Yourbitch

“I know,” you gasped, your fingers digging into his shoulders, your cock already half-hard and aching in your jeans. Sam’s own erection was a brand against your hip, the denim doing nothing to dull the pressure. Dry humping like a couple of horny teenagers in the Men of Letters library. Christ.

Your free hand fisted in his hair, yanking just enough to make him groan, and you dragged him back up to your mouth. The kiss was sloppy, desperate—Sam’s lips parting against yours, his tongue sweeping in like he was starving. And maybe he was. Maybe you both were. But then—

Your eyes flickered open. And there it was.

The book. The goddamn book you’d come here for in the first place, its spine catching the dim light of the reading lamp two shelves over. Lore of the Forgotten: A Hunter’s Compendium. Right. Fucking. There.

Sam, ever perceptive, felt the exact moment your attention wavered. His lips left yours, trailing down your throat, teeth grazing the sensitive spot just below your ear—the one that made your knees weak, the one he knew would have you arching into him like a live wire. “Focus on me,” he whispered, low and rough, his voice sending a shiver down your spine. His hand slipped between you, palm flattening against the fly of your jeans, his fingers pressing just there.

“Sam,” you choked out, your hips jerking involuntarily into his touch. Fuck, he was good at that. Too good.

“Just—hold on,” you managed, your voice rough as gravel. You twisted your wrist, breaking his grip just enough to reach for the book. Your fingers brushed the spine.

Sam, with a sound that was half-laugh, half-groan, buried his face in the crook of your neck and bit down. Not hard enough to break skin, but enough to make you hiss, your body betraying you by melting into him. “Now of all times,” he muttered, his breath hot against your collarbone, “is the time you try to be responsible? Really?”

His hips rolled again, slower this time, like he was punishing you. Or maybe punishing himself. “I was so close,” he whined, and the sound was so Sam—all long-suffering exasperation, like the world had personally conspired to cockblock him. His forehead thudded against your shoulder. “Do you have any idea how long it’s been since I’ve gotten to do this? Without Dean busting in? Without a demon trying to possess one of us? Without—”

“Stop bitching, it’s not the end of the world,” you cut in, flipping the book open to the right page. The sigil stared up at you, intricate and ominous. Bingo.

Sam lifted his head, his dark eyes burning with a mix of indignation and desire. “I was about to cum,” he said, voice dripping with betrayal, like you’d just kicked his puppy. “And you—you stopped.” His hand, still between you, gave your cock a slow, deliberate squeeze through your jeans. “You stopped.”

You swallowed hard, your grip on the book tightening. Damn him. “We have a job to do.”

Sam exhaled sharply through his nose, his thumb tracing the outline of you through the denim. “Fine,” he gritted out. “But you owe me.” His other hand slid up your abdomen, fingers curling into the fabric of your shirt. “And I collect.”

The promise in his voice was dark. You glanced down at the book, then back at him with a small grin. “Deal.”

Sam smirked—slow, wicked, the kind of smile that meant you were so screwed later. He finally, finally stepped back, adjusting himself with a wince. “I hate you,” he muttered, but there was no heat in it.

“Love you too, Sammy.”

Even since the trip to space, you've been different. You used to be the one who knocked Johnny down a peg, his best friend for as long as he could remember, never letting him get a good joke in without making a better one at his expense.

He was smitten.

He never said anything of course. That would ruin his ladies' man rep and more importantly, everything with you.

He knew you didn't feel the same, you couldn't. You saw him as an annoying brother or an annoying friend, or just someone annoying in that strangely fond kind of a way.

But it all changed when the five of you did.

You came back different. Not like the rest of them. No fun, special powers, just broken.

You didn't know why, Reed didn't even know why, but you saw something when the blast hit. Galaxies flew through your eyes. Stars and planets and so many lives. You felt them all for less than half a second. Every person across universes flowed through you. Their lives, their deaths.

You experienced every form of pain in one moment and the aftershocks never left you.

You could always feel and see something that wasn't around you. A wash of stars sat permanently over your vision, changing the world as you knew it.

The nights were worse, when you couldn't tell the difference between the stars above and your ones.

You sat on your bed, staring at the blank wall before you. Closing your eyes always showed you the people, they were too much.

