wasn’t much longer before she felt herself falling over the edge. She squeezed her eyes shut, a shout of name on her lips as her wetness covered his shaft. Her orgasm prompted his, slamming into her a few more times before he let out a low growl, spilling deep inside her. He had no idea how many times he had by then, but he fulfilled her request of keeping her full of him.

He pulled out of her slowly, a hiss leaving her at the soreness between her thighs, but it was far from a complaint. He turned onto his back, glancing at her as she did the same. As they came down from their high, they breathed heavily as he settled back against the pillows and pulled the blanket over them. She softly rested her head on his chest, her fingers lightly running over his skin, making odd shapes as he pulled her closer into his side. He shifted up slightly and reached over to the coffee table, picking up the pack of her regular cigarettes. He brought the pack to his mouth, his lips closing over the filter of one and slipping it out of the pack. Without any prompting, she moved her hand up and clicked her fingers, the small flame between them burning the end of the cigarette. He took a long drag, blowing out the smoke in small rings between his pursed lips, making her laugh lightly. She poked each of them as they disappeared, accepting the cigarette from him. 

“So, Colombia, huh?” she asked, taking a pull before passing it back to him.

“Yep. As much of this as we want,” he replied, scrubbing the residue of coke off his hand. His eyes glanced down the length of her body as he brought the cigarette to his lips, taking a long pull. He reached around her, his hand coming down in a hard smack, making her yelp. “And as much of this as I want.”

She turned onto her stomach, narrowing her eyes playfully. “Not sure how I feel about sharing your cock with another woman.”

“Don’t get fucking possessive, doll. You know your pussy’s the only one that gets me at a full salute in three seconds flat,” he stated, handing the cigarette back to her with a smirk.

“Guess I can make an exception if I get to partake too,” she reasoned, taking a drag before resting the cigarette on the ashtray.

He clicked his tongue, placing an arm behind his head as he looked at her. “Sorry, sugar. Afraid I can’t allow that.”

“Double standards, much?” she scoffed, but she was far from offended. It was just another layer to their banter.

“Those are the terms, baby. We already established that little cooch ain’t taking any dick but mine,” he said, stroking his hand up and down her arm.

She bit her lip as she slowly leaned in, her lips brushing against his in a whisper. “Who said anything about dick?”

“Fuck,” he husked, his grin widening. “Now that I’d like to see.”

She punched his shoulder, letting out a shriek as he grabbed her wrist and pulled her on top of him. She cackled as he leaned in, sucking a wet kiss onto her neck, nipping at the same spot. She couldn’t stop as he continued, purposely running his jaw along her skin, his beard scratching and tickling her.

“Ben! Oh my god, stop!” she laughed, trying to push him away.

He grinned when she finally succeeded, punching him lightly again before she sat up, throwing the blanket off. She stood up carefully, her legs weak from all their rigorous activity and made her way out of the living room.

He frowned, leaning up on his elbows as he watched her naked form retreat. “Hey, get that gorgeous ass back in here!”

“Hold on!”

His brows furrowed as he heard her rummaging around in her cabinets, wrappers crackling, glasses clinking. He sat up properly, leaning his elbows on his bent knees, glancing around her living area. He lifted his eyebrows in surprise at the large flat screen and some of the other things his vintage tastes couldn’t really figure out, until his sight landed on something he could definitely get on board with. He stood up, walking over to the record player in the corner, sitting on top of angled shelves housing all of Y/N’s records. As he heard her still looking for things in her cabinets, he crouched down to flip through them, trying to find something that might feel familiar.

“Fucking jackpot,” he muttered, pulling out a Sinatra record and looking at the back of it. He smirked as he straightened up, opening the top of the player and sliding the vinyl out. He placed it on the deck, lifting the needle into it and waited for the soft croon. “Now, that’s what I’m talkin’ about…”

Y/N walked out of the kitchen, her arms full with two packets of potato chips, Oreos, a bottle of whiskey and two glasses precariously squeezed between her fingers. She blinked a few times in surprise as she heard the familiar opening notes of “It Had To Be You” by Frank Sinatra, slowly sauntering into the living room to see Ben settle back on the floor, sitting back against the couch this time. She didn’t even remember she had this record, but as she stepped closer to him, she felt her heart beating faster as saw his eyes closed with a small smile pulling at his lips.

“Isn’t this a little cheesy for you?” she asked, unable to resist teasing him.

He clicked his tongue as he looked up at her, shaking his head. “Not cheesy. Classic.”

She settled down next to him, placing everything in her hands down between them. She picked up the bottle of whiskey, pouring a generous amount into each tumbler, before picking them both up. She watched as he took the cigarette from the ashtray and brought it to his lips, taking another puff, handing over one glass to him. They clinked their glasses together, each taking a sip. He took the glass in his left hand that had the cigarette pinched between his fingers, his right arm free to wrap around her. She leaned into him, neither saying a word as they listened to old Frank serenade them.

“Did you know him?” she asked, curious about a past that only he knew was familiar with.

He nodded, snorting a small laugh. “The guy really knew how to throw a party.”

“Wow,” she whispered, taking a sip of her drink as they fell quiet again.

As the song continued, she felt at ease, almost like she had slipped into a dream. Just when she was about to chastise herself for the ridiculous notion, his large hand curled over hers, lacing their fingers together. Her eyes widened as she glanced down at their joined hands briefly, looking back at him to see him gazing back at her. She shifted closer to him, leaning her forehead against his. She closed her eyes, relishing the rare display of affection from him, his nose nuzzling against hers as his thumb lightly stroked over her knuckles.

Ben tilted his head and pressed his lips to hers in a searing kiss, the kind that held more truth than words ever could. The kind that solidified something without having to say it out loud. Slowly, she pulled away but kept her gaze on him, her lips pressing together as her eyes darkened. She felt a wetness trickle down her thigh, causing her to bite her lip. She almost didn’t want to say anything and ruin this rare moment, but if anything, she knew he’d appreciate it even more. He looked at her with furrowed brows, unsure of the sudden change.

“You’re dripping out of me,” she rasped, pressing her thighs together.

His expression morphed as he grinned at her, one of his hands sliding down her torso and between her thighs, making her open them again. He groaned, feeling his cum between her folds. He brought his fingers up for her to see, the creamy white substance leaving her salivating.

“Fuck me, doll,” he husked, watching it run down his digits. “Open up…”

Without further instruction, she dropped her jaw and stuck her tongue out, allowing him to push his fingers in, her mouth closing around them. She softly sucked their shared juices off his skin, his eyes transfixed as he saw how greedily she took the offering. He pulled them back with wet pop, seeing them completely licked clean. Their eyes locked as she gulped hard, smiling mischievously as she swallowed it down.

“Show me,” his rough voice ordered.

She opened her mouth, showing him that it was empty.

He smirked. “Good girl.”

She hummed, loving the warm feeling his praise gave her. She leaned into him, her hand stroking up and down his chest. “So, this is how you’re gonna spend an eternity?”

“Can’t think of a better way,” he replied, taking a sip of his drink. “And you’re gonna spend it the same way, if I got anything to do with it.”

She sighed. “Ben, There’s no more V1.”

“If there was one dose, there’s gotta be another,” he stated, firmly as he looked directly into her eyes. “Worth a shot, right?”

“Right,” she nodded, even if she wasn’t sure that it was possible.

He cupped her cheek in his solid grip, bringing her in to fuse their lips together, the embrace slow but passionate. She sucked in a deep breath through her nose, her breasts pressing into his chest as she moved closer to him. They had created a little bubble for themselves in this post-Homelander world, and neither one of them was ready to leave it any time soon. They’d wait a few days for things to blow over with Vought, before silently taking their leave and heading to Bogota. If anyone had told her decades ago that she would end up here, in the arms of Soldier Boy, she would’ve laughed in their face. Hell, she probably would’ve done that even just a few weeks ago despite them reuniting again. As the kiss deepened, their mouths moving rougher against each other, she could barely believe that this man was talking about spending eternity with her.

But she did believe it. Just as something had changed in her, something had changed in him. They may never say it aloud to each other, and that was okay. She felt it. That was more than enough.

“That’s it.” He abruptly stopped the kiss, placing their glasses on the table and stubbing out the cigarette. He grabbed her by her hips roughly, turning her around. “I’m cuttin’ this sap fest short. You’re due for a refill...”

She laughed at his choice of words as he playfully tackled her to the floor, causing her to let out a squeal. She pulled him down on top of her as she laid back on the cushions, the kiss resuming once more as she wrapped her legs around him, ready to take whatever he was about to give her.

If a lifetime is what they had to spend together, then at least there would never be a dull moment.

If you had a comeback, it’s squeezed from your head by Dean’s grip. He was teasing. Your logical brain knows that. It’s just like how you tell him he reminds you of the little boy at work who hugs a toy car at nap time.

Although you always say that like it’s a joke, when it’s really not. You look at the boy and imagine a tiny Dean, maybe with hair and skin a little more like yours, sitting on your knee and showing you all his different cars. You think about a world where you get to kiss his forehead good night, then Dean kisses you good night.

The most dangerous part of your job is that it makes you ovulate all the time. All those stupid cute kids that you don’t even really want right now, feeding your fantasies about having a life with your roommate.

Agreeing to Dean’s dumb plan was the worst possible choice you could’ve made. You’re not going to be able to handle it. You’re already not handling it, and all it is so far is Dean’s hand in yours, and how casually he keeps calling you his girlfriend. Like that word isn’t the start and end of your whole life.

You can’t tell him to stop. He’d wave you off and say he was practicing, and when you insisted that he not, he’d ask why.

And you don’t have a good answer to that. So you let him chat with the fisherman standing next to you at the belt, rambling about how he and his girlfriend are here for his brothers wedding. You don’t let yourself dwell on how he pushes you in front of him, like he’s trying to show you off. Or how he keeps praising you for basically breathing near him.

He doesn’t need his stupid practice. He’s already too good at this.

You put your food down when you go to rent a car. You don’t have another choice.

“My wife likes Chevys.” Dean says, peering at the options the attendant is showing him, and you gag on the bottled smoothie he bought you.

You do not.

And- And-

“Why did you call me your wife.” You hiss, and Dean shrugs.

“I dunno. Sounds better than girlfriend, right?”

He grins at you, and you’re going to smack him.

This isn’t fun for you. It’s not a game. It’s cruel, and you can’t even tell him why.

You don’t answer. Dean’s shoulders square, and a tiny frown flashes over his face.

“It bother you?” He mutters, as you’re walking to the car. “When I- Said that?”

You haven’t spoken in ten minutes. His voice is so soft it aches like a bruise on fruit.

“No.” You mutter, and you’re a liar, but what the fuck are you supposed to say.

Yes. So much. Don’t call me your wife unless you mean it. Don’t touch me unless you mean it. Why can’t you just mean it.

Dean murmurs your name, and you shake your head.

“It’s fine, Dean.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Shucks.”

“Sweetheart-“

“I’m just trying to get in the headspace of girlfriend, okay?” You give him a tight smile. “Wife messes up my acting.”

Dean examines you for a second. His fingers curve, where he’s holding your hip.

You keep smiling. It hurts like your face is being peeled off.

“Your acting.” He mutters. “Right.”

Some very evil part of your brain dreams up that he sounded upset about that. Another one sneers that he bought it so easily because he can’t even imagine a world where you’d be anything but acting here.

Acting is going to be the easy part.

Not letting your foul little heart sink its claws into his acting as evidence. That’s what’s going to leave a scar after.  

It’s another two hours, to get up to the ranch Sam and Jess are renting for the wedding. The moment Dean gets behind the wheel he relaxes, grinning widely and leaning back in the seat. You smile out the window, and hide your flush when his hand finds your thigh.

“It’ll be late when we get there.” He says. His thumb is drawing circles into your skin.

It’s not real.

“We’ll have time to change, but-“ He sighs. “We’re gonna have to fuckin’ run to dinner. My Dad will shoot us if we’re late.”

You huff a small laugh, just for Dean’s sake. You don’t think he’s joking. 

And as happy as it made you to see his relief when you landed safely, as high as it felt to hold his hand while you walked to baggage, and how good it felt to have him keep an arm around you while you grabbed the rental car, it makes you feel sick to watch him slowly curl into himself, the closer and closer you get to the ranch. 

To seeing his family. 

To seeing his dad. 

Anything you know about John Winchester is what Dean’s told you. None of it has made you his biggest fan. Not the military shit, not the strictness or casual stories he’s thrown out about John threatening to kick him out, and only Mary being able to talk him out of it. 

But you know Dean admires his Dad. Know how important family is to him in general.

“There’s a lotta us. Sammy didn’t invite them all, ‘cause- You know.” He whistles, and you smile.

“Crazy.”

“Exactly. Grandma and Grandpa, they got pulled outta Florida. Sam couldn’t get away with leaving them out. But the rest of them? Freakin’ weirdos.”

You hum, focused more on trying to remember what you know about Dean’s family.

He’s told you that you didn’t need to know everyone. You insisted that he at least quiz you.

He’d made you flashcards. You’d spent most of the plane ride after he knocked out memorizing them.

“Samuel and Deanna.” You rattle off. “They like Fox News and unsolved network. You’re named after Deanna. Sam’s named after Samuel. They were… Farmers.”

“Of a sort.” Dean mutters under his breath. “More like freakin’ cult members. But- Yeah.” He shoots you a grin. “Good job.”

You flush, smiling back. “Hit me with another.”

“C’mon, you really don’t have to memorize them-“

“Another.”

Dean rolls his eyes, but starts quizzing you. You ace it. He smiles like he’s proud of you, squeezing your thigh.

“You’re gonna win an Oscar, sweetheart.”

You stick your tongue out at him, and he flicks your nose with a carefree laugh.

He looks carefree. Even with the tardiness and looming storm of his father. You did that.

And you’re important to Dean, too. Even if he doesn’t love you, you know you’re important to Dean. Important enough for him to touch and ask you for such intimate favors. 

Probably not close enough to trump his dad. 

So you don’t say anything, as you watch him get restless. Don’t mention that his leg is bouncing, or how he keeps looking over his shoulder when you pull into the parking lot. Dean grabs your arm and drags you inside, looking at his watch every few seconds with a paler and paler face. You’d gotten stuck in traffic, which wasn’t his fault at all, but you don’t think it’s smart to say that either. 

“Dean.” You say gently when you get to the room. He’s still holding your hand. “I have to go get changed.”

“Uh- Yeah.” He blinks at you, eyes dragging over your body. You press your thighs together, heat blooming from the attention. By a small miracle, he doesn’t seem to notice at all. 

“My hand.” You prompt him gently, and for a second he looks like he really doesn’t understand what you’re saying. “Dean, I can’t change if you’re-“

“Shit. Right.” He lets you go, stumbling back like you burned him. “Sorry. Just- Can you be fast-“

“Five minutes. Promise.”

And you don’t know how you keep that promise—doing your hair, basic makeup, making yourself presentable and nice because it might be fake but it still matters—but you do. You come out to find Dean sitting on the edge of the bed, cleaned up pretty well himself, leg bouncing as he stares at his phone. 

Bed.

Single bed. 

Fuck. 

Dean looks up, and his throat bobs. “Awesome. You ready?”

You nod, and hold out a hand. It’s a small gesture that’s too quickly becoming an instinct. 

Even worse is how fast Dean takes your hand. Like he’s not really thinking about it either. 

He doesn’t seem to the be thinking about any of this. It’s coming like air to him, how he’s walking you down to the hotel restaurant, standing taller and taller with every step. He keeps you close, so close there’s no way to read it but romantic. When you arrive, he scans over the room with an alert expression, keeping you a little behind him. You see the moment he finds his family. 

He smiles, squares his shoulders, and lets out a heavy breath. You see a blonde woman with his eyes and smile stand up from a table on the far side of the room, and—when you dare to lean a little further over Dean’s shoulder—a man grabbing her arm. A man who looks so similar to Dean—hair a little darker, face a little more worn but still remarkably similar—but doesn’t have his smile at all. You’re not sure this man knows how to smile. It feels like it would be wrong on his face.

“Showtime.” Dean mutters, squeezing your hand, and before you can damn this all and run—not real, but too real, and there’s a ringing starting in your ears—he kisses the top of your head and drags you forward, and there's no going back.