You didn't hear Johnny come in, you just felt the dip in the mattress beside you as he sat down.

His arm wrapped around you, guiding your head to rest against his chest the way it did most nights. You saw the four logo on his chest, and you were glad they did it without you. Glad they just claimed you to be a casualty of a horrific accident. You were, after all.

"Can you-?" Before you could ask with that heartbreakingly small voice you came back with, he held one hand out, fingertips alight.

"Never need to ask" He hummed, pressing a kiss to your temple before tucking your head under his chin. You didn't like the dark anymore, there was too much of it.

Johnny was your light, even if you couldn't tell him.

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The glass reflected the dim light of the bar, making shadows seem more than they are, you were there at the end of the room, dancing to the tunes coming from the jukebox.

But shadows are not people. Not in his line of work. Not when he crawled through the fact of giving you a hunter's funeral so you could finally rest.

When he lay in bed that night, unable to go to sleep, staring at the seemingly vast ceiling, the sound of the sheets moving startled him as you rest your head on your hand, lying on your side with a sleepy smile on your lips, "Can't sleep?" You mumble, drawing random shapes on the mattress.

Dean exhales the breath that trembled behind his ribcage. You've been showing up a lot more around him lately. And only to him. Ever since he's shut the world out even more than he can bear. Almost as if trying to help free him from the binds of his mind.

It would only be momentary; standing in the distance just watching him while smiling so sincerely at him, dropping a line here and there when he's having a rough day or a better one, making him laugh at inside jokes, replaying moments the two of you had once shared, and Dean couldn't bring himself to try and reach out to see whether you were real or not. Not wanting you to disappear, again. Even when he already knows the truth.

In those rare moments where he shakingly sits down with his emotions, he'd talk to the void, hoping that you'd appear. You always did. Sometimes, he would pour you a glass, and you'd smile and thank him, only for him to notice that it was left untouched when he finally came back to his senses.

"Guess I miss you too much, sweetheart.." He admits quietly, turning to face you with a pained smile, his eyes already tearing up. You hum out softly in agreement as you lay your head down on the pillow, still watching him. "Don't you want to let me go?" The question takes him by surprise, and a tear falls onto the pillow as he pushes himself up to have a better look at you.

"How can you ask me that..?" His voice breaks, eyes reddening, floodgates at the ready. You sit up yourself, your hand ever so close to his in the process, and he notices, aching to close that minuscule gap and hold you once again.

"Because I can't stay... not anymore." Your smile falters, lips twitching while you tilt your head. You were tearing up just as he was. Dean clenches his jaw, swallowing the ball of anguish lodged in his throat.

"I have to ask you.." He whispers, biting his lip to the point of bleeding, "Are you..?" The question goes unfinished as you put your hand on top of his, and despite your non-corporeal form, he gasps quietly, swearing that he could feel your touch.

"I'm ok.. I promise, my love." Your smile returns in full as you reach out to cup his cheek like you've always done to comfort him, your form dissipating with the passing of each second.

His eyes flutter shut for a moment, breath shuddering as he feels your warmth, not bearing to look away from you. "I love you, Dean," you whisper one last time, pressing a gentle kiss to his lips, and he kisses you back, his hand wavering trying to hold you.

Your form, if only momentarily, was real, warm, alive, and there with him. Just like the tears that trailed his cheeks when he opened his eyes to see you smiling at him before disappearing.

.𖥔 ݁ ˖

might need a break after this lmao, I hope it's to your liking, lovely Ches, and that I did your vision justice. it was fun to write despite the constant tears.

What kind of person you are! Adriana, you're a unique blend of innovation and sociability. You are an independent, bold, forward-thinking, and vibrant individual. You actively think out-of-the-box, you enjoy intellectual-pursuits, and are often driven by humanitarian ideals. You're constantly trying to see the bigger picture, inspire others, and seek out new possibilities. Because, fuck ordinary. 

Now, you are emotional, but you're incredibly disciplined with it. Which means that you approach others' feelings including your own like it's a responsibility rather than a necessity. You don't need to do it, but instead you have to do it. You have to face emotions. To grow, to flourish, and to understand. And how can you ever reach or meet your goals if you have neglected emotions stringing along behind you? You can't enjoy life if you're refusing to acknowledge the darker and more ugly sides of it. 

So, that's why your feelings are a responsibility. You take alone time because you need it. You move your body because it helps relieve stress. You take care of your appearance because it makes you feel good and because it matters to you. Self-love is your ideal version of sexy.

You have such a bright and outward personality, that makes you highly sociable, charming, and quick-witted. You always add onto a conversation and make it better than the original. You adapt pretty easily to situations, you enjoy networking and connecting with others, and your natural born gift was being able to connect! 

Now even though you're curious and super versatile, you can often struggle with indecisiveness and sometimes restlessness. Hence why you need one on one time with yourself. To defrag and re-energize after expending your spirit on others. That's not your only challenge though. You can have long and thoughtful conversations with people while still being incredibly emotionally reserved, sure you address your feelings, but only ever with yourself, which at times can create a sense of loneliness that you fill in with by being a social butterfly. 

When it comes to your feelings. It's as though you have to choose between staying independent or letting people in to help or even just be there for you. You really want to be able to do everything on your own without the support of others, but sometimes whether you'd like to admit it or not, you need help.

What kind of hunter you are! You are the cockiest hunter to ever walk the earth; you're either tied with or worse than Dean. You're only cocky because you're confident that you're good at your job. Virtually nothing you do is half-assed, God, you'd rather die than half-assing anything. You'd prefer to be credited because you gave your all rather than because you gave the bare minimum. 

So hunting is no different. Now, looks wise, you're not a hunter in the traditional sense. You wear boots with heels on them out into the field, you always keep your hair done, your nails stay polished, and your complexion is well cared for. 

How you got into hunting was out of curiosity. Or rather you were being your friendly self, made a hunter your friend. And after learning about the way they lived, you wanted to try it. You're open to new things, so how bad can monster slaying be? You caught onto the lore the quickest. You chat with people often, so your memorization is top tier. And you being as confident and as social as you are means you promote yourself, and well. 

You were so convincing that other hunters took a crack at teaching you. And now you're a bombshell backed up with an actual boom! A woman with a huntress's brain. Now, what you really need is training in the field. You can be impulsive under extreme pressure or during life and death situations, and sometimes your outfits are just too impractical for fighting. You may need to learn how to make things work, or how to compromise. 

But other than that, you'd make a killer hunter. And a killer looking one too.

Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester, and You! Adriana, you meet the Winchesters when they intentionally intrude on your case. Another hunter who'd been close enough to you to know where you were going and what you were hunting, hit Sam and Dean up, and simply asked that they go to help you and keep you out of trouble. 

"She really shouldn't be huntin' this thing alone. I wouldn't be asking you two to help if I didn't think that she needed it." 

When your motel door was knocked on, you opened it wide, and there stood Thing One and Thing Two. Dean had his signature smirk on his face, and Sam looked sheepish. You? Shocked. I mean who are these two men! Missionaries? Kidnappers? No, they were other hunters. And you were furious that your friend had such little confidence in you. It kinda stung and took a jab at your ego. But if they really felt like you needed the help, then maybe, just maybe you did.

Dean's first impression of you? "We're definitely at the wrong door, Sammy.", most hunters weren't so, well, put together. You didn't smell like moth balls, motel shampoo, or regret. You didn't look like you belonged covered in monster gore. And that accent? Hearing it did something to, Dean. He was a man with a heart open to accents. It wasn't the usual southern drawl he dug, but the Long Island twang? He wanted to hear you cuss him out, say something foul, or even just say his name.

Sam's first impression of you? "We're not at the wrong door, Dean.", you were beautiful and well put together, but there was a brain behind all of that beauty. And once Sam found out that you knew lore like the back of your pretty hand? That you documented it and even went as far as to sketch the monsters you've encountered? Yeah, he wanted to help you but also get you on their team. You paid amazing attention to detail and to others. You'd make a great asset.

Little fun things! Now that you're stuck with the two brothers, Dean's booted Sam to the backseat of Baby. Because YOU don't complain about the music he turns on. If anything, you're upfront singing with him. You two share glances, get animated with your movements, and sing Def Leppard like it's one of god's best creations. And when you tell Dean what kind of classic rock song you want him to play next? He thinks he could propose right then and there, "You got it, Sweetheart. Hell's Bells it is." Dean laughed out with a crooked smile as he turned up the radio.