✦Chapter Ten✦

✦End note: next chapter super long lmao. we get to meet the family! ✦

✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦

✦Buy me a coffee!☕️ (and get early access!)✦

Author's Note

Welcome to the result of my wrath. An expansion of my soldier boy x reader series, No Love Lost, made to be a more explict rewrite of the Boys season four and five. If you're going in with no prior knowlege of the other fic, enjoy! If you're coming over from No Love Lost, hello! I hope you enjoy this one as well. Going in, no matter what, please forgot everything released after season 3. Gen V, season four and five, Vought rising, none of it's real. I hope you enjoy the story!

Chapter List

Prologue (7/6) (on ko-fi now!)

Season 4

Episode 1 - Down the Rabbit Hole Episode 2 - What's Dead and Buried Episode 3 - The Limelight Episode 4 - All of Us Heathens Episode 5 - Good Hair Day Episode 6 - On Shadowboxing, Spiderwebs, and Songbirds Episode 7 - Titanfall Episode 8 - The Firebird's Gambit Episode 9 - Metamorphia Episode 10 - You Scratch My Back Episode 11 - Buzz Buzz Buzz Episode 12 - Transmutation Episode 13 - Quick, Bald, and Broke Episode 14 - Heaven, Ohio Episode 15 - When You Hear the Bell Toll Episode 16 - Scurry Under the Mountain Episode 17 - Blinding Neon Glitter Episode 18 - hymns Episode 19 - Jersey Devils Episode 20 - Don't Wake the Sleeping Dragon Episode 21 - The King of Babel Episode 22 - Diet Euphoria Episode 23 - Event Horizon

Season 5

Episode 1 - It's Always Sunny Episode 2 - Go With the Changing Tides Episode 3 - That Big Silver Screen Episode 4 - On the Tenth Day Episode 5 - Put One Right Between the Eyes Episode 6 - Washed Up and Sold Out Episode 7 - Love Thy Neighbor Episode 8 - So It Goes Episode 9 - Bloodshot Episode 10 - Flipping Texas Episode 11 - The Untouchables Episode 12 - Mr. Butcher Goes to Washington Episode 13 - And When You Love Her, Remember to Look Back Episode 14 - Homelander: The Musical Episode 15 - Run the Gauntlet Episode 16 - Operation Ranch Hand Episode 17 - Hail Mary Episode 18 - Abandon All Hope Episode 19 - Benjamin, or Italy Episode 20 - Oroborus Episode 21 - Veni Vidi Vici Episode 22 - Every Demon Wants His Pound of Flesh Episode 23 - Sunrise, Sunset

Dean glances down at each packet. He snorts and tosses the first one into the metal garbage bin beside his desk. Sam frowns.

“What was wrong with that one?”

“He’s a dude. Don’t you think we’ve got enough of a sausage fest going on around here?” Dean says, gesturing wide at the multi-floor building that makes up HunterCorp. His father’s enterprise, distilled down to two sons who, on their best day, have very different opinions on what makes for a good executive assistant.

Sam utters a longsuffering sigh.

“Man or woman, you need a real assistant, Dean. Someone competent enough to deal with your demanding schedule and…personality.”

“What’s wrong with my personality?”

“And I need you to have an assistant so I can focus on my real job. You know, running the entire Legal department.”

Dean rolls his eyes. “I know how to do my job, okay? I think I’ve picked up the slack pretty damn well since Dad died.”

Sam pauses, acknowledging that with a nod, and a heavier note.

“Yeah. You have.”

“So while I’m throwing money away hiring for a wholly unnecessary assistant, who I’m gonna have to tolerate looking at every day, I might as well be looking at somebody hot,” Dean says.

Another exhale leaves Sam’s body, along with the brief buoyant feeling of admiration for his brother.

And now we’re back where the neanderthals live. 

Sam gets a text from Reception that has his pocket buzzing. After he checks the message, he nods to himself. Here we go.

“All right. The first one is on her way up now, so do me a favor and get yourself together,” he says. “For example, it’s a little early for the booze, don’t you think? It’s 10:00 a.m.”

Dean pauses. The crystal decanter in his hand is halfway to pouring his first fifth of whiskey.

Second breakfast, if you will.

He gives his brother a flat look, one that’s accusing him of being an eternal wet blanket. But he begrudgingly concedes the point and puts both the decanter and the tumbler in a cabinet under his desk.

Classy. Sam rolls his eyes.

A knock at the door stops him from commenting out loud.

Clearing his throat, he walks over to let you in.

“Hi, Sam…and Mr. Winchester,” you say, shaking hands with the slightly taller brother. Then you turn to Dean Winchester, CEO of HunterCorp. He stands and leaves his desk to greet you.

In the time it takes him to cross the room, he takes you in within the breadth of a few seconds. More than the professional pantsuit and your pretty face, he notices your bright smile, the slight bout of nerves in the way you shake his hand. He finds himself smiling back.

“Uh, hi,” he says eloquently. “Call me Dean. Can we get ya some water, coffee, iced tea…”

He doesn’t even think they have iced tea, but he’s willing to make Sam go and find some.

“No, thank you. I’m fine,” you reply.

“Okay, then. Just, uh, take a seat.” He gestures to the open seat in front of his desk before he returns to his own plush leather chair. It squeaks as he swivels back in place. He shares a nod with Sam, who heads out of the office. The door closes behind him.

Dean glances down at the list of questions Sam prepared for him to ask each candidate, a sheet of paper that lies over your resume. He brushes the questions aside and focuses on the information printed under your name.

His brows raise in interest. “You graduated from Stanford University like my brainiac brother?”

The sound of your light laugh draws his gaze from the page, up to your face.

“Yeah, we were actually friends. It’s just been…a while,” you say, clearing your throat a little.

Dean inclines his head. His understanding grows along with his suspicion as he reads.

“Look at that, a Marketing major. Looks like you had a couple of promising internships too.”

“In college, yes.”

“And you were a Communications Specialist at Ashland for…eight months in 2021?”

“Yes, that’s right.” Again, you nod, smoothing a non-existent wrinkle in your pants. Your gaze falls away from his.

This time, Dean thinks you know full well what he’s getting at when he sets down your resume.

“That was five years ago,” he says. “You haven’t worked in five years since getting out of college?”

“It’s a bit complicated,” you admit, though you sit a little straighter. “I gave birth to my daughter, Emma, in November of 2021. My ex…was not supportive. My mother was also having some heath issues, so I moved back home to help my father take care of her. They took care of me too.”

Your fingers flex and interlace together in your lap. Dean notices the subtle fidget, but otherwise you’re calm and professional as you admit to something so personal. He can respect that you didn’t try to bullshit him.

“Hmm. Complicated,” he nods, then hesitates. “How’s your mom doing now?”

Your lips tug, but not at a smile. “She passed away a few weeks ago.”

Dean dims further as he inhales deeply. “I’m sorry.”

You give a tight nod, your throat swallowing.

“Look, since you’ve been honest with me, I’m gonna be real with you,” he says. “I run a company of 300 employees, 20 departments, 10 floors. I work 60-hour weeks minimum. I meet with department heads, shareholders, business partners and prospective clients on the daily—the kind of schedule that would make your head spin. I know you’ve done what you had to do, but I’m not sure you’re ready for a job like this. And that’s besides the fact that I’m not convinced I even need an assistant who’s probably just going to slow me down by sticking her nose into my process and asking questions I don’t have the damn time to answer.”

You tighten up at that, understandably taken aback. Your lips purse, but instead of tossing him a fuck you then and walking out, like he half expects, you sit with his words. You think it through, and you give him exactly what he doesn’t expect. 

“I may not have been clocking into an office for the past few years, but I haven’t been a stranger to hard work, Mr. Winchester. I’ve done nothing but fulfill the role of an assistant,” you say, and your gaze never leaves his when you say it. “Appointments, calls, messages, emails, paperwork, finances, data reports, coffee, power lunches, drycleaning—whatever you need, however quickly you need it, I can get it and I can make it happen. If there’s someone you can rely on, it’s a single mother who knows how to get shit done.”

Dean understands now. He understands the pain hidden in your eyes, and the too-tight set of your shoulders that hold the weight of responsibility. Urgency. A hint of desperation.

You need this job, maybe a little too much.

He should let you down gently. You’re not the kind of girl he’s looking for.

But whenever his mind and his gut are in conflict, he usually heeds his gut. That’s worked out well for him so far.

So he shrugs, and he stands up, holding out his hand to you across the desk.

“Like I said, call me Dean.”

Two Weeks

He groans into the ceramic mug at the first sip. Jesus Christ, you make a good fucking cup of coffee. That’s not even in the top five of the talents you possess, as it pertains to his business and your ability to learn quickly, talk minimally, and begin to anticipate his needs.

You dress nice, you’re always on time, and hell, you smell good too. Like body lotion and just the right amount of perfume. Obviously he can’t comment on any of these things, unless he wants a visit from Meg in HR. But it doesn’t stop him from noticing you, his heart thumping whenever you come in close to show him a document or ask him a question about a report.

Instead of rolling his eyes or snapping that you should have someone who’s not running this entire company explain it to you—like he did the last assistant who didn’t even survive three days—Dean finds an ounce of patience to spare for you.

He sits there and explains the difference between an M1911 handgun and a shotgun, and why the background checks take two months for one model and a few weeks for the other one is just a difference of state law, not HunterCorp’s manufacturing techniques.

Sam is rather fucking gloaty about it too—mainly at the fact that his top candidate made it through Dean’s initial hiring plans.

“Admit it, she’s good,” Sam says later in the day, while the two of them eat lunch together in his office. You just had it delivered ten minutes ago, still piping hot.

“She’s all right, for being your little college friend.” Dean slurps his lo mien and casts his brother some side-eye. “Is that all she was, or did you two occasionally sneak off for a little rec room break on the side?”

Sam gives him a flat look. “No, I was with Jess by then.”

“Just asking.” Dean shrugs. Secretly, he’s pleased. “You know anything about the ex-boyfriend, Father of the Year?”

Sam snorts in derision. “Some asshole in Sales while she was at Ashland. From what I heard, they were dating for six months or so, and she got pregnant. He, uh, tried to get her to end it.”

Dean frowns, and actually pauses eating to raise his head.

“She told you that?” he asks.

Sam holds back on answering for a suspicious moment, his eyes shifting down at his food.

“Made a couple calls to some contacts I have over there,” he says.

Spies, in other words. Dean nods in understanding. His brother’s always been the smart one. That’s what everyone used to say, including their father.

Two Months

You’re not sure if you should do it.

You have a sensitive report in your hand, fresh off the printer. You really think Dean should see it before he gets any deeper into his negotiations with Roman Enterprises, but he’s meeting with them right now in the big conference room, with Dick Roman himself, as well as the rest of his sales and legal representatives.

This isn’t the first meeting Sam and Dean have undergone with the company; Roman Enterprises been courting HunterCorp into a partnership on a new product, but this could be the day that makes the big swinging dicks in the room shake hands (even if that little visual almost makes you snort).

Dean’s never expressly warned you about entering a meeting uninvited, but it’s still nerve wracking as you stand outside the door. You can hear familiar voices, including the nasally tone of Alastair, the one who gives you the creeps whenever he slithers through the office and gives you a “charming” once-over.

But you also hear Dean. His voice is deep and smooth and confident. It gives you the little confidence boost you need to twist the knob and push the door open.

Just as you predicted, with a sinking feeling, all eyes turn to you when you enter the conference room. Sam and Dean and their lead sales manager, Cas, look over at you in varying degrees of surprise (Cas with disapproval). Dick Roman remains impassive, if slightly amused when you squeak out an, “I’m sorry.”

It’s Alastair’s gaze you feel on your profile when you quickly make your way around the large conference room table and over to Dean. You lean over to hand him the paperwork.

His lips purse when he notices the line of Alistair’s gaze—on your ass.

Dean then frowns at you, and your express delivery.

“What’s this? You think it could’ve waited?” he asks in a low whisper.

“Look,” you whisper back, pointing to the section you starred. It’s a report that Roman Enterprises failed to disclose about their product, a double-chambered gun that can store silver rounds and witch-killing bullets as well as salt rounds: the perfect gun for a hunter.

The problem is the safety and performance report. The one Dean has up on his laptop doesn’t match the one now physically in his hands—the one that says two out of three units of this gun fail to chamber correctly on reloading, resulting in a backfire on the user.

Dean’s brows furrow. “Where did you get this?”

“Is something wrong?” Dick asks. He straightens in his seat, his demeanor a fraction sharper.

Dean glances up at him, then at Sam and Cas, who wear similar looks of confusion. Sam raises his brows expectantly.

“Sorry, one moment,” Dean says to the room, before redirecting his attention to you.

You’re all too aware of being the rabbit caught in the proverbial trap in this room of nearly all men, but you rest a hand on the table and lean in near his ear.

“Their weapons analyst sent this to me,” you explain. “He almost got his hand blown off. Said they didn’t want to go back to the drawing board and waste time when they had us as a prospective distributor.”

Dean blinks in surprise. A fucking whistleblower just outed his own company, but he supposes he can’t blame the guy. If he had half a hand, he’d sue everybody.

“Okay, thank you,” Dean tells you.

It sounds like a dismissal, and truth be told, you’re ready to get the hell of this room. You make a quick escape and shut the door carefully behind you.

Dean watches you leave, but then he collects the report you gave him and passes it along to Sam, with a pointed look that says read it now. Sam doesn’t need the prompting. He shares it with Cas, and they both eventually come to the same frowning conclusions as Dean.

“You gonna fill us in on what that little skirt just gave you that has all of you so fucking sour?” Alastair remarks.

It makes Dean bristle. “That’s my assistant. Have some fucking respect.”

Dick shoots his associate a warning look, as well as a placating hand before he folds both of his on the table.

“Apologies. I’d like to move forward here. How about we discuss oversees shipping—”

“No, I don’t think that’s necessary,” Dean says. He shares a look with Sam. He’s disappointed, but he nods in agreement all the same.

Dick’s head tilts. His fake-ass smile twitches at the corners. “Excuse me?” 

Dean closes his laptop and slides your report across the table.

“We deal with all kinds, but there’s nothing I hate more than a liar,” he says. “Cas will see you guys out to your line of Teslas out front.”

You’re sitting at your desk, stress-eating with a snack bag of popcorn while you answer emails, even though your mind is racing as you imagine what might be going on in that conference room.

You perk up in your seat when the door swings open, and the entire team of Roman Enterprises files out with steam practically coming out of Dick’s ears. You’re more than happy to see the back of Alastair. Cas follows them closely, while Sam and Dean are the last ones lingering outside the door.

They speak for a moment there in the hall, though you’re too far to hear what they’re saying. Dean eventually rubs a hand over his stubble-covered cheeks and jawline as he heads toward his office, and toward you. He gives you a wry look when he steps through the glass doors of the reception area, squeezing your shoulder as he passes by.

“Good job, sweetheart.”

That’s all he says as he disappears back into his office. You can’t help the warm blush blooming across your cheeks, but you do get up to follow him.

“Um, Dean…”

He turns to you as the door of his office closes behind you. You fold your hands in front of you, an almost contrite expression across your face.

“I’m sorry. That just cost you a lot of money, didn’t it?” you ask.

Dean shakes his head. “Don’t be sorry. What you saved me is one bitch of a headache, and probably millions in legal fees. So thank you.”

You smile, making him smile in return.

“Okay, um, would you mind if I leave just a few minutes early today?” you ask. “My father usually picks up my daughter after school, but he has a doctor’s appointment. I can come back after she’s settled.”

Dean frowns. “What time does she usually get out of school?”

“Three. She’s in kindergarten.”

He considers it for a moment. “You know, we have a daycare. Cas brings his kids here too.”

You do know that, all too well. Cas is married to Meg in HR, and they have two, very odd twin daughters. You think they’re stealing ink from the printer and using it for “ink blot tests.” You didn’t know that eight-year-olds knew what those were.

“We do. But I, uh…I can’t afford it,” you admit, with some embarrassment. You’re still helping your dad pay off your mom’s medical bills, and even her funeral. It’s not easy to afford to live and provide for a child, but it seems like it’s almost as expensive to die.

Dean taps his fingers on his desk. He shrugs and rounds his desk to sit down in his comfortable chair.

“How much does it cost?” he asks.

“$500 a month. I’m already trying to get her into a private school…”

Dean does the math in his head, easy. Then he sends a quick text to Meg in HR.

“Well, now you can afford it. I’m gonna raise your annual salary by $10K,” he says. “That should cover the tax deductions and extra gas mileage.”

Your mouth falls open in shock. It closes, then opens again before you’re able to make words pass through them.

“Um, w…what?” you ask.

Dean leans back in his chair and smiles. It isn’t often he gets you flustered.