Dean and even Sam know how much you love cheeseburgers. You get it every time you three stop at a diner for something to eat. Now, it's never Cheesecake factory, because in Dean's opinion that place is upscale or whatever. But he will spoil you with random cheeseburgers. You've been stuck back at the motel with Sam researching while Dean scopes out a lead? Yeah, you best believe he's treating his favorite girl with takeout that he keeps warm for you.

You adore cases that take you to antique stores. Now, usually when people go to regular stores, they fill their arms with stuff that they want to buy, and that'd be you, just in an antique shop. "Don't you already have that vinyl?" Dean'll ask with a snort, "It has a different cover, Dean!" You'll respond with a huff and an eyeroll as if it's obvious, "Sure, sure, whatever you say, Princess. Put it on the counter, I'll treat you." And Sam's just judging you both, because one, none of you can afford to buy a million ancient items, for two where are you even going to put it all, and for three why is his brother offering to pay? 

You journaled and sketched a lot after a hunt. Sam and Dean didn't question it much, that is until Dean was nosy and looked over your shoulder to find that you've been documenting monsters and creating an entire lore book about them. That's when both Sam and Dean wanted a tour of your notes. Dean was impressed, and Sam was taking note that there is always more to you than what meets the eye. Sam even used your book to help him with research from time to time.

Dean knows you have a past of dancing. Now, Dean being Dean assumes that anyone who's taken classes to dance can get on a pole, countertop, table, or a lap and move like it's nothing. When you two are just casually drinking at a bar, he'll nudge you with his elbow and nod his head towards the bar countertop with a sly smile. You already know what he's suggesting. He's done it before, "Jesus Dean, I'm not a Coyote!" He'll chuckle, but even you're smiling, "C'mon, that movie was hot." He drawls out, "Yeah, because there were hot chicks on a bar dancing.", Dean doesn't have a rebuttal, because it's true, so he just shrugs while still grinning.

Dean knows and catches when you're stressed instantly. Your polish is chipped. Your nails are looking too short, or even when your fingers are up to your lips for you to chew on your nails or pick on them. He knows. That's when Dean knows to get you out of the Bunker or out of the Motel and into the real world to let loose, even if it's just for an hour. He'll take you on a drive in Baby, the windows are rolled down, the wind is in your hair, you're watching the scenery fly past you both through your shades, and he's rubbing your thigh like he's rubbing the stress right out of you.

Dean's boots are thudding against the floor as he makes his way to your room in the Bunker. He doesn't need to knock or ask to come in, he just barges in. You two just have that close of a connection. He never blinks an eye if you're half naked, or even if you're completely naked, he'll give you a once over sure, but right before asking you or doing what he came to your room for.

Extras! Dean, he's still so insistent on watching you dance. He'll try playing the right song, he'll beg you to do it, he'll even try bribing you to do it if he dances too. You regret even ever mentioning to him that you used to be a dancer before hunting. "Dean, I didn't do that kind of dancing!" You laugh out while shaking your head, "Well, just show me what'cha got, Sweetheart." He purrs out close to your ear. You two are standing beside a Jukebox that's now playing something cheesy like 'Cherry Pie' or 'Pour Some Sugar On Me'. He's so predictable. 

Because you sketch so much, Dean will make the cliche Titanic joke constantly, "When're you gonna sketch me like one of your French girls, Adriana?" It earns him a playful glare which he laughs at, "Oh, c'mon it was funny, Sweetheart." He's reaching out to you to grab you by your hips and pull you close like it's normal, "It was funny like seven times ago, Dean."

Dean wants to pick out your polish, always. You're defragging after a long day of interrogating. You're propped up on your separate motel bed with a bag of polishes, nail oils, files, and nail care. And Dean's sitting beside you combing through colors. He's only doing it because Sam isn't around. Sam's at the library researching responsibly, and you and Dean are discussing what colors make your eyes pop. Dean will even let you paint his nails, but only ever black, because to him it's manlier than the other ones. 