“Consider it an early Christmas bonus,” he says.

You laugh, slightly breathless still in wonder. “It’s the middle of July.”

Again, Dean shrugs. “Just say thank you.”

You bite your lip in amusement, but you nod. Your gaze on him is sincere, and a little shiny with emotion. Your daughter’s definitely getting into private school now.

“Thank you,” you say.

Dean watches you walk out of his office, along with that brief look over your shoulder before you close the door. His smile fades.

“Fuck,” he mutters.

He sits up in his chair and goes for that stash of whiskey under his desk. If he wasn’t already an alcoholic, you sure were on your way to making him one.

Three Months

Dean blows out a sigh, then rubs his eyes at the strain of just how long he’s stared at a screen and tried to make these goddamn numbers work.

The building is probably empty by now. Even his brother left two hours ago to go home and have dinner with Jess. Dean’s reluctant to go home to his empty apartment. So here he sits, the workaholic that he is, as the sun fades behind other buildings and casts his apartment into darker shades. He switches on the desk lamp.

A knock on the door kicks his thoughts out of alignment, like an old engine sparking out, into crispy defeat.

“Yeah,” he calls out without looking up. He does though, when you come into view.

“Hey, I’m heading out,” you say.

He can see you’re ready to go, packed up and on your way downstairs to pick Emma up from daycare. He still hasn’t met the kid. He’s surprised himself with the idea that he wants to, though he’s never asked. Never wanted to intrude on your life outside of work. Never wanted to get too close to it.

You’re a single mother living with your father, and that’s complicated enough. You don’t need a man like Dean upsetting the delicate balance. And he doesn’t think he can give a woman like you what you need…besides the fact that you’re his employee.

“All right. Make sure Benny keeps an eye on you heading to your car. It’s getting late,” he says.

“Not that late,” you say with a smile. Though you’re a bit concerned when you step further into his office. “When do you typically head home?”

“Uh, around eight or nine, usually.”

“That’s pretty late. You don’t have anyone waiting on you?”

“Not unless you count the beers in the fridge,” he remarks, sending off another email to a sales rep to get his ass in gear if they’re going to make quota for Quarter 3.

By the time Dean looks up, he sees your small frown. Concern.

It rubs him the wrong way (or maybe the right one), so he clears his throat and waves you over to his computer, opening up a tab he was looking at earlier.

“Hey, do me a favor. Tell me what you think of these. I have to go to some tech expo this weekend with Sam,” he says.

You look over his shoulder at the rows of ties on the screen.

“Well, first of all, don’t get them off Amazon. Go to a men’s store,” you say with a short laugh. “Second, what color is the suit?”

“Uh, just black,” he says in amusement.

You hum in contemplation. The man does look good in his usual slacks and nice buttoned-down shirts, but picturing him in a full suit and tie is an enticing image.

“This burgundy one looks nice. Or the blue one with the pattern,” you suggest.

“You don’t think it’s too loud?”

“No, I think it would look nice with a black dress shirt. Or hey, a black vest with a white dress shirt underneath.” 

“A vest?” Dean intones.

“Yeah, with your shoulders, you’ll look really sharp when you pair it with the suit jacket,” you say.

“My shoulders, huh? What about ‘em?” he asks in amusement, verging on the edge of flirtatious, before he realizes what he’s doing.

You both pause then.

You eventually find something approaching a respectable response, if not really a professional one.

“Just…you have a strong frame for a suit. I’m sure whatever you pick will look good,” you say. Though you turn away to grab your purse from where you left it leaning against his desk on the floor. Your face is blushing hot all the while. “Um, have a good night. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Yeah, you too,” he nods, clearing his throat. He tries not to watch you leave, but he can’t help himself. The natural sway of your hips is too hard to ignore, as is the way you walk away from him on those heels.

Once the door is firmly shut, he tips his head back against his chair and groans. He hates himself for hoping, even fantasizing, that one day you’ll come back and straddle him on this goddamn chair and fuck him with those heels still on.

He bangs the back of his head repeatedly against the chair, as if that could rid him of his pig-like thoughts.

Fuck. Me.

Four Months

Dean steps into his office after four hours of solid back-to-back meetings. If he had to sit through even five more minutes of Crowley’s condescending ass explain 15 subsections of a contract, as if Dean didn’t know how to fucking read, then he was going to throw his laptop into the nearest window.

He expects to find the quiet refuge of his office, and very quickly his stash of Angel’s Envy. What he gets is a kid sitting in his chair, eating his Doritos. She doesn’t look older than five or six, swinging her little legs as she swivels in his nice leather chair.

The sight is so dumbfounding that Dean stops not two steps through the doorway, his hand still lingering on the doorknob. He frowns.

“Hey,” he says. Not in a nice way. In a who the hell are you way.

“Hi!” The kid smiles and waves at him with fingers coated in Cool Ranch Dorito dust.

Dean’s head tilts. “Uh, hi.”

“You said that,” she says.

His lips twitch upward. He points at her, and the chair she’s sitting in.

“That’s my seat,” he says, with some censure in his voice. “You wanna get down?”

She blinks and pauses, realizing she might be in trouble.

“Sorry.” She slides down carefully without letting go of her snack. She wears a private school uniform: a plaid skirt, navy polo, and a matching headband. Her pink Peppa Pig sneakers give away her personality though. It matches her backpack, which boasts a Minnie Mouse keychain and a princess sticker of Belle in her yellow ballgown.

“What’s your name?” he asks.

“Emma,” she replies.

Dean’s brows raise high in recognition, then they furrow.

“Interesting. Where’s your mom?”

“She had to talk to Miss Nancy, so she told me to stay here.”

Miss Nancy. Gotta be the daycare lady, Dean thinks.

“Here? As in, my office?” he asks in suspicion. “Or did your mom tell you to hang out at her desk?”

Emma guiltily glances down at her feet instead of at him, like Sammy did when he was four, and didn’t want to admit he broke their dad’s watch.

Here, it looks like Emma got bored and wanted to go into the big mysterious room. She continues eating her Doritos.

Dean can’t help but smile. “Did you find those in my desk drawer?”

She blinks up at him with the face. Like when Sam got caught looking through their dad’s old collection of baseball cards with peanut butter and jelly stains on his hands. That puppy dog look had Dean taking the fall—and the week-long grounding.

Emma tentatively offers him her snack. “Want one?”

The look on her face tells him that she’d rather not share, but it’s a clever little manipulation with those big doe eyes. Girls learn quick, don’t they?

Dean shakes his head and pulls out a nearby guest chair after setting down his laptop on the desk.

“It’s okay. You can sit here if you want,” he says.

The chair is a little high, so she reaches for the edge of his desk to help her. Dean offers her his hand instead. She’s happy to settle her little Dorito grime-covered hand in his and have him help her into the chair.

“Thank you,” she says, with that cute little voice. He almost laughs.

“You’re welcome,” he says. You’re definitely going to owe him for this one.

Dean sits at his desk and contemplates just what the hell he’s going to do with this kid for the next few minutes. At least, he hopes it’s just a few minutes. Does he need reinforcements? Should he call Sam up here? Cas?

“Are you and Mommy friends?” Emma asks.

Dean considers her question with a quirk of his head.

“Yeah, I guess you could say that. I work with your mom.”

“She said you’re her boss.”

“You know who I am?”

“Yeah. Your face is on her phone when you call,” Emma says. When she finishes the chips, he can tell she’s looking for a garbage can. He takes the empty bag from her and tosses it in the small bin under his desk. He wishes he could pour himself a much needed adult drink, but he thinks you’d have something to say about that later.

He settles on the bottles of water you keep putting in his other drawer. He grabs one for the kid, and even opens the cap for her, like he used to do for Sam when they were little.

“Uh, how was school?” Dean asks. Because what else do you ask a kindergartner?

She shrugs. “Okay.”

Fair enough, he thinks. He never liked school much, but he has to keep this conversation going somehow.

“Just okay?” he asks.

“Yeah. I don’t like math, but Music was fun. We’re learning how to play the recorder. Oh! And I drew Peppa after school. Wanna see?” she says, pointing at her backpack.

Dean raises a brow, but he grabs her backpack off the floor and hands it to her. She unzips it and rifles through her notebooks and her modest collection of crayons. She then pulls out her prized drawing to show him. It looks more like a ball of pink squiggles to him. But he looks harder, and he can see the eyes and the mouth and the nose are close enough to the character on her sneakers.

“Hey, that’s pretty good,” he indulges her, earning her shy smile.

“Thank you,” she says. But her face soon falls. “I wanted to draw her yellow crown, but a boy took my crayon and broke it.”

“Aw, that sucks,” Dean says. Though a smile threatens his lips at the little angry pout on her face. “What did you do when he wouldn’t give it back?”

“I just pushed his arm and he fell and cried,” she says.

Dean blinks in surprise. “Oh.”

Yikes. No wonder you had to go back and talk to Miss Nancy.

“But I didn’t mean to! He was mean to me first,” Emma argues.

Dean shakes his head in amusement, once again tempted to laugh.

“Well, you know, you should never put your hands on somebody. You wouldn’t want him to hit you, right?” he reasons.

The girl considers it, still with that little pout, but she nods begrudgingly.

“See? But if that kid messes with you again, you come tell me, okay? I’ll set him straight, man to man,” Dean says.

She starts to smile again. “Promise?”

“I promise. Let’s shake on it,” he says, giving her his hand. She puts her much smaller one in his, and they shake on it like adults.

“Emma?” your voice calls from outside the office in worry. The door is still open, so you catch sight of your daughter just as Dean tells you to come over. Your eyes grow wide with embarrassment as you realize where Emma ended up. You hasten inside his office.

“What are you doing in here?” you ask her sternly, taking her hand and leading her off the chair. “You were supposed to be doing your homework at my desk. Dean, I’m so sorry. I didn’t think it would take so long.”

“It’s all right,” he says.

You still look a bit mortified and apologetic.

“Seriously, it’s okay. She’s a good kid,” Dean says. You smile, if a bit wryly as you caress her head.

“Well, she wasn’t on her best behavior today, so we’re going to sort that out tonight. But thank you for watching her.”

Dean sends you off with a raised hand, though it turns into a small wave when Emma looks back at him with a sneaking smile.

He chuckles and shakes his head. Kids. Jesus.

She looks just like you.

Five Months

The insistent ring and vibration of your cell phone disturbs your deeply rooted slumber. You slap at the device charging on your nightstand and nearly yank out the cord in attempt to bring the screen to your eyeballs.

Once your bleary vision adjusts to the brightness, you growl in annoyance.

Still, you answer the call.

“Dean. Jesus Christ, it’s three in the morning.”

“I just need your opinion on the new crossbow flame throwers.”

Your sigh can probably be heard across the Atlantic Ocean.

“It’s fine, but it would make more sense on a gun, right? Half gun, half flame thrower.”

“That’s what I said! But Cas says we need to diversify—”

“Dean. Three. In the morning. Go to sleep and let me get back to dreaming about Pedro Pascal as a gladiator, feeding me grapes as his queen.”

“…You like Latin guys, huh?”

You groan and turn your face fully into your pillow.

“Sleeping now. I’ll see you in five hours.”

Six Months

“Look! Emma got first place in the Spelling Bee.”

You pass Dean your phone while he scrapes the pickled onions off his burger and onto your plate. In turn, you give him the pickle wedge off your plate. By now you know that he’s a veritable bottomless pit when it comes to food in general, except for the fact that he doesn’t like pickled onions, and doesn’t trust sushi.

He smiles as he scrolls through the pictures of your daughter’s kindergarten class.

“Clearly taking after her mom in the smarts department. Though you didn’t have to do her like that with those Pippi Longstocking braids,” he remarks.

You scoff in amusement. “Oh, come on, they’re not that bad. It’s not like she’s got a wire hanger in there. She’s just going through a frizzy phase. No matter what products I use, I can’t seem to tame that hair.”

Dean chomps his burger. You’ve reminded him at least 30 times, but he still talks with his mouth full.

“Looks like she’s trying to land a plane,” he says.

You snort, shaking your head. You shove his arm lightly and go back to eating, while Dean takes another look at the pictures.

He sees a lot of you in that little girl. She’s got your eyes, your smile, but she probably has her dad’s hair, his chin. Dean hopes that’s all the girl’s going to get from that fucking deadbeat, biologically speaking. From what you’ve told Dean, all that guy is good for is sending monthly wire payments. After you got your raise, he even tried taking you to court to get his child support reduced.

“Did you want kids—you know, before? Was that even on your radar?” Dean asks.

He doesn’t know what possesses him, but he asks.

You hum in contemplation. “Honestly, it wasn’t. I was focused on my career.”

You wipe your mouth as the thought settles in.

“I thought I’d do it right, you know? Work hard, achieve my goals, find a husband who wanted the same things I did, then build a life, and a family. I always thought I was smarter than a broken condom in the back of his goddamn Lexus,” you say, your tone bordering on disgust at the end. You shake your head and sip your iced tea.

Dean quirks his head. “Well, we’ve all been thrown a few curveballs in life. What matters is how you take it. And I’d say you’ve got the better end of the deal. You get Emma, a good job, the best boss in the world…”

You shoot him a knowing smile.

Dean smirks, but he’s still serious.

“And that guy, all he gets is a life without his kid, and without the woman who could’ve given him a family,” he says. “Sounds like a fucking chump to me.”

He continues eating, but you’re not sure if he realizes how that just tilted your entire axis. It makes you look at him differently, the warmth of admiration in your chest, and something deeper coiling in your belly, stirring up something unexpected.

You stare at him long enough that his brows furrow.

“What? Got something in my teeth?” he asks. 

Your face relaxes, your lips tugging at a smile.

“Yeah, ground beef. Can you please swallow before you talk?”

“This is how I am, sweetheart. Don’t try to change me,” Dean says, taking another massive bite. Oily ketchup dangles from the bun and threatens to stain one of his nicer buttoned-down shirts.

You roll your eyes. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

You stick a napkin in his collar, just in time for the ketchup drip.

Seven Months

You and Sam have lunch together every Wednesday. It started out as a way to reconnect with your old friend, but it’s often devolved into an hourly venting session about his brother’s many idiosyncrasies, how he’s driving you both fucking crazy, and how to best manage the man’s schedule, as well as steer him away from any half-cocked decisions that could cause a PR disaster.

Like the time he accidentally asked a reporter at a charity benefit why albacore tuna was becoming an endangered species.

“I mean, come on. They’ve literally got fish on the menu tonight. Maybe if you people stopped eating so much damn sushi with your avocado toast, we wouldn’t need this bougie dinner party. $5,000 a plate? Give me a fucking break.”

The fact that he slept with her that night still didn’t save him from the article she published later that week, complete with direct quotes. She had a good goddamn memory.

Today though, your weekly lunch with Sam is less about quasi-therapy, and more about celebrating the fact that Jess is pregnant. You’re even helping her and her sister plan the baby shower.

“Any advice? Just, you know, about parenting in general,” Sam asks. For once, he seems less his normal confident self, and a little more sheepish. It’s sweet, even endearing.

You smile. “God, I don’t know. I’ve been winging it from the beginning. Just…be present, as much as you can. Jess is going to need you to show the hell up, without being asked, without being nagged. You’re the rock she’ll need to lean on, even when she thinks she can do it all while you’re here trying to show up for the job. Especially when the baby’s born. If you’re not covered in three layers of bodily fluids, then you’re not doing it right.”

He laughs a little. “Noted.”

Your mind veers into other directions as you finish up your sandwich and crumple up the foil wrapper. Most predictably, along the road that leads back to Dean.

“Dean doesn’t seem to be the family man type,” you remark. “More married to his work, but…he’s been really good with Emma every time I’ve brought her up to visit the office.”

“Doesn’t surprise me. He basically half raised me after Mom died. More than half, actually. Dad was always working,” Sam says.

“What about relationships?” you ask.

It earns you a certain look from Sam. You’ve come to learn that both Winchester brothers are incredibly sharp, just in different ways. Dean knows how to read people. He’s a good judge of character, and it makes him a shark in the board room, the kind of man that can take in the information his department heads serve him and make swift decisions that often pan out well for HunterCorp.

Sam is perceptive in an almost clinical way, analytical and methodical. He’s the one who can read the data and find the one thing that’s missing. He can anticipate problems before they start, and when it comes to people, Sam often catches the little things, tells and underlying motivations. It gives you away before you’ve even realized it.

“Well, Dean’s been pretty predictable when it comes to women, even before Dad passed,” Sam says.

And it’s true. Dean’s never seen the same woman more than a week at a time. You know this, because you’ve seen the “consolation gifts” he sends them. A Tiffany bracelet. An Apple Watch. Gucci sunglasses. The perfect gift that tells a girl she won’t need to stick around for breakfast.

“But to his credit, he’s up front with them,” Sam says, drawing your gaze. “They know what not to expect.”

Your lips quirk. “Sounds so transactional…and lonely.”

“Yeah,” Sam nods, “but I get it. He took a lot onto his shoulders when Dad died. Right now, Dean’s more focused on making sure we survive than on what he might want. To be honest, I doubt he’s even thought about what that is.”

For some reason, that hits you behind the ribs in a quiet, sharp strike. In your mind, you can’t help but see the familiar tense set of Dean’s shoulders hunched at his desk, eyes glued to his computer while an evening sun sets behind his head.

Even in that big office overlooking the entire city scape, he never has time to admire the view.

Eight Months

It’s your mistake.

Your fingers brush Dean’s for half a second too long when you give him a stack of purchase orders to sign. His eyes meet yours. You point out the new way you’ve color-coded the departments for each PO.

Your heel wobbles on your pivot, an uneven floorboard. Suddenly it’s his hand closing around your wrist and the other wrapping around your waist, giving you stability. Your eyes meet his, heated breaths in between.

A thank you falls from your lips, drawing Dean’s attention there.

But he lets you go.

You walk away, pretending you don’t know his eyes are following you.

You bite your lip against a smile.

One Year

“Seriously, which one?”

“Jesus, Dean. Green! I already told you.”

“No need to get snippy. I just want your opinion.”

“You always want my opinion. That’s why I already laid out the green one for you.”

“But I like the black one.”

“You always wear the black one. The black one says politician. The green one says you’re the boss, but you’re approachable.”

“I don’t want to be approachable. That’s how I get stuck in a 45-minute fucking conversation in the break room with Garth about his side hustle YouTube sock puppet show. That shit was deeply uncomfortable. I just wanted my damn coffee.”

“You know, you could also cut back on the caffeine and the booze while we’re on the subject.”

“Oh, what are you, my mother?”

“You tell me. I’m the one dressing you right now.”

You work the collar dark green suit jacket over his shoulder and smooth down the wrinkles. You firmly ignore how his gaze roams your face, and lower still. You want to pretend you haven’t noticed these signs, all while you try to stop yourself from giving any yourself.

“There, looks good,” you say. Though you make the mistake of meeting his eyes.

He grins. One of those grins that makes you want to grab his face, either mushing it into his seventeen mugs of coffee, or kissing him fucking stupid. You’ve been restraining the latter urge by a tenuous thread for several months now, mostly because you sicken yourself.

He’s your fucking boss. It’s unprofessional. You’ve already been down this road once in your life, and—

“You okay?” he asks.

Suddenly you realize how close he is. You can feel the warmth of his body, you can smell his cologne, and he sounds so sincere in his concern, briefly touching your arm.

You nod, knowing you should create some distance between you and him. Somehow you can’t force yourself to take that one small step back.

Instead, you reach for his tie. “Remember, you’re meeting Frank Devereau and his wife tonight, and Charlie Bradbury. She’s the brains behind the project, so you’ll want to talk to her about the details, how the program works, and how we can incorporate it into our existing tech.”

Dean hums in agreement, but in truth, his attention is on your nimble hands as you work on his tie. You slide the knot up to settle snugly, but not too tight against his throat. You allow your hands to slide down his chest while you admire your handiwork with satisfaction, but your small smile fades. Your mouth goes dry as your gaze travels back up to his, lingering on his parted mouth.

His hands slowly come to hold you by your arms, making your heart tap a syncopated beat.

“Does that look mean you want me to kiss you, or am I just seeing things?” he says at last.

Your eyes widen. You bite the inside of your lip, nervous energy fluttering through you, even as everything within you would like to scream a resounding yes.

“We can’t…shouldn’t,” you say, in a quieter voice. His office door is closed, but it’s not locked. There are far better reasons than that though, and you struggle to remind yourself of each and every one of them.

Dean steals your focus, however. His eyes seem greener than usual, probably because of the jacket. You picked it with that in mind.

“In this case, shouldn’t isn’t a moral argument,” he says. “It’s society’s rules. I don’t know about you, sweetheart, but I’ve never much cared about what people who don’t matter think about me.”

Your brows begin to knit together. “Who matters to you? Because my daughter and my father. They matter to me.”

“Being with me doesn’t hurt them,” he argues, a little peeved at the implication that it would; that he would hurt them, or you.

“Being with you?” you ask in shock.

Dean’s mouth opens, but he hesitates, like what he just said surprises even himself. His lips quirk at a smile.

“I know you, uh, probably think I’m not capable of something like that,” he asks.

“I mean, it is surprising,” you admit airily. Your cheeks warm in a blush. “You could have anyone, Dean…and you have.”

He chuckles dryly. “All right, fair enough. But other than Sam, who gets me better than you? Who else is gonna handle this, the pressure of my life and everything that goes with it…better than you?”

Your eyes widen. A softer smile threatens your lips, because you realize then that he’s actually serious.

About you?

Of course, that’s when your very real, rational doubt creeps in.

“People are going to talk,” you point out. “That’s why shouldn’t always matters. And you and me? Jesus, Dean, this is the oldest cliché in the fucking book.”

His hands move down to your waist, squeezing gently. Enticingly.

“Then we’ll be discreet,” he says, with one of his crooked grins. You shake your head, but you start to smile too. You allow him to pull you back in, figuratively and literally as he bows his head closer to yours.

“You really think you can pull that off?” you ask.

“Sweetheart, with the right motivation, we can pull off anything,” he says, half whispering them on your lips as he captures them with his own.

It’s slow and laced with a curling heat that licks tingles down your spine, just like his hand moving to the small of your back, pressing you into him. Your body betrays you then, with a moan in your throat and your own hands traveling up his arms, over his shoulders, cupping the back of his neck.

The graze of your nails at his nape makes him shiver and groan as he licks into your mouth, holds you tighter. You feel the press of his growing arousal against your belly.

Your good sense knocks at the door of lust and yearning, reminding you that you’re making all the same mistakes again. This isn’t a man you can trust—not with this. But Dean’s lips are hard to ignore, covered in the remnants of your lipstick as he kisses his way along your jaw and down your neck, where he sucks and nips just hard enough to make you gasp his name and writhe against him. He squeezes your ass and smiles against your skin.

“So fucking beautiful, you know that? Even the little sounds you make when I touch you. I wanna find out what that pretty voice sounds like when you come,” he says, in a voice dripped in whiskey and wicked promises.

Jesus. Your heart flutters. You haven’t been touched like this in so very long. You haven’t felt desired like this in…

“How long have you been thinking about that?” you ask, a little breathlessly. He continues his exploration, his lips blazing a sensuous trail down the column of your throat, along the line of your collar bone, and between the rise and fall your breasts. He slides open the buttons of your blouse with a practiced hand, his eyes drinking in the sight of your lace bra.

“Since the day you started wearing these sexy fucking heels,” he says, dragging his hand up your thigh, over your skirt, in a way that raises goosebumps on your arms. But he hesitates. His eyes ask a question as they meet yours.

“You need to tell me what you want though,” Dean says, more seriously than you expected. “You want me to touch you?”

Your heart feels like it’s beating in your throat, but you nod, biting your lip.

“Kiss me, touch me, make me fucking come,” you say. “But first, you need to lock that door.”

A crooked grin spreads across Dean’s face. He steals another kiss before he does exactly that—he crosses the room and locks that fucking door. You lean against his desk for a breather, but you realize that half this shit needs to go. You move stacks of files to the side, the coasters you put for his mugs of coffee along with the empty cups themselves. You push his double-screen monitors forward, giving Dean just the angle he needs to hold you from behind and start laying more tantalizing kisses along your neck.

You sigh and help him with the zipper of your skirt while he works on the bra clasp. The straps loosen down your arms, and he flings the bra away so he can get a handful each of your breasts. You moan and rest your head against his as he begins to squeeze and tease, gently twisting your nipples between his fingers. He leaves open-mouthed kisses against your jaw, sucking at your pulse point.

When his hand moves further down and slips behind the waistband of your skirt and panties, he feels your pulse flutter and trip along with your gasp. His fingers dip between your folds and find the slick mess of your arousal.

“Goddamn, baby. Soaked for me already,” he teases.

You don’t need to see his face to know that smug smirk is plastered across it. You reach back and tug sharply on his hair.

“You can gloat, or you can fuck me,” you retort.

He chuckles and kisses your temple. “Don’t you worry. You’re gonna have to bite down on my belt to keep from screaming in a minute.”

His hand that never left your breast begins to strum the hardened, sensitive nub, at the same time his other hand finds your clit. You shudder against him at that first touch, that perfect moment when you realize he knows exactly what he’s doing as he learns your body. He circles your clit slowly, but with a delicious pressure until it swells under his fingertips.

Then his long fingers dip down into your needy channel, making you whimper as you hold onto him and the desk for stability. His fingers pump smooth strokes inside you, almost as deep as he plans to fuck you with his cock.

He knows he has you when his fingers curl and brush deliberately against that perfect spot inside your inner walls. Your thighs begin to shake, your breaths labored, your hips bucking against his hand in a quiet plea.

Your orgasm rolls swift and steady against his fingers. Your pussy flutters around his hand, and he groans along with you.

“Good girl. Can’t wait to feel that squeeze around my cock,” he says, a filthy whisper in your ear.

You laugh a little, nodding in agreement. You turn around to help him with his belt.

“Yeah, right now. Want you inside me before we run out of time. You have to meet Sam downstairs soon.”

It’s another work event Dean can’t get himself out of, even if the networking opportunities are good for the company.

“You should come with me,” he says, grinning at the way you slide his jacket off his shoulders, but you toss it as carefully as you can across the nearest chair. You just had it drycleaned this morning.

“What?” you laugh. “Dean, you don’t need me there. I’m just an assistant—”

“No,” Dean says, stilling your movements when his hand cups your cheek. Your lashes raise as you look up at him, finding him serious again. His gaze roams your face, his thumb brushing your lower lip. “If it ain’t fucking obvious, you’re more.”

Your mouth falls open, but you’re not sure what’s going to spill out. Dean doesn’t give you time to figure it out, or even let himself settle into his own admission.

He just kisses you, hard and thorough, knocking any more doubts out of your mind, and any deeper thoughts out of his.

He grabs you up by your hips and seats you on his desk, rattling the surface. Your arms wrap around his shoulders on reflex. You feel the muscles flexing under his dress shirt—a crisp black. You help him yank up your skirt and kick off your panties, though they get tangled around your ankle. His slacks and boxer briefs end up coiled around his knees, just far enough to give him room and leverage to slide into your heat.

You both moan at the feeling of him settling snug inside, bottoming out, his almost bruising grip on your ass. Your thighs are wrapped almost as tightly around his waist as he lays you out more fully on the desk. It’s probably harder to do it this way, instead of him just bending you over the hard mahogany. But you’re glad you get to see his face, get to run your fingers through his hair and share his breaths while he fucks you in a slow-rolling rhythm.

It’s more intimate. It feels like it means something, especially when he once again cradles your cheek and brushes wild strands of hair away from your face. Especially when he kisses you deep enough to taste the Almond Joy you snacked on earlier.

You kiss him back just as fervently, as if this will be the first and the last time. You have no idea what happens after today, and you know that probably makes you a fucking idiot. It could lead to the end of your second chance at a career, but you want to trust this. You want to trust the steadiness in Dean’s hands and the look in his eyes.

So you give into what you want, sitting up to lay nipping kissing along his prickly cheek and neck, sucking your own marks against his skin. The way he groans and shudders and fucks you harder—it makes you feel powerful.

“Lean back, sweetheart,” he grits out. “Touch yourself for me.”

You manage to follow his lead, shakily laying back down and letting your hand drift back down your body, finding your clit. Dean watches you play with yourself, his fingers flexing against your hip. You feel him so deep, so good, that the coil of pleasure in your lower belly begins to tighten in earnest.

He’s only satisfied when you have to smother your own mouth against a cry, your hips snapping up to meet his as your release finally hits. Another few ragged strokes, and he spills into you as well.

“Fuck,” he groans into your neck, catching his breath. That was awesome.

But then, his eyes widen. “Christ, forgot a condom.”

“I’m on birth control.” You breathe out a laugh as you soothe him, caressing his shoulders.

He blinks, then he relaxes, chuckling faintly.

“Guess you just make me lose my head,” he says.

“It’s okay. I’ve gotten used to doing the thinking for you,” you tease, biting your lip.

Dean stares down at you, brows raised, yet amused at your cheek.

“Hmm, I’m gonna remember that one. Might have to punish you tomorrow,” he remarks.

You smirk, though a blush burns down your neck at the idea, and the depths of his voice.

He withdraws from you with a quiet moan, then helps you up with a steading grip on your arms when he feels that you’re still a bit shaky. After pulling up his pants, he finds the paper towels you keep handy in one of his desk drawers for the cleanup.

“Seriously, come with me tonight. I’m sure you’ve got a nice dress. If not, I’ll buy you one on the way,” he says, as you two start to pull your clothes back on. And in your case, find your bra.

“Dean, I need to take Emma home,” you say.

You pause with your fingers poised on his dark green jacket, ready to smooth down any wrinkles. The color matches his slacks perfectly. His hair is a bit messy, but overall, he looks edible and professional at the same time. He’s ready to shmooze with the heads of conglomerates and Silicon Valley tycoons and the politicians they own.

But you know you’re not a part of that world.

“Maybe next time,” you say, though you don’t really mean it. Your hand falls.

Dean nods, but he catches your hand before you walk away from him. He slowly winds you back in and kisses you thoroughly enough to make your knees buckle, just a little.

You’re still not sure if he meant what he said about wanting to be with you, or if this is just something he’ll change his mind about in the morning after a few glasses of whiskey.

You definitely think about more than just the road ahead while on your way home, Emma’s chatter filling the car. For once, you can’t say you’re fully paying attention.

Your fingers keep touching the memory lingering on your lips.

AN: 😘❤️‍🔥 How'd you like the slow build? lol Did Dean's earnest appeal surprise you there at the end? He's been a pretty successful play boy up until now, but he's really going to prove himself in Part 3 of our adventure, set shortly after Pratt Fall.

Next Time in Nothing by Halves:

Dean finds a guest spot in front of the school. The old Impala rumbles to a stop there, and he climbs out, grabbing the bouquet resting in his passenger seat.

His keys jangle in his other hand as he makes his way to the front office to check in, just like you told him to in your texted instructions. The nice ladies there give him a guest badge that he slaps on his chest, over his dress shirt, and they tell him how to get to the theater. He feels awkward and out of place walking down the halls of this school alone, but you had to take Emma over there early before the show. 

The hell am I doing here?

He has to fucking wonder.

But he promised you. He promised the kid. So he’s here.

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Ellis makes a dramatic vomiting noise as you both head out the door, her keys jingling as she turns to lock it.

“I thought Deran was your usual Thursday morning appointment,” she says.

You shrug. “Scheduling conflict.”

She turns and starts down the hall, glancing at you from the corner of her eye. “You are the schedule.”

“I’m restructuring,” you say lightly, falling into step beside her. “Don’t think Deran’s making the cut.”

Ellis doesn’t say anything else. She just watches you for a second—eyes narrowing, brows drawing a little tighter—before shaking her head and turning toward the fire stairs door. You both make your way down to the parking garage in silence, crossing the dimly lit basement until you reach Ellis’ car.

The drive to the hospital isn’t long. Ellis fills most of it complaining about a patient she handed off to McKay this morning who insisted his diagnosis was wrong because he’d googled it—and she’s still muttering angrily by the time she pulls into the hospital parking lot.

“I swear,” she says, yanking the parking brake a little too hard, “if I hear the words ‘but I googled it’ even once tonight, I’m going to lose my mind.”

You snort softly as you climb out of the car, slinging your bag over your shoulder before shutting the door. You both head inside through the ambulance bay, keeping out of the way of an arriving trauma as the paramedics wheel the gurney through—something about chest pain, you overhear.

“Trauma one’s open,” Dana calls.

“Dr. Toomarian, with me.”

Your head snaps up at the sound of Jack’s voice, your gaze landing on him beside the gurney as he guides it through the trauma bay doors, that familiar mask of focus already in place.

Then he looks at you, something flickering across his face.

“Hey—don’t disappear. I need to talk to you after this.”