Sam provides you info and physical descriptions of monsters so that you can add them into your journal, or rather your monster diary. He gives better info than Dean. The older Winchester gets off track pretty often and his monster descriptions goes as followed, "He was a gnarly sonuvabitch.", "Ugly as hell.", "Smelled as bad as Sammy after he eats beans.". So, Dean's basically unreliable, but now Sam on the other hand, he's your best informant, and he's happy to provide intel.

Dean loves your outfits, and not just your outfits, he loves your pajamas too. Those cute sets you wear to still look put together even when you're just going to go to bed? Yeah, he adores it. He wants his hands all wrapped up in your satin and lace. He wants his face buried in the crook of your neck inhaling whatever expensive lotion or perfume you have on. You're badass as fuck, but so incredibly beautiful too. 

When you're hunting with Sam and Dean, Dean's never been more protective. I don't think getting physical is your thing, I'm sure you can fire off a gun, but close range? Hell, no. Dean keeps you by his side always. And when something jumps out with its teeth barred and eyes wild, you're instantly pushed behind Dean and he's playing a human shield for you. Or he flat out tells you that you're not coming. You do anyways because he's not your boss, but he still tries to stop you.

Overall!  Adriana, you're basically a visionary with a practical backbone. You constantly inspire change and growth within others through and with your innovative ideas all while staying committed to long-term goals that are meaningful to you. Your charm and adaptability also help you connect with people and navigate diverse environments. Sometimes, you may feel emotionally reserved, but your loyalty and reliability to others helps you to open up and stay close.

You're an all or nothing kind of person. You need to be doing something, whether that's moving your body, striking up a conversation, or creating something meaningful, you need to be doing it. At times you can be impulsive with decision making, but only because it feels right to you. And you're charming! You're witty, smart, you light up a room and make it yours, and that power comes naturally to you.

Dean and you would be the ultimate power couple. Not only would you look aesthetically pleasing, but you two also care about one another, you entertain and make each other laugh, you allow room for him to be himself, he doesn't completely overwhelm you, and it just works. It'd be a relationship built on friendship, respect, and mutual attraction! It's basically perfect. But the emotional side of things is where you two would struggle. He doesn't want to weigh you down and you don't want to weigh him down either.

So, things will get left unsaid, and when you two fight, it's explosive, only before it's dying out because one of you said something so dumb it was laughable. And now you two are laughing, and getting back to normal

Dean made the first move. God, he had to. After he saw you dancing with a guy by the Jukebox at the bar you two went to. Not only was he furious that you'd never done that with him, but he was angry to see you moving against another man's body. He hated not fully having you as his.

He stormed right over to you two, tore you away from the handsy guy, and dragged you right of the bar. He didn't give a single damn about your protests, questions, and anger. 

"Hey! What the hell was that back there?" He's asking furiously while spinning you to face him and getting you pressed right up against Baby's driver side door.

"I don't know what you're talking about, Dean. I was just making a friend." You huff it out, angry that he'd have the nerve to do that in front of everyone and act like you're his property.

"Rubbing up on some guy is now friend making? He wanted something different." Dean grumbled out meanly.

"Isn't it though, Dean? It's how you make your friends." You snapped back.

"Don't drag what I do into this."

"Why not?" You cross your arms, "It's the same thing. I just don't say anything about it."

"God.. you're so-" Dean gritted his teeth and clenched his fists by his side. "I'm what? Not yours, and it's pissing you off?" 

"Yeah. Exactly, Adriana! You're not mine and you're all over other guys. That what you want to hear?" Dean's maybe had a little too much to drink if he's openly admitting his feelings for you in a bar parking lot. And as hurt as his green eyes are, you feel good getting the truth out of him.

"Well, do something about it then, Dean!" 

His frown turned cold, "Yeah? That what you fuckin' want?" He's licking his lips, he's thinking now. his gaze is flicking down to your mouth, his hands are itching to grab you. And then he snaps. 

Your back is pressed flush against the cold metal and glass of Baby's driver side door again. And his lips are on yours. He's not gentle. He's claiming. He tastes like Jack and something that's just him. Dean's consuming you before you have a chance to say otherwise. His hands are grabbing at your body, feeling, squeezing, bruising. One hand is gripping your ass, the other is tangled in your blonde hair. 