You lift your hand, pointing a finger at yourself. “Me?”

He nods once before turning into the trauma bay, the glass door swinging shut behind him.

“Ooh,” Ellis murmurs as you both turn down the back hall. “You’re in trouble.”

You roll your eyes. “Yeah, right.”

“Maybe he’s restructuring,” she adds, the corner of her mouth lifting. “Think you’ll make the cut?”

You shoot her a flat look. “Very funny.”

Ellis smirks as she opens her locker, shrugging her bag off her shoulder and shoving it inside. You do the same—moving on autopilot as you sling your stethoscope around your neck, clip your badge at your hip, and stuff your backpack in your locker before shutting the door.

You head back toward the hub side by side, both peering into the trauma bay as you pass. The patient is stable now, half-conscious on the bed while Jack gives orders and Jesse preps for transfer to a room for monitoring. Dr. Robby is in there too now, looking as tired as always with his arms folded and protective glasses pushed up on top of his head.

“Evening, ladies,” Lena says from behind the nurses’ desk. “Get a good sleep?”

“Always,” Ellis replies as she grabs a tablet from the rack.

“Good enough,” you mutter, tipping your head back to read the board.

“Mm.” Lena peers at you over the top of her glasses. “Well, maybe you should start prioritising sleep over extracurriculars.”

Ellis snorts beside you.

“Lena,” you gasp, voice thick with mock offence. “I don’t—”

You stop short as Jack steps up beside you, offering Lena a polite nod before looking back at you.

“You have my badge.”

You frown. “What?”

“My badge,” he says again, already reaching for the badge at your hip.

He unclips it from your scrub pants and holds it up, brows lifting just slightly.

“Attending physician, huh?”

You shrug. “Thought it was time I got a promotion.”

He huffs out a small laugh, shaking his head as he fastens the badge to his scrub top and fishes your badge from his back pocket. Then he steps in closer, his fingers grazing your hip as he tugs on the waistband of your pants and clips the badge where his had been.

“Try to keep track of it,” he mutters, already turning away.

You don’t respond. You just roll your eyes and turn back to the nurses’ station, where Lena is still watching you over the rim of her glasses, utterly unimpressed.

“You didn’t even notice?” Ellis asks.

You lift one shoulder. “I just grabbed it off the floor.”

“Okay,” Lena mutters, glancing back down at her chart. “I’m choosing not to know.”

Ellis shakes her head. “You’re unbelievable.”

“I know,” you say, tipping your head back again to read the board. “But you love me.”

She snorts, not even looking up from her tablet.

“Come on.” You bump your shoulder against hers. “Let’s go check out the elbow dislocation in One.”

“Fine,” she sighs, “but I’m not doing traction.”

You roll your eyes for what feels like the umpteenth time as you start moving, heading toward the North corridor with Ellis at your heel. When you pull back the curtain at North One, the man lying there is exactly what you expected—mid-twenties, gym shorts, red with embarrassment and trying not to wince even though the shape of his shoulder is very wrong.

“Alright, Mr. Donovan,” you say, pulling on a pair of gloves. “Let’s have a look at that shoulder.”

His eyes flick up to your face, the faintest hint of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Are you a doctor?”

“Sure am,” you reply as you step closer to the bed. “And with me is Dr. Ellis. She’s going to help me get that bone back in place, but first you’re going to have to tell us how you did it.”

He grimaces as you gently prod his upper arm.

“Yeah—uh—I was just at the gym,” he starts, voice strained.

“Benching?” Ellis asks.

He nods. “Yeah.”

“Let me guess—personal best?”

He nods again. “Yeah. How did you—”

“Happens more often than you think,” you cut in, your fingers finding the pulse at his wrist. “Move your fingers.”

He wriggles them slowly.

“Any numbness?”

He shakes his head.

“I was just putting the bar back,” he says. “My arm twisted a bit and it just… popped.”

You glance over your shoulder at Ellis, and she nods.

“Okay, Mr. Donovan—”

“You can call me Chase,” he interrupts, the corner of his mouth lifting a little higher.

You nod once. “Alright, Chase. We’re going to give you something for the pain and a muscle relaxant so it’s easier to get it back into place. Then Dr. Ellis and I are going to do the reduction.”

“Will it hurt?”

“Not much,” Ellis replies. “Maybe a little discomfort, but it’ll be quick.”

“Okay,” he mutters, wincing again as he tries to shift in the bed.

You look at Ellis. “Fentanyl and midaz?”

She nods, already turning away to find a workstation.

“We’ll be back in about five minutes,” you tell Chase. “Just as soon as a nurse administers the medication and it has enough time to kick in.”

“Five minutes, huh? That’s just enough time for me to figure out how to ask for your number.”

You snort. “Let’s just get your shoulder back in first, then see how you feel.”

“Ouch,” he chuckles. “Is that your subtle way of saying you have a boyfriend?”

You hesitate, taking half a step back from the bed.

“Uh—no,” you mutter. “No boyfriend.”

He smirks. “So I have a shot?”

You shake your head as you turn away, a faint smile pulling at your lips. “Like I said—let’s see how you feel after I manhandle your humerus back into its socket.”

He doesn’t say anything else—just lets out a quiet breath of laughter as you turn and step out of the room.

Your gaze flicks up as you reach for the curtain, and only then do you notice Jack standing there—arms folded, shoulders set, his hazel eyes fixed on you like he’s waiting for something.

“Oh—hey,” you say. “Need me?”

He shakes his head. “Nope. Just doing the rounds. Want a hand with the reduction?”

“Nah, I’ve got Ellis,” you reply, starting back toward Central. “But you’re more than welcome to supervise.”

He scoffs, falling into step beside you. “You don’t need supervising.”

“I know.” You glance at him from the corner of your eye, a smirk tugging at your lips. “But I know how you like to watch.”

His mouth quirks, like he’s trying not to laugh.

“Careful,” he murmurs.

“Or what?” you tease, stopping just before the nurses’ station.

His eyes are a little darker now, the tops of his cheeks dusted pink.

“You don’t want to find out,” he says, his voice low enough that only you can hear.

Something twists low in your belly—and you get the sudden, distinct feeling that you do, in fact, want to find out.

“Abbot,” Lena calls before you can say anything else. “Trauma inbound—cyclist versus vehicle, ETA three minutes.”

Jack pauses for a half a second—then nods. “Alright, let’s prep Trauma Two.” He looks at you. “You in?”

You pull a face, all mock disappointment. “Oh, I wish I could, but I’ve got that reduction…”

He gives you a flat look, the corner of his mouth pulling just slightly. “Mm. Tragic.”

“Good luck, though,” you add, flashing him a grin.

You turn away before he does, moving around the hub to grab a tablet and find your next patient. It isn’t long before the paramedics come crashing through the ambulance bay doors with a groaning patient on the gurney—and you take that as your cue to get back to the shoulder dislocation.

“Alright, Chase,” you say, pulling back the curtain. “Let’s do this.”

He gives you a lopsided smile. “I was hoping I’d see you again.”

Ellis snorts. “Midaz is working.”

You laugh softly as you step up beside his affected arm, adjusting the bed slightly before pulling on a pair of gloves. Ellis does the same, moving into position on the other side and bracing one hand against his good shoulder.

You look at her. “Ready?”

She nods once.

“Okay, Chase,” you say, one hand wrapping gently around his wrist. “Stay loose for me.”

You place your other hand at his elbow and bring his arm out from his body, easing it into position.

“Hey—relax,” Ellis says. “Don’t fight it.”

He lets out a breath, the tension in his body easing.

“That’s it,” you murmur, starting to pull his arm outward.

You feel the resistance from the dislocation, holding his arm steady until—his shoulder drops.

Ellis nods. “Good. Now rotate.”

You carefully rotate his arm out, slow and controlled, until you feel a small shift—the soft clunk of the bone slipping back into place. Chase flinches, inhaling sharply, then—

“Oh—” He blinks. “Oh, that’s—that’s way better.”

You give him a small smile as you guide his arm back in, keeping it supported while Ellis grabs the sling.

“Move your fingers,” you tell him.

He does.

“Any numbness?”

He shakes his head.

“Good.”

You move aside as Ellis steps in with the sling, fastening it over his shoulder before adjusting the bed again.

“Comfortable?” she asks.

Chase nods slowly. “‘M tired.”

“Then have a nap.”

You peel your gloves off and drop them in the waste bin, squirting a pump of sanitiser into your palm as you turn back toward Chase.

“We’re going to keep you here for a bit, okay? Just to monitor you and get an X-ray to make sure everything’s back in place.”

“You’re leaving me?” he mumbles, eyes half-lidded.

You shake your head, letting out a quiet laugh. “I’ll be back in a bit to see how you’re feeling, alright?”

He mutters something else as his eyes slip shut, but it’s too soft for you to hear.

Then, after a beat, Ellis looks at you. “Gonna give him your number?”

You roll your eyes. “Um, no.”

“Why not?”

“Because I'm not—”

“Roster’s looking a little thin,” she says as she turns and steps out of the room.

You follow her, frowning. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

She shrugs. “Not that I’m keeping track, but… by my count, you’re down to one.”

You let out a short, disbelieving scoff. “Okay—well, not that it’s any of your business, but Andrew moved to Canada, and Craig got back with his ex.”

She glances at you from the corner of her eye. “And you dropped Deran, so—”

“Like I said,” you cut in, lifting your chin just slightly. “I’m restructuring.”

“Restructuring,” she repeats mildly, “or retiring?”

Before the words have even landed, she’s gone—slipping into North Five with her tablet in hand and that stupid little smirk still curled at the corner of her mouth. You can faintly hear her greet the patient as the door eases shut, leaving you confused and alone in the middle of the North corridor.

Retiring?

You blink, your brows drawing tighter.

Retiring?

What the hell is that supposed to mean? Retiring from what?

From having fun? Having casual sex? Blowing off a little steam in the most enjoyable way you know how?

It’s not like you’re some irresponsible party animal—you barely go out, you only drink on occasion, and the hardest drug you’ve done since starting med school is ibuprofen. In fact, you’d argue that you’re the opposite of irresponsible. You take your casual sex roster very seriously. You don’t take risks, you make sure every single one of your partners has regular sexual-health check-ups, and you make sure to actually get to know them before you even sign them up.

Which is exactly why you’re not going around giving out your number to random patients.

You need to know someone before you start something casual. You need to know that they’re not going to ask for more, that they’re going to be mature and understand exactly where you both stand.

You need to know that you can trust them not to be irresponsible.

Because the last thing you need is some trigger-happy idiot who isn’t wearing a condom getting caught up in the moment and finishing inside you. Not that you ever go without a condom.

Except for...

Well—except for Jack.

But that’s different. He knows what he’s doing. You trust him—and you’re on birth control.

So it doesn’t really matter if, occasionally, he finishes—

“You good, or are you just going to keep staring into space?”

Your head snaps up, heat flooding your cheeks as you meet Henderson’s gaze.

“Uh—yeah, sorry, I was just—”

He chuckles. “No need to apologise—but if you’re bored, I could use an extra set of hands in Eight.”

You tilt your head. “Worth it?”

“Forearm lac. Exposed tendon.”

You nod. “I’m in.”

The next few hours blur together in a steady stream of night shift weirdness—a woman with a mystery rash whose story evolves from laundry detergent to poison ivy, someone who decided Gorilla Glue was a reasonable substitute for hair gel, a fish hook through a hand with the fish still attached, and a DIY dentistry job with half the tooth left and a lot of blood.

You barely catch a break until your patient in Central Twelve—when you and Ellis absolutely have to leave the room before you both burst out laughing at the mortified man who insists he slipped and fell on a Buzz Lightyear action figure. Because how else would it get stuck up there?

In your defence, you had managed to maintain some semblance of professionalism right up until Ellis muttered under her breath, “To infinity and beyond, I guess.”

That’s when you lost it—muttering the first excuse you could think of before slipping out the door and doubling over with laughter.

“Oh my God,” Ellis says, wiping the corner of her eye. “I love the night shift.”

You press a hand to your stomach, still aching from the laughter.

“Stop—” you gasp, shaking your head. “I can’t go back in there.”

“In where?” Shen asks, appearing in front of you.

You and Ellis both go still for a second, the laughter dying down as you exchange a look.

“Actually,” Ellis says, turning back to Shen with a smirk. “I think this case might be perfect for you, Dr. Shen.”

You nod. “Oh, absolutely. We could really use your expertise on this one.”

Shen frowns. “What’s the case?”

“It’s hard to explain,” Ellis says quickly. “You’re better off seeing it for yourself.”

Shen isn’t stupid, obviously, but he is incredibly curious—as most doctors are. So despite the fact that both you and Ellis are doing a terrible job of hiding your amusement, he takes the tablet from your outstretched hand and opens the door to Central Twelve.

Ellis’ eyes go wide, but before either of you can say anything else, someone calls your name across the department.

“Trauma One—get in here,” Jack says, waving a hand.

You let out a sigh, tipping your head back for a split second before jogging across Central to meet the paramedics.

“Twenty-four-year-old male—fell onto a plastic prop sword,” the first paramedic says, guiding the gurney into Trauma One. “Penetrating injury to the left thigh, object still in situ. Bleeding controlled, pulses intact, GCS fifteen. Fentanyl given en route, vitals stable.”

You almost snort when you realise the man is dressed in a pirate costume, his plastic cutlass wedged about four inches into his anterolateral thigh.

“Alright, we’ll take it from here,” Jack says. “Can you tell us your name, sir?”

“Josh,” the patient replies, his voice strained.

“Stabilise the leg,” you tell Mateo, moving into position opposite him. “On my count—one, two, three.”

You shift the patient from gurney to bed, and the paramedics clear out.

“Josh!”

A young woman rushes into the room, clearly from the same party—wearing what can only be described as a very short, very inaccurate interpretation of a nurse’s uniform.

“Oh my God. Is he bleeding out?”

Jack glances up, his lips twitching when he spots the woman. “I don’t remember approving that uniform.”

You shoot him a look. “Very funny, Dr. Abbot.”

His eyes linger on you for a beat too long.

“Not that I’d object,” he murmurs.

You arch a brow. “The nurses might.”

“I’m not a nurse,” the woman says, indignant. “I’m a sexy doctor.”

You look her up and down again, your gaze catching on the small, laminated name badge pinned to her chest with ‘Dr. Feelgood’ printed in bold pink letters.

You hum. “Right.”

“Still not the sexiest doctor in the room,” Jack mutters as he moves around the bed.

Your eyes flick up, meeting his for half a second, the corner of your mouth lifting just slightly before you catch yourself and turn back to Josh.

“Have you had anything to drink tonight, Josh?” you ask.

Somewhere behind you, Dr. Feelgood starts to answer for him, but Bridget quickly steps in and guides her out of the trauma bay.

“I’ve got a dorsalis pedis pulse,” Jack notes.

Josh groans, mumbling something unintelligible under his breath.

“We’re going to get you something for the pain, alright?” you say, watching Olive insert the IV. “But first, I need to know what happened and how much you’ve had to drink.”

Mateo carefully cuts up the leg of Josh’s pants, fully exposing the entry site.

“I—ngh—I fell on it—” Josh manages. “It’s not even—not even real—fuck—”

Mateo turns away quickly, hiding his amusement.

“What about alcohol?” you ask again.

“Like—two beers,” he replies.

“Any drugs?”

“No—ah—no drugs.”

You nod. “Okay. Let’s give another twenty-five of fent.”

“Can we get surgery down here?” Jack asks as he steps back from the bed.

Mateo moves to grab the phone. “Calling now.”

Jack nods, folding his arms and lifting his head to look at you. “Alright. What’s next?”

“Repeat neurovascular exam, stabilise the object, don’t remove it, and get imaging before anyone touches it.”

He nods again. “Good.”

You try to ignore the way he’s watching you as you move to the foot of the bed, going through the motions of the neurovascular checks a little slower than he had just a minute ago.

“Pulses still intact. Cap refill under two. No numbness,” you report.

“Good,” he says again. “Keep checking. If that changes, we move faster.”

You nod once before turning back to Josh.

“Do you know when your last tetanus shot was, Josh?”

He shakes his head faintly. “No.”

“Okay, tetanus booster—” you glance up at Jack, “and antibiotics.”

“Which antibiotic?”

“Cefazolin?”

He watches you for a beat, the corner of his mouth lifting just slightly—then he turns to Olive. “You heard the doctor. Get him some cefazolin.”

You drop your head, biting back a smile as you watch Mateo start to clean the entry site.

“Let’s flag contamination risk for surgery,” Jack says, pulling off his gloves. “And X-ray for—”

“Position and fragments,” you cut in, finishing for him. “And CTA left leg to clear the vessels before removal.”

He tosses his gloves in the bin and turns back toward you, brows raised.

“Alright,” he says, mildly amused. “I can see I’m no longer needed in here.”

You flash him a small, smug smile before turning back to the wound.

“Entry looks clean, bleeding’s controlled—let’s pack around it and get him to imaging.”

Mateo nods and moves to grab more gauze, helping you pack carefully around the plastic blade so it doesn’t shift during transport. Jack lingers just long enough to make sure you’ve got everything under control before he steps out of the room, slipping back into the quiet chaos of the night shift.

You and Mateo quickly finish stabilising the leg before the nurses prep him for imaging. They’re just about to wheel the bed out when Walsh arrives from the OR, fighting a smile when she sees the pirate impaled by his own sword. You give her a brief rundown as you pull your gloves off and squirt a pump of sanitiser into your hands. She nods along, asks a few questions, then mutters something about prepping an operating room while they wait for imaging.

When you finally step out of the trauma bay, you spot Jack standing with Lena at the nurses’ station. You don’t quite catch all of their conversation as you walk past to grab a tablet, but you do hear something about ETA three minutes and decide to make yourself scarce before you’re dragged into another trauma.

You scan the board briefly, pick your next patient, then head toward the South corridor, already pulling up the chart for South Twenty on your tablet. You’re halfway through the patient’s intake when—

You stop—then take two steps back, turning your head toward South Seventeen.

“Deran?”

The man in the bed glances up, blowing a lock of dark blond hair out of his eyes.

He smiles. “Hey, doc.”

“What’re you doing here?” you ask, despite the obvious.

He’s got his left hand cradled in his lap, wrapped loosely in an oil-stained rag that’s already soaked through in places, blood seeping into the fabric and drying in dark blotches. His knuckles underneath are split and swollen, his pinky finger sticking out at an odd angle, the rest of his hand already blown out around it.

“I was helping a friend with his truck,” he says, glancing back down at his mangled hand. “The prop rod slipped, and the hood came straight down.”

“Ouch,” you murmur, stepping forward.

He huffs out a short laugh. “Yeah. Ouch.”

“Mind if I take a look?”

“Go for it.”

You set your tablet at the foot of the bed and step up beside him, leaning in as you gently lift the rag to get a better look at what’s underneath. It’s not that deformed—just swollen, and his pinky finger is obviously broken, but otherwise it’s mostly just bruising and superficial cuts. At least he won’t need stitches—maybe some steri-strips and a splint—but you’re more concerned about the dirty rag he’s got wrapped around it.

“What d’you think?” he asks, the corner of his mouth lifting. “Am I going to make it?”

You tilt your head. “Maybe. If we act fast.”

He laughs softly, the sound ringing almost too familiar in your ears.

You straighten quickly, clearing your throat. “Do you—uh—have you seen a doctor yet?”

He shakes his head. “No. Just you.”

You nod once and pick up your tablet, flicking out of South Twenty’s chart.

“Cool. I’ll be your doctor—” You pause, glancing back at him. “Unless you think that’s a conflict of interest?”

His smile widens. “You mean the prettiest doctor in Pittsburgh’s gonna fix me up?”

You roll your eyes. “Just Pittsburgh, huh?”

“Well, I couldn’t say the world—that’d be way too cheesy.”

You snort. “All your lines are cheesy.”

He gasps. “All of them?”

“All of them,” you echo, keeping your eyes fixed firmly on your tablet.

“Wow,” he mutters. “Tough crowd.”

You shake your head, trying not to smile as you pull up his chart and make a quick note, effectively assigning yourself as his physician. Then you set the tablet back on the bed and turn to grab a pair of gloves.

“Alright, I just need to have a closer look before I can get you some pain relief.”

You nudge the stool closer to the bed and sit down, leaning in as Deran gingerly shifts his hand. You peel the rag back properly this time, murmuring an apology when he winces, and set the dirty thing aside before reaching for gauze and saline.

“This might sting a bit,” you say, already starting to clean the dried blood from his knuckles. “Let me know if you want me to stop.”

“Do I need a safe word?” he asks smugly.

Your gaze flicks up, unamused—then back down to his hand without a word.

“I’m gonna go with meatball,” he decides. “Because—”

“—your favourite thing in the world is a meatball sub from that deli on Carson,” you cut in. “I know.”

His brows lift. “Wow.”

Your eyes flick up again. “Wow what?”

He shrugs, wincing slightly as you turn his hand. “Nothing. I just… didn’t think you paid that much attention.”

You don’t look up this time, unsure what you could possibly say that wouldn’t turn this into a deeper conversation than you’re willing to have right now.

After a beat, Deran hums. “Still doing the whole unavailable thing, huh?”

You roll your eyes. “It’s not a thing, Deran. I work fifteen hours a day with hardly any phone reception, and my days off are spent catching up on paperwork and sleep. I am unavailable.”

“Yeah, I know,” he says, glancing back down at his hand. “I guess I just figured since I hadn’t heard from you in a while, maybe some lucky guy finally managed to sweep you off your feet.”

You scoff, focusing a little too hard on wrapping fresh gauze around his hand. “Yeah, well—you’d be wrong.”

He grimaces when you turn his hand again, being careful not to bump his pinky finger as you finish dressing the cuts. Then you gently set it back in his lap and start cleaning up, swivelling on your stool to toss the oily rag and all the bloodied gauze into the waste bin.

“Alright,” you say, turning back. “Lift your hand for me.”

He lifts it slowly.

“Can you move your fingers?”

His eyes go wide.

You give him a flat look. “Just try.”

His expression twists as he slowly flexes his fingers, letting out a low, pained groan.

“Okay, that’s enough,” you say, scooting forward again. “Any numbness or tingling?”

He shakes his head. “No.”

You reach out and press gently against the tip of his pinky—until it turns white—then watch the colour return beneath his nail.

“Cap refill’s good,” you mutter, more to yourself.

He winces again as he lowers his hand back into his lap.

“So, what’s the verdict—is my weekend ruined?”

You snort. “Not entirely. I’ll get you some pain relief and order an X-ray. We might have to reduce the pinky, but I want imaging before I touch it—I need to see exactly where the fracture is first.”

“Well then,” he says, smirking as he lifts his right hand and holds up just the index and middle finger. “Good thing I’m right-handed.”

It takes a moment for the joke to land. You tilt your head, frowning faintly as you stare at his fingers.

Then it clicks.

“Oh my God,” you laugh, grabbing his hand and forcing it back down. “What is wrong with you?”

He grins. “What? You said it yourself—my weekend isn’t entirely ruined.”

You shake your head. “I didn’t think you meant that.”

“Well,” he says slowly, leaning in, “I don’t have plans yet, but if you’ve got time between paperwork and sleeping, maybe we could—”

“Everything alright in here?”

You turn to see Jack stepping past the curtain. He stops at the foot of the bed and clasps his hands behind his back, eyes flicking curiously between you and Deran.

You straighten a little and nod. “Yep. All good.”

“Except my hand,” Deran adds, lifting his injured hand.

“Right.” You shake your head once. “Deran, this is Dr. Abbot—he’s the senior attending on shift tonight.”

Then you glance back at Jack.

“Crush injury to the left hand after a truck hood came down on it. Significant swelling through the fifth digit with an obvious deformity at the pinky, plus some superficial lacerations across the knuckles. Neurovascularly intact—cap refill’s good, no numbness or tingling. I’ve cleaned and dressed the cuts, and I was just about to send him for imaging before we decide if the finger needs reducing.”

Jack nods once. “Good. Any pain management?”

You stand and nudge the stool back, picking up your tablet from the end of the bed.

“I was just about to order some ibuprofen and Tylenol.”

He nods again. “Sounds like you’ve got everything under control.”

You give him a small smile before turning back to Deran. “Hang tight—I’ll come find you once I get your X-ray results.”

He pouts. “You’re just going to leave me here?”

You roll your eyes, already turning away. “Unavailable, remember.”

Jack slides the curtain shut before following you out, falling into step beside you as you head back toward Central.

“You know him?”

You glance up from your tablet. “Uh—yeah. Old friend.”

He lifts a brow. “Friend?”

You give him a look. “What do you want me to say?”

He shrugs, letting out a quiet laugh. “Friend works.”

“Good,” you mutter, stopping at one of the workstations and setting your tablet down.

Jack pauses beside you. “Meet me in Central Twelve once you’ve put the orders in.”

You frown. “Why?”

The corner of his mouth twitches.

“Because I’m your boss, that’s why.”

Then he’s gone, moving through the department with that faint hitch in his stride and an ass that absolutely should not look that good in scrubs.

You shake your head and turn your attention back to the computer in front of you, swiping your badge to log in. You quickly pull up Deran’s chart, make a few notes, and order the ibuprofen and Tylenol. Then, just because you can, you try to pull up Central Twelve’s chart—if only to annoy Jack by getting a head start—but there’s nothing in the system.

Great. Must be a brand-new patient.

You let out an irritated little sigh before logging off and grabbing your tablet again.

The door to Central Twelve is shut when you get there, which isn’t unusual, but immediately makes you fear the worst for whatever case Jack has waiting for you inside.

You take a breath, turn the handle—and freeze when you spot the empty bed.

“Shut the door,” Jack says, without looking up from the supply drawer he’s rummaging through.

You hesitate. “Am I in trouble?”

He sighs. “Do you ever just do what you’re told?”

You finally step into the room, shutting the door behind you before setting your tablet on the room cart.

“Sometimes,” you say. “Depends what’s in it for me.”

Jack straightens, turning toward you. “That’s a remarkably transactional approach to life.”

You shrug. “I believe in reciprocation.”

He takes a step closer. “That’s not what reciprocation means.”

“Really?” you ask. “Because last time I checked—in the shower, by the way—you were getting a pretty good deal.”

His mouth quirks. “Are you saying I owe you?”

You step forward. “Who’s keeping count?”

“Maybe I am,” he murmurs.

Before you can say anything else, his fingers catch the hem of your shirt and he tugs—just enough to pull you off balance. Then his mouth is on yours. Slow, deep, unhurried. As if there isn’t an entire emergency department waiting on the other side of that door.

He presses closer, his hand moving beneath your shirt, rough fingers digging into your hip as his mouth parts lazily against yours. His tongue slides along your bottom lip, pulling a breathy little sigh from the back of your throat as your fingers curl into the front of his scrub top. You tilt your head, leaning in, chasing more—and for a second it almost feels like he’s going to give it to you.

Then he pulls away.

Your lips follow instinctively, and he chuckles, taking a deliberate step back.

You blink. “What was that?”

He lifts a shoulder. “Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

He steps toward the door.

“Dr. Toomarian’s got a patient to present.”

You stare at him. “Seriously?”

He reaches for the handle.

“South Sixteen.”

Then he’s gone, and you’re left watching the door swing shut with something strange and unfamiliar stirring beneath your ribs.

That was weird.

Not unpleasant. Not by any means. Just... unusual.

It takes you a little longer than it should to remember how to move. How to suck in a full breath, pick up your tablet, and head back out into the chaos of the night shift past midnight.

The department is exactly as you’d left it. Patients complaining about pain that could have been prevented with a little common sense. Doctors running on nothing but caffeine and questionable protein snacks. And Lena in the middle of it all, her glasses perched low on her nose as she scans the tablet in her hand.

“Hey,” you say, stepping up to the nurses’ station. “Got anything easy for me?”

Lena glances over the top of her glasses. “Easy left three hours ago.”

You sigh. “Come on. There’s got to be something.”

Her eyes flick back down. “I’ve got a Ms. Callahan in Central Nine. Migraine, vitals are fine.”

“Perfect. I’ll—”

“I’ve got this one,” Jack says, appearing beside you. “Dr. Toomarian needs a resident in South Sixteen.”

You frown. “But I—”

“Now.”

You stare at him for a second, wondering how the hell a man can kiss you breathless one minute then start barking orders at you the next.

“Fine,” you mutter, gripping your tablet a little tighter. “But when I’m admitted for emotional whiplash, I want it documented that you’re the reason why.”

Then you turn and head for the South hall before you’re tempted to say something even less professional.

You don’t normally snap like that—especially not at an attending—but something about the last fifteen minutes has crawled beneath your skin and stayed there, impossible to ignore. Your pulse still hasn’t settled properly. Your cheeks are still warm. And every time you think about Jack’s stupid little half-smirk after he’d kissed you, you’re annoyed.

You just can’t figure out why.

He doesn’t normally kiss you in the middle of a shift.

He doesn’t normally order you around like you’re a lost med student.

And he definitely doesn’t volunteer to see migraine patients.

But you don’t normally get this irritated. Especially not at Jack. The two of you are always messing around. Playing games. Flirting. It’s what you do. So what’s so different about tonight?

“Hey.” Ellis grabs your arm, stopping you just outside of South Sixteen. “You good?”

You blink. “Yeah. Why?”

“You look like you’re contemplating homicide.”

“And if I am?”

“I’d be obliged to remind you that we’re here to save lives, not end them.”

“Damn. Guess I’ll just have to wait until after my shift.”

Her eyes narrow, the corner of her mouth lifting just slightly. “Is this about who I thought I saw being taken up to imaging?”

You frown. “Who did you think you saw?”

“Deran.”

“Oh.”

You glance over her shoulder at the empty bed in South Seventeen.

“That was fast,” you mutter.

Her brows lift. “Wait. You’re his physician?”

You shrug. “Yeah.”

“Isn’t that a conflict of interest?”

“Isn’t my life a conflict of interest?”

She stares at you for a moment, amusement tugging at her mouth. “It’s one of those nights, huh?”

You sigh. “Yep.”

She puts a hand on your shoulder. “Good luck.”

“Thanks.”

Then she gives you a brief nod and continues down the hall, humming a tune you don’t recognise as if to rub it in that she’s having a far more pleasant shift than you are.

You spend the next half hour alongside Nazely, talking her through a chest pain workup and reassuring the patient who’s convinced every twinge in his left arm is the beginning of the end. By the time you’ve reviewed the ECG for the third time and convinced him that googling symptoms at two in the morning isn’t a substitute for medical advice, you’re finally able to move on.

The shift settles back into its usual rhythm after that. Patients. Notes. Consults. A never-ending stream of questions from the new med student stuck on nights and equally never-ending complaints from people who should have gone to bed instead of doing dumb things that landed them in the ED.

It isn’t until two a.m. that you finally find yourself back at the nurses’ station with Ellis, sipping a vending machine energy drink she’d forced into your hand while the department enjoys a rare moment of relative calm.

“Shen said the Butt Lightyear guy went up for surgery.”

Lena tilts her head. “Butt Lightyear?”

“You don’t want to know,” you murmur into your drink.

“They tried removing it manually but were worried about the wings,” Ellis explains.

“The wings?”

She smirks. “Yeah. You press a button and the wings pop out.”

You shut your eyes. “Ouch.”

“Let me guess,” Lena says, peering over the rim of her glasses. “He slipped?”

Ellis nods. “Yep. Total accident.”

“Yeah, and the toy just happened to be completely covered in lube too,” you add.

Lena sighs. “Every day I learn something new against my will.”

You and Ellis both laugh as Lena turns away, seemingly done with this conversation—and the people of Pittsburgh judging by the defeated look on her face. You’re about to reach for your tablet to pull up the X-ray images off poor Butt Lightyear when a bright laugh cuts through the quiet hum of the department, drawing your attention toward Central Nine.

You narrow your eyes. “Why is he still in there?”

Ellis shrugs. “Not sure. I thought it was just a migraine.”

“Laughing pretty hard for someone with a headache,” you mutter.

Ellis glances at you. “Do you know who she is?”

“Nope.”

“Huh.”

You look at her. “What?”

She shakes her head. “Nothing.”

“I have no idea who she is,” you say, grabbing your tablet. “And frankly? I don’t care.”

Ellis nods. “Okay.”

“Good.”

Then you turn away before she can say anything else, heading toward the North corridor even though you have no idea which patient you’re actually on your way to see.

It isn’t long before you find yourself passing through Central again, peering into Ms. Callahan’s room to see if she’s been discharged yet. Which she hasn’t—but at least Jack’s not in there anymore. Not that it really matters to you, but you can’t imagine the rest of the department is thrilled about an attending wasting half the night on a migraine patient.