The jealousy he felt seeing you on someone else mixed with the whiskey he'd been drinking since you two arrived at the bar, was making his judgment cloudy. "I'll show you what I'm going to do about it." He mumbled warmly against your neck before nipping the tender flesh. "Get in the backseat."  "Dean there's people." 

"Let 'em watch, Sweetheart. I'll show that douchebag how to please a girl like you." 

“Dean.”

“Hm?”

“You should grow a beard.”

He didn’t even look up. “Pass.”

You sat up a little, undeterred. “Hear me out.”

“Nope.”

“Reason one,” you continued anyway, counting on your fingers, “it would make you look even more rugged. Like, unfairly rugged. The kind of rugged that makes gas station clerks nervous and nuns reconsider their vows.”

Dean snorted. “Flattery’s cute, sweetheart, but I’m already rugged.”

“Reason two: scratchies.” You dragged your nails lightly down the side of his neck for emphasis. “Imagine waking up to beard scratchies every morning. You’d be doing me a public service.”

He finally glanced at you, one eyebrow raised. “You’re gonna have to try harder than that.”

“Reason three: it hides the little scar right here—” you tapped the spot under his jaw where a wendigo had gotten too close years ago “—and makes you look dangerous in the sexy way instead of the ‘I almost died again’ way.”

“Low blow.”

“Reason four: research shows women find beards attractive because they signal maturity, dominance, and good genetics.” You leaned in, voice dropping conspiratorially. “I’m basically doing evolutionary biology a favor by begging you.”

Dean rolled his eyes so hard you were surprised they didn’t fall out. “You read one article on PubMed and now you’re Charles Darwin.”

“Reason five,” you pressed on, undaunted, “I want to know what it feels like when you go down on me with a beard. For science.”

That got his full attention. The book hit the table with a soft thud.

“You’re evil,” he said, voice rougher than it had been thirty seconds ago.

“I’m persuasive.”

He studied you for a long moment—green eyes narrowed, lips twitching like he was fighting a smile.

“You’re really not gonna let this go, are you?”

You grinned. “Not even a little.”

Dean sighed the longest, most put-upon sigh in the history of put-upon sighs.

“Fine. Two months. If I hate it, it’s gone. And if you start calling me ‘lumberjack’ even once—”

“Deal.” You sealed it with a kiss that was far too enthusiastic for a simple facial hair negotiation.

—

Two months later

The motel room smelled like cheap coffee, gun oil, and the faint cedar of Dean’s new aftershave. The neon sign outside flickered red-blue-red-blue through the half-closed blinds, painting shifting stripes across the bed.

You were straddling his hips, knees bracketing his waist, wearing nothing but one of his old Zeppelin shirts that barely skimmed your thighs. Dean’s hands rested loose and warm on your hips, thumbs stroking lazy circles over bare skin.

Your fingers were in his hair, then sliding down to frame his face, tracing the soft, neatly trimmed beard that had grown in thicker and darker than either of you expected. It was the perfect length—not lumberjack-wild, not hipster-pretentious—just right. Just… Dean.

You couldn’t stop smiling. It was stupid. Ridiculous. The kind of goofy, love-drunk smile that would’ve made Sam gag if he saw it.

Dean cracked one eye open. “You’re doing it again.”

“Doing what?”

“That face. The one that says you’re planning to keep me in this bed until the credit card expires.”

You hummed happily, brushing your thumb along the curve of his jaw, reveling in the gentle rasp under your touch.

“It’s softer than I thought it’d be,” you murmured. “And it looks stupidly good on you.”

He smirked, slow and smug. “Told you I’d rock it.”

“You did not. You grumbled the whole first month.”

“Details.” His hands slid up under the shirt, warm palms gliding over your ribs. “Admit it. You’re obsessed.”

“I’m not obsessed,” you lied, even as you leaned down to nuzzle against his cheek, deliberately letting the beard catch and drag against your skin. You sighed like you’d just discovered oxygen. “Okay, maybe a little obsessed.”

Dean chuckled, low and warm, the sound vibrating through his chest and into yours.

“Come on, baby. Say it.”

You pulled back just enough to meet his eyes—bright, teasing, unfairly pretty even half-lidded with sleep and satisfaction.