Ten minutes later, you walk past Central Nine again. Not because you’re looking this time—you’re genuinely just passing on your way to find a free workstation—but she’s still in there. And she certainly doesn’t look like she’s in pain anymore.

If you were her, you’d be demanding discharge papers by now.

The third time you glance at Ms. Callahan, she catches your eye, and you offer her a small, awkward smile before quickly glancing back down at your chart. The same chart you’ve been pretending to work on for the better part of fifteen minutes without writing a single coherent sentence.

“You know that’s Abbot’s ex, right?”

You blink. “What?”

Shen nods toward Central Nine. “Ms. Callahan. She’s Abbot’s ex.”

You glance back at the gorgeous blonde woman scrolling through her phone, not at all looking like someone suffering from a migraine.

“Oh.”

Shen nods slowly. “Anyway. He’s looking for you.”

You frown. “Who?”

“Dr. Abbot.”

“Why?”

Shen shrugs. “Didn’t say.”

You sigh. “Great.”

He watches you curiously as you log out of the computer and push your chair back.

“Did he say where?” you ask.

“South.”

You nod once. “Thanks.”

Then you turn and head toward the South corridor, but not without one last glance at the woman in Central Nine. The woman who apparently used to date Jack. The woman who, for reasons you still don’t entirely understand, is suddenly very difficult to stop thinking about.

You spot Jack standing beside the workstations in the middle of the South hall, frowning at something on his tablet. He looks tired now, his curls standing at odd angles thanks to the way he drags his hand through them after every stressful trauma patient—and he’s leaning his left hip against the side of the desk, shifting the weight off his right leg because three a.m. is always when it starts aching. Not that he’ll admit it.

“Shen said you wanted to see me.”

He glances up. “Your friend’s imaging came back.”

“And?”

“Hand surgery wants him,” he says, offering you his tablet.

You take it, glancing down at the X-ray images. “Fracture and tendon damage. Fantastic.”

You flip through the images and skim over the surgeon’s review.

“Okay. I’ll send him up.”

Jack takes the tablet back, his brows pulling together slightly.

“Have you eaten?”

You frown. “What?”

“Have you eaten anything tonight?”

“I had an energy drink.”

He stares at you. “That’s not food.”

You shrug. “I haven’t had time.”

“Make time.”

You roll your eyes. “Fine. I didn’t bring anything.”

He lets out a quiet sigh, glancing down at the tablet as he flicks out of Deran’s X-rays and brings up another patient’s chart.

“There’s a container in the fridge.”

You blink. “What?”

“Top shelf. Left side. Blue lid.”

Your brows lift. “You brought me food?”

He glances up again. “I brought extra food. It’s that pasta you like.”

As if on cue, your stomach grumbles. Loudly.

“Go eat,” he says. “I doubt surgery’s coming to collect your friend in the next twenty minutes.”

You want to argue. You really do. Because you don’t need to be looked after. You don’t need him to bring you food and make sure you eat and be all quietly caring like this. But God is this man a good cook, and you’d have to be an idiot to turn down free pasta at three o’clock in the morning.

“Fine,” you mutter, already turning away. “I’ll eat.”

“You’re welcome.”

You don’t look back. Because if you do, you might see the stupidly smug look on his face and it might make you smile. Then he’ll know he was right, and you absolutely cannot give him that satisfaction. So instead, you drop your gaze and watch your shoes move against the speckled linoleum until you reach the break room door.

You don’t even notice that someone else is in there until you reach the fridge and finally glance up.

“Oh. Hey.”

Ellis waves her fork. “Hey.”

You pull the fridge door open and immediately spot Jack’s blue-lidded tupperware.

“You brought food?” Ellis asks, clearly surprised.

You don’t answer. Not explicitly, at least. You just glance over your shoulder with what could be considered a very brief nod, then turn back toward the microwave and set the container inside.

“She’s his ex, by the way,” you say without thinking.

“Huh?”

You press the start button on the microwave before turning to face Ellis properly, leaning back against the kitchenette counter.

“The woman in Central Nine. Shen just told me she’s Jack’s ex.”

“Oh. Yeah.” Ellis stabs a piece of broccoli with her fork. “I know.”

You tilt your head. “How do you know?”

“I asked Dr. Abbot how he knew the patient,” she says, as if it were obvious.

“Oh.”

You glance back at the microwave, still humming, Jack’s container rotating slowly inside.

“What’d he say?”

Ellis sighs, stabbing a piece of carrot this time. “Just that they dated about a year after his wife passed, but he realised he wasn’t ready to move on yet, so he ended it. It was amicable. Now they’re friends.”

You frown. “Friends? He’s never mentioned her to me.”

Ellis finally looks up, something sharpening in her expression. “Why would he?”

You hesitate. “Because we’re—well, you know…”

Her mouth twitches. “I thought it was casual.”

“It is,” you say quickly. “I just thought he would’ve mentioned—”

“Does Abbot know who Deran is?”

You blink. “What?”

Ellis smirks. “You know, the guy currently sitting in South Seventeen? Mr. Thursday mornings, or—” she tilts her head, “I guess it’s former Mr. Thursday mornings now.”

“Well—not exactly, but that’s—”

The sharp beeping of the microwave cuts you off, and you turn quickly to silence it.

“That’s different?” Ellis offers.

You grab the container out of the microwave, shut the door, then yank open the cutlery drawer to grab a fork before turning back to face her.

“Yes,” you say firmly. “It’s different. Jack knows we’re not exclusive, but he doesn’t need to know who the other guys are.”

Ellis snorts. “Or were.”

You glare at her.

“Alright,” she says, leaning back in her chair. “Then why do you need to know who she is?”

You stab a piece of pasta. “I don’t. I’m just... curious.”

“You mean jealous.”

Your head snaps up. “I’m not jealous. I don’t care what he does when he’s not with me. He can sleep with whoever he wants. He can sleep with every bottle-blonde in Pittsburgh for all I care.”

Ellis’ brows shoot up. “Wow. You’re really jealous.”

“I am not,” you protest. “It’s casual. We both know that. If he wants out, he can just say so. I don’t need him. I don’t need anyone. I mean, sure, it’s fun when they’re good, but I am perfectly fine on my own. I don’t need someone interfering with my life. With my routine. I’m happy exactly the way things are.”

Ellis nods slowly. “Okay, Miss Independent. I get it.”

“Thank you.”

“Just to be clear,” she says, pushing her chair back, “you’re standing here eating his food because he told you to. Right?”

You open your mouth to argue, but she keeps going.

“Your hair smells like his shampoo. You walked into our apartment this morning wearing his shirt, and I’m pretty sure those are his socks.” Her gaze drops briefly to your feet before returning to your face. “You haven’t slept in your own bed once this week and, unless I’m forgetting somebody, you haven’t seen another guy in...” She pauses, pretending to think. “Wow. Almost four months now.”

You stare at her.

“And when you got that stomach bug last month,” she says, grabbing her container as she stands, “he called out of work just to sit on the bathroom floor with you for eight hours.”

She steps up right beside you, dropping her container in the sink.

“That’s not casual.”

The water runs for a few seconds as she rinses the container beneath the tap, then she sets it beside the sink and turns toward the door.

“Anyway,” she says lightly, reaching for the handle. “Let me know when you’re ready to admit you’re in love with him.”

Then she’s gone, leaving you alone with your pasta and your rapidly fraying nervous system.

You don’t move. You just stare at the door, trying to remember how to breathe. Trying to think about anything that isn’t that strange and unfamiliar feeling lodged beneath your ribs, insistent on being felt.

No.

It’s not—

It can’t be—

You would know if you were in—

Fuck.

You turn quickly and drop your container of food beside the sink before it ends up on the floor. Then you press both palms into the edge of the counter, as if that might somehow ground you.

This is ridiculous.

Ellis is just messing with you. She has to be.

You’re not in—

God. You can’t even think about that word.

You drag in a deep breath and grab the fork again, lifting it to your mouth.

It’s almost annoying how good it is. Infuriating, really. Because apparently being an emergency doctor, a SWAT physician, offensively attractive and unfairly charming isn’t enough. No. Jack Abbot just has to be an excellent cook too.

Jerk.

You finish the rest of the pasta as quickly as you can, trying not to be disappointed when the container is empty. Then you rinse it beneath the tap and set it beside Ellis’ tupperware.

Your heart is still beating a little too fast when you step out of the break room, and you have to shove your hands into your scrub pockets to keep them from shaking. You keep your head down as you make your way back toward South Seventeen, trying to focus on what you’re going to say to Deran and not how you may or may not feel about your attending.

“Hey,” you say, pulling the curtain back. “How are you feeling?”

Deran glances up. “Hey, doc. Long time no see.”

You squirt a pump of sanitiser into your palm and rub your hands together as you step up beside the bed.

“Been busy,” you say. “Are the painkillers working?”

He lifts his hand, wincing. “A little.”

You glance at the clock on the wall. “You could probably get some more soon.”

His brows pull together slightly. “Is that your way of saying I’m not heading home any time soon?”

You sigh quietly, dragging the stool closer to the bed and dropping down onto it.

“Not tonight, no. I’m sorry.”

He groans, tipping his head back against the pillow.

“I know,” you murmur, leaning in. “But one of our hand surgeons reviewed the images, and you’ve got a fracture right here.” You gently tap the base of his little finger near the knuckle. “I was expecting a break, but it’s lower than we’d like and close enough to the joint that this isn’t something we can safely reduce and splint in the ED.”

He lifts his head.

“There’s also some concern about the tendon around it,” you continue. “The finger was pulled pretty hard out of position, and the surgeon’s worried it may have damaged one of the tendons that helps it move properly.”

“What does that mean?”

“They’ll take you upstairs, get better imaging if they need it, and most likely repair everything at the same time rather than risk you losing function later.”

His brows draw tighter. “Repair?”

“The fracture. The tendon. Anything else they find once they’re in there.”

He lets his head fall back again. “Great.”

“You’ll be okay.”

“I know,” he says, the corner of his mouth lifting. “Just not exactly how I pictured getting to spend more time with you.”

You roll your eyes. “Really?”

“Will you be here when I wake up?”

You snort. “Hopefully not. If all goes well, I’ll be at home asleep.”

He sighs. “Damn.”

You push the stool back and stand. “Any other questions before I sign you off to surgery?”

He lifts his head, frowning slightly. “Yeah, actually. I wanted to ask you about that guy.”

You tilt your head. “What guy?”

“The one that came in here before. The attending.”

Your stomach drops.

“What about him?”

“I thought he was your boss.”

You fold your arms. “He is.”

“Huh.”

“What does that mean?”

“It’s just—” He hesitates. “I don’t know. You just don’t usually look at your boss like that.”

You stare at him for a moment, trying to ignore the rush of your pulse in your ears.

“You sure you didn’t hit your head?”

His brows lift. “Wait. Did I hit a nerve?”

“No.”

“You sure?”

Your eyes narrow. “Why don’t you just focus on the fact that you need surgery? Do you need me to call anyone?”

He shakes his head. “I already called my mom.”

“Good,” you mutter, already turning away. “Good luck in surgery.”

“Tell your boss I said hi.”

“Bye, Deran.”

His laughter follows you out into the hallway, but you refuse to give him the satisfaction of looking back as you yank the curtain shut.

You shake your head as you start down the corridor toward Central, as if that might somehow knock your errant thoughts back into place. You can still hear your pulse, still feel the heat crawling beneath your skin, your scrub top suddenly too warm and too tight.

The lights overhead are almost painfully bright now, the way they always get in the late hours of the night shift—but tonight their glare feels personal. Offensive, even. As if those buzzing fluorescent bars are shining brightly on everything you’ve worked so hard not to acknowledge. Not to feel.

Not that you’re feeling anything.

At least, not whatever it is Ellis thinks you’re feeling.

You just need a minute. One minute of quiet to come up with perfectly reasonable explanations for every stupid little thing she pointed out. Then your mind can stop running circles and you can finish your shift, go home, and get some much-needed sleep.

By tomorrow, all of this is just going to feel ridiculous.

Because that’s exactly what it is.

Ridiculous.

“Dr. Abbot,” Bridget calls from behind the desk. “Can you take a look at this for me?”

You stop short halfway between South and Central, watching as Jack moves from one end of the nurses’ station to the other. Bridget is already holding up her tablet, pointing at something on the screen while Jack leans in, brow furrowing just slightly as he squints at it.

He needs to wear his glasses. You’ve told him this countless times. Yet for some reason, he insists on reserving them exclusively for news articles, novels, and recipes.

Apparently, the PTMC emergency department isn’t worthy of his clear vision.

Your stomach lurches as your traitorous thoughts remind you of the time he’d worn them during sex. The time he’d insisted on keeping them on as he settled between your legs because he wanted to see you properly. He wanted to see everything.

You shake your head again, trying to push the memory away.

Jack leans a little closer as Bridget starts explaining something you can’t quite make out. Not that you really care to hear what she’s saying. You’re too busy watching the way Jack’s left hand grips the edge of the desk, his weight shifting toward it, lessening the load on his right leg.

It must be really sore tonight.

He nods along, murmuring something low as he taps on the screen. You know what comes next before he even does it. He lifts that same hand and it drags across his jaw, tilting his head just slightly as he tries to concentrate on whatever it is Bridget’s asking—but he’s tired. You know he’s tired. From the set of his shoulders to the way he’s shifting almost all his weight off his right leg, you just know that he’s counting down the hours to the end of shift.

Maybe you should feel guilty for not letting him get enough sleep yesterday.

His left hand adjusts its grip, the tendon in his forearm flexing as it does and for some stupid reason, you forget how to breathe. Just for a second.

“You alright?”

You blink. “What?”

Henderson frowns slightly, suddenly standing beside you with his tablet in hand. “That’s the second time I've caught you completely zoned out tonight. What’s going on?”

“Uh—”

You glance back at Jack just as he looks up, his gaze meeting yours briefly, a small smile tugging at his lips—and your treacherous heart leaps. It actually leaps.

What the fuck?

You clear your throat. “Yeah. No. I’m fine.”

“You sure?”

Henderson—the perceptive bastard—glances toward the nurses’ station, and his eyes widen.

“Oh, shit. Did something happen between you two?”

Your stomach flips. “What?”

He gestures vaguely toward Jack. “You and Abbot. Did you break up or something?”

“What?” you say again, louder this time. “Why would you even—I mean, we’re not—we’ve never dated. Why would you think that?”

He tilts his head. “Really? I thought Ellis said—”

“Ellis?”

“Not just Ellis.”

Your eyes go wide. “Who else?”

He shrugs. “Everyone assumes you guys are together.”

“Together?”

He frowns. “You’re not?”

“No,” you say, almost too fast. “No. We’re not together, we’re just—it’s… casual.”

His brows lift, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Casual?”

“Yes,” you mutter, dropping your head into your hands. “Are you telling me the entire ED thinks Jack and I are dating?”

Henderson laughs. “Actually, now that I think about it, I don’t think I’ve ever heard Shen mention it.”

Your head snaps up. “People talk about it?”

Henderson shrugs. “It’s gossip.”

You open your mouth, ready to deny everything, when—

“Trauma inbound,” Lena calls. “Male, twenties. Motorcycle crash. Hypotensive in the field. ETA two minutes.”

“Shit,” Henderson mutters. “That’s not gonna be fun.”

Jack glances over at you again, calling your name across the floor. “Trauma Two. Let’s go.”

You hesitate, taking a step back. “I—I can’t. Sorry.”

“It’s alright,” Henderson says quickly. “I can jump in.”

He’s already moving before he’s even finished speaking, weaving through the growing rush of staff converging on Trauma Two. You watch him for a second, taking another slow step back, then another—and just before you turn away, you glance at Jack.

He hasn’t moved. He’s still standing by the nurses’ station. Watching you.

Your stomach twists.

Then you turn away and keep walking down the corridor.

And fortunately for your rapidly deteriorating grip on reality, it isn’t long before Dr. Toomarian pulls you into a room to present a patient and you’re forced back into work mode.

The distraction helps, at first. You focus on the patient, answer questions, review scans, place orders, and for a few blessed minutes your brain remembers how to function. Then someone says Jack’s name and your pulse jumps for no reason. You hear a voice that sounds vaguely like Jack’s and your head snaps up. Someone calls for an attending and you catch yourself looking.

By the time you’re halfway through reviewing another chart, your pulse still hasn’t settled and you’re no closer to understanding what the hell is wrong with you, only increasingly certain that whatever it is, it’s getting worse.

Eventually you find yourself moving back through Central, your nose buried in your tablet as you scan the next patient’s intake form, determined to stay distracted. You’re just about to turn down the North corridor when you finally glance up—and there he is.

His brows lift, just slightly. “A word?”

Shit.

“Um. Sure.”

You tuck your tablet under one arm as you follow him around the corner toward the ambulance bay. Not quite all the way outside, but far enough from the nurses’ station that no one nosy can overhear.

When he finally stops and turns to face you, you’re reminded—quite aggressively—just how unfairly attractive Jack Abbot really is.

“What was that?”

You take a small step back. “What was what?”

He nods vaguely toward Central. “You completely dodged that trauma back there.”

“Yeah. Sorry.” You look away. “I just—I had a patient I needed to get back to.”

“We’ve all got patients,” he says, folding his arms. “But this is the ED. We treat the most critical patients first. That means traumas—you know that.”

You glance back at him, then down at your shoes. “I know. I’m sorry. I’m just... a little distracted tonight.”

“Distracted?” he echoes. “Is this about your friend?”

Your head snaps up. “My friend?”

“The one you just sent up to surgery.” His jaw tightens, just briefly. “If I’m being honest, I’m not even sure you should’ve been his physician.”

You frown. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It’s a conflict of interest.”

You scoff. “A conflict of interest? Seriously?”

He folds his arms a little tighter, making the sleeves of his scrub top strain around his stupidly thick biceps in the most distracting way.

“Yes.”

You lift your chin. “Alright. How’s Ms. Callahan, then?”

He blinks. “Who?”

“Central Nine. Your ex.”

He stares at you for a second.

“Who told you that?”

“It doesn’t matter,” you say quickly. “What matters is if you can treat your ex without it being a conflict of interest, then I can treat some guy I used to sleep with.”

The corner of his mouth twitches.

“So he’s not just an old friend.”

You tilt your head. “You knew that, Jack.”

For a brief moment, neither of you says anything. You can feel your pulse in your throat now, fast and uneven, and judging by the way Jack’s looking at you, you’re not doing nearly as good a job of hiding it as you’d hoped.

“Look,” you say, desperate to end this interaction. “I’m sorry I ducked the trauma. Really, I am. But Henderson was right there—it’s not like I left you hanging. I knew he’d jump in.”

Jack rubs a hand across his jaw, looking away for a second before glancing back at you. “You’re right,” he says. “I’m sorry. Henderson was there, I could have called either of you.”

You nod once, the knot in your stomach finally easing slightly.

“Guess I should stop playing favourites, huh?”

You frown again. “Favourites?”

He lifts a shoulder. “You’re always the first person I look for when I need a second set of hands.”

Heat rushes up the back of your neck, but you refuse to let him see it.

“What about Dr. Robby?” you ask, shifting your tablet against your chest.

He leans in slightly. “I’d still choose you.”

The words hit you square in the chest, settling somewhere deep behind your ribs. For a second, your lungs forget how to work entirely, and by the time you finally figure out how to breathe again, Jack is already gone.

You stand there for a moment, staring after him, waiting for your brain to catch up with whatever the hell just happened. Waiting for those words to make sense. But they don’t. Not entirely. They stay lodged in your chest even as you clear your throat and press a hand against your sternum, turning slowly back toward the chaos of the ED.

Whatever.

Maybe they don’t mean anything.

You shake your head as you glance down at your tablet, pulling up the chart you’d been focused on before all this. Before Jack told you he’d still choose you over his own best friend, who also happens to have more experience, more qualifications, and significantly better judgement than you.

Ridiculous.

You spend the next half hour cleaning gravel out of a drunk college student’s knee after he fell down the porch steps at a house party. Then you help Henderson with a nine-year-old girl who split her forehead falling from the top bunk of her bed, distracting her while he does the sutures. After that, you work through a mild pneumonia case with Nazely before treating a middle-aged man with a kidney stone. The orders, pain meds, scans, and paperwork all blur together, and by the time you finally check the clock again it’s almost seven.

“Shit,” you murmur, dropping down at desk near the nurses’ station.

You need to catch up on your charting if you plan on getting out of here any time soon.

“Hey.” Henderson sits at the computer across from you. “Little girl with the forehead lac just got discharged.”

You glance over at him. “Oh. Nice.”

“Her mom wanted me to thank you for helping her.”

You snort. “Between the drunk college kid and the old guy coughing up half a lung, it was my pleasure.”

Henderson huffs a laugh. “Apparently she’s been saying she wants to be a doctor since she was six.”

Your brows lift. “Really?”

Henderson grins. “And now she wants to be a doctor just like you."

“Yeah? Did you tell her not to go into emergency medicine if she values her soul?”

“Assuming you had one to begin with,” Robby cuts in.

You glance up just as he walks past, wearing that familiar half-smile of weary amusement with a coffee in one hand and his bag slung over his shoulder.

“And here I was worried you’d be in a good mood this morning,” you say, smiling sweetly despite your words.

His eyes narrow, but the corner of his mouth lifts a little higher. “Careful.”

You roll your eyes playfully, turning back to the screen in front of you as he continues through Central.

It takes exactly eight minutes before you’re interrupted again. Bridget taps you on the shoulder asking for your signature on a prescription, and just as you hand it back to her, the red phone rings. You watch Lena answer it with a tired sigh, both Jack and Robby looking up to hear what kind of chaos is inbound.

“Alright,” Lena says as she hangs up the phone. “Male, forties. Single-vehicle MVC. Hypotensive in the field, positive seatbelt sign. ETA four minutes.”

“I’ll take it,” Robby says, setting his coffee down. “Let’s prep Trauma One.”

He glances around the unusually empty floor.

“I’ll jump in,” you offer, pushing your chair back.

Henderson shoots you a look as you stand and turn toward the nurses’ station, pulling a pair of gloves from a box. It’s not that you really want to jump in on another case ten minutes before the end of your shift, but you haven’t had a trauma since Captain Stabby and his sexy doctor friend, and you’re starting to feel a little guilty about it.

“See,” Robby says, pulling on his own gloves. “There’s hope for you yet.”

You roll your eyes again as you follow him out to the ambulance bay, and it isn’t long before you hear sirens.

The ambulance careens in and pulls up right in front of you, the back doors flying open as the first paramedic climbs out, holding a tearful young girl in his arms. She couldn’t be older than four.

“Thirty-eight-year-old male, restrained driver in a single-vehicle MVC versus a tree,” the paramedic says. “Positive seatbelt sign, abdominal pain, hypotensive on scene, improved with fluids. GCS fifteen. Two IVs in place. Daughter was restrained in the back seat and appears uninjured.”

The second paramedic circles the van from the driver’s side and starts helping Robby lower the gurney.

Robby nods toward the daughter. “You check her out?”

“We did a quick assessment on scene, but we’ve been focused on Dad,” the paramedic says, still holding her.

“Alright. We’ll get somebody to take a look at her.”

The young girl starts crying harder as Robby and the other paramedic begin wheeling the gurney inside. You stay beside them, one hand on the man’s forearm as you watch his eyelids droop.

“Stay with me, sir,” you say, squeezing his arm. “Can you tell me your name?”

“Barry,” he murmurs.

“Where does it hurt, Barry?”

He winces. “My—my stomach.”

The gurney rolls through the second set of doors, and suddenly you’re back under the bright fluorescent lights.

“Abbot,” Robby calls. “Can you take a look at the kid?”

Jack appears before you can even glance over your shoulder.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he says, his voice soft as he gently takes the daughter from the paramedic’s arms. “Your dad’s in good hands. Come on, let’s get you checked out too.”

You continue moving with the gurney into Trauma One, where Jesse and Olive are already prepping monitors and equipment.

“On three,” Robby says, positioning himself opposite you. “One, two, three.”

The paramedics help shift the patient onto the trauma bed before clearing out, making room for Jesse to start attaching monitors.

“Pressure one-oh-four over sixty-eight,” he reports.

Olive quickly cuts Barry’s shirt open.

“Seatbelt sign across the lower abdomen,” you say, pressing gently along his stomach.

He grimaces when you reach his left side.

“Left’s worse.”

Robby holds out a hand. “Ultrasound.”

Jesse hands him the probe as you squirt gel onto Barry’s abdomen.

“RUQ,” Robby says.

You glance up at the ultrasound screen. “Clear.”

“LUQ.”

“Clear.”

“Pelvis.”

“Nothing obvious.”

“Good,” Robby says. “FAST negative. He’s stable enough for CT.”

You turn to Olive. “CT chest, abdo, pelvis with contrast.”

She nods, moving toward the phone as the whole room finally takes a breath. The negative FAST isn’t a guarantee, but it’s a promising start.

Barry groans, trying to lift his head. “Where’s my daughter? Where’s Ellie?”

You press a hand against his shoulder.

“Hey, don’t try to sit up. Your daughter’s okay—she’s just outside with another doctor.”

“She’s okay?”

You nod. “She’s okay.”

He lets out a strained breath, settling back against the mattress and tipping his head back.

“Hold on.”

You move closer, gently pushing his hair back.

“Forehead lac,” you tell Robby. “About three centimetres.”

He glances over. “Alright. We’ll close it up before he goes to imaging.”

He strips off his gloves and reaches for a new pair while Jesse preps the suture tray. Olive is already cleaning up around Barry as you reach for some gauze to start cleaning the cut, gently pushing his bloodied locks of hair out of the way.

“Lidocaine,” Robby says.

You grab the syringe from the tray and hand it to him, more than happy to let your attending do the work while your adrenaline wanes and that familiar end-of-shift exhaustion sets in.

“Stay still for us, Barry,” you murmur, cupping the crown of his head. “This might sting a little.”

He winces as Robby injects the anaesthetic.

“Saline,” Robby says.

You hand it over before carefully plucking the last few stuck strands of hair away from the wound.

“How’s the pain?” you ask.

“‘S okay,” Barry mumbles.

“Forceps.”

You hand Robby the forceps, then the needle driver before he can even ask.

“Light,” he murmurs.

You reach up and adjust the luminaire until he raises his hand, signalling that it’s in the right spot. Then he pinches the edge of the laceration with the forceps and slides the needle through the skin. Easy. Effortless. Boring.

You glance up at the monitor, noting that Barry’s heart rate has finally dropped below a hundred.

“Scissors,” Robby says.

You grab the scissors from the tray and hand them to him, then go back to reading Barry’s vitals.

“You with us, Barry?” Robby asks.

“Yeah,” Barry murmurs.

“Can’t feel the needle, can you?”

“No.”

“Good.”

You let your eyes move slowly around the room, already holding gauze for Robby before he can ask for it. You feel him take it from your hand just as you turn your head toward the glass doors, gazing out at the beginning chaos of morning handover.

But it isn’t Ellis and Langdon arguing about God knows what that gets your attention.

Just outside the trauma bay, perched on the edge of a bed parked beside the nurses’ station is Barry’s daughter. Ellie, apparently. Her eyes are still red and puffy, but she’s not crying anymore. She’s got a pink hospital gift shop teddy tucked under one arm and her other hand wrapped around the tubing of a black stethoscope.

Jack is sitting on a stool in front of her, gently helping put the earpieces in her tiny ears with a soft smile crinkling the corners of his eyes. Her little hands grip either side of the headset, adjusting it with a very focused look on her face.

Jack hands her the chest piece as he scoots a little closer to the bed, then points to his chest. You can’t hear what he’s saying, but you can make an educated guess.

Ellie’s tiny hand grips the bell as she presses the diaphragm against Jack’s chest, a small crease forming between her brows. Jack is watching her with that amused little half-smile, his gaze soft, one hand braced lightly on the mattress beside her so she doesn’t topple backwards.

Ellie says something, and Jack nods, schooling his expression.

She’s taking her job very seriously right now, and Jack is taking her very seriously.

“Doctor.”

You blink, glancing back at Robby.

“Yeah?”

He gives you a look. “Scissors. For the third time.”

“Oh. Sorry.”

You hand him the scissors and watch him snip the tail on the second-last suture, then you turn your attention back toward Jack and Ellie. She’s giggling now, with the diaphragm pressed to Jack’s cheek as he gently shakes his head, laughing too.

“Forceps.”

You grab the forceps and hand them to Robby.

His eyes flick up. “You alright?”

“Yeah. Why?”

“You’re smiling.”

“No, I’m—”

Oh my God.

You are smiling.

You turn back toward Jack, and your stomach drops.

Oh my God.

You’re in love with Jack Abbot.

“Alright, Barry,” Robby says, peeling his gloves off. “We’re gonna send you upstairs for some imaging now, make sure we didn’t miss anything.”

You take one unsteady step back from the bed.

“Can someone call my wife?” Barry asks, his voice strained.

Robby nods. “I'm sure somebody already has, but I’ll check.”

Your hands shake as you pull your gloves off.

“What about Ellie? Can I see her?”

“Of course,” Robby says. “She’s right outside.”

Barry lifts his head slightly. “Am I okay?”

“Well, you’re talking to me, your pressure’s holding, and your FAST was negative. Those are all good signs.” Robby looks at you. “Isn’t that right, doctor?”

Your head snaps up. “Hm?”

He frowns. “You sure you’re alright? You seem—”

“I’m fine,” you snap, tossing your gloves in the waste bin. “I just—I have charting to do.”

Then you turn and march right out of the trauma bay, keeping your head down as you take an immediate sharp left. Ignoring the familiar voice that calls your name and makes your pulse scatter.

You don’t stop until you reach the picture wall. Only then do you drop down onto the bench, squeeze your eyes shut, and bury your face in your hands. You can’t scream. Can’t shout. Can’t drop to the floor and have a panic attack right here in the middle of the ED. So you just… breathe.

Okay. Maybe you’re being a little dramatic—but can anyone blame you?

You don’t want this. You can’t want this. You don’t have time for this.

Casual sex is easy. No strings, no stress, no reason to worry about anything other than saving lives and finishing your residency. That’s all you want.

Or… all you wanted.

Now?

Now you’re not sure what you want.

Of course you still want to save lives and survive your residency, but now you can’t imagine doing either of those things without Jack.

You can’t imagine another shift without knowing Jack is somewhere in the department. Or getting a difficult case and not being able to talk through it with him. You can’t imagine going home and not immediately texting him. Or having a bad day and not being able to talk to him about it.

You can’t imagine anything without Jack.

Which is terrifying.

Because it isn’t just sex anymore. It isn’t flirting or late-night texts or teasing glances across the floor. It’s the way he’s somehow worked his way into every part of your life without you even noticing. Every shift. Every conversation. Every stupid little story you save up to tell him later. He’s just there. Everywhere.

And now... he matters.

You sit up and drag in a deep breath.

You need to pull it together. This isn’t the end of the world. It’s not even a thing. It’s only a thing if you let it be a thing, which… you’re not going to do.

With another deep breath, you push off the bench and start heading back toward Central. All you have to do is finish your charting, then you can leave. You can go home, turn your phone off, and talk yourself off the ledge.

You just need a little space. A little time away from the hospital, away from Jack, and all these ridiculous feelings will—

“Hey. You okay?”

Your heart lurches, but you don’t stop.

“I was going to come over there,” he says, keeping his voice low, “but I didn’t want to—”

“I’m fine,” you murmur, without even looking at him.

His hand closes gently around your wrist, and your stomach flips so hard it’s almost nauseating. 

“You sure?”

You finally stop, glancing up at him. At the concerned crease between his brows and the little downward quirk at the corner of his mouth.

“I’m fine,” you say again, pulling your arm out of his grip. “Seriously.”

He gives you a look. Not one that says he’s offended or at all upset by your attitude, but one that says he doesn’t believe you. A look that makes you feel far too seen. Far too known.

“I need to finish my notes,” you mutter, turning away before he can say anything else.

You turn down the North corridor and don’t stop until you reach the desks just outside the break room. Then you drop into a chair, swipe your badge to log in, and force your trembling hands to steady themselves over the keyboard.

It takes a significant amount of effort to focus on your charting. You stare at the blinking cursor for minutes at a time before finally managing to squeeze out a few—mostly coherent—sentences. You type Jack’s name at least five times without meaning to, and every time you do, your heart thuds obnoxiously hard beneath your ribs.

Fortunately, no one tries to interrupt you this time, and after forty painstaking minutes of glaring at that computer screen and forcing your wayward thoughts to stay on track, you finally finish.

Now you just need to handover your patients.

You find Langdon by the nurses’ station, standing just below the workboard with his hands in his pockets as he reads through the list of patients and their ailments.

“Hey.” You step up beside him. “You got a minute for handover?”

He glances at you. “Oh. Hey. Didn’t know there were still any night crawlers left.”