You bit your lip, then gave up any pretense of playing hard to get.

“You were already hot,” you said shamelessly. “Like, disgustingly hot. Top-tier, ruin-my-life hot.”

He grinned wider.

“But this?” You scraped your nails through the beard again, watching his eyelids flutter. “This is unfair. This is ‘I need to warn the general population’ levels of hot. You’re one hundred percent hotter with the beard, Dean Winchester, and I will die on this hill.”

For a second he just looked at you—really looked—like he couldn’t quite believe you were real.

Then he flipped you both in one smooth move, pinning you beneath him with his weight and that cocky, devastating smile.

“Good,” he murmured against your mouth, beard brushing your chin, your cheek, the sensitive spot below your ear. “’Cause I’m not shaving anytime soon.”

You laughed, bright and breathless, and pulled him down harder.

“Threaten me with a good time, why don’t you.”

He kissed you slow and deep and filthy, letting you feel every new inch of scratch and softness, every promise he wasn’t saying out loud.

You’re not exactly sure when the game of cat and mouse started, but it definitely did.

Hiding in the middle of nowhere, a cabin down a dark trail accessible only to lost hikers gave you and Soldier Boy free rein in the forest: a vast, dark expanse of thick tree trunks, tall grass, and rocks. It was pure seclusion from society.

The job was handed to you: looking after Soldier Boy, his babysitter. It was vague, the instructions you were given: keep him out of public, and do not let him out of your fucking sight. Those were the rules applied to him, and you were the one who upheld them. 

It all started the first time you let him outside. He had been suspiciously nice that morning; not making sly comments about your ass, or questioning why he hadn’t fucked you yet despite the small cabin the two of you were forced to live in.

You were idly walking ahead of him, minding your business, kicking rocks and picking up stray flowers. He watched you from behind, his mind conjuring thoughts you’d probably slap him for: how quickly you’d have to run to escape, or the way you’d look against a pine tree, that stupid dress you always wore, hiked up.

You played into it accidentally, slightly running ahead when you spotted a patch of uneven mushrooms and curiously analyzing the fungi. Now he was a few feet back behind you, and it gave you the silliest idea to sprint ahead. And so you did.

He immediately ran right after you through the woods, listening to your loud laughs–you didn’t know he was serious, and he was that fucking eager to catch up to you. You were quick on your feet, easily hopping over the scattered debris, and it was the most adrenaline he had felt in a long time. Just the thought of chasing you down like you were a prize had him moving quicker than you, firm hands catching your waist and pulling you down onto the dirt.

It was the most adrenaline you'd ever felt, too; his hands bunching your dress, devouring you right there against the forest floor, a dark sky full of stars above you, both of you tapping into some primal sense you'd suppressed until that very moment. 

Since then, it had almost become a ritual. You’d slip out of the cabin after he’d randomly announce you had a minute head start, sometimes lucky enough to receive a minute and a half. You had zero time to change, sometimes even wandering out in bare feet when he was feeling like an asshole, which was most of the time, forcing you to run through the forest in nothing but a nightgown and bare feet. And that was the case for tonight.

“Thirty… thirty seconds?” you ask in surprise, gazing at Ben, who sits on the couch, lazily smoking a joint, the words completely out of the blue. 

You’re staring at him, blinking; he’s completely unbothered, rubbing the scruff he hasn’t shaved in a while.

“Said thirty seconds, didn’t I, doll?” he drawls casually, a plume of smoke slipping by his lips. “Twenty-two... Twenty-one…” he begins to taunt, and your eyes widen. He was already counting.

You curse quietly to yourself, trying to ignore just how truly excited you are to venture out into the forest this late at night, knowing a predator would be on your heels in just twenty seconds if you didn’t run quickly enough.

The night air is cold and sharp against your warm skin, and your cotton nightgown does little to shield you from it. Goosebumps prick your thighs and arms, and you’re already starting a light jog, bare feet running along the hard ground, soon feeling sticks and sharp gravel beneath them as you stray further and further from the cabin.

The night sky is cloudy tonight, the stars barely hanging above, leaving the forest just a bit darker than usual. You pant softly when you begin to pick up the speed, glancing over your shoulder, the porch light flicking off–that was a signal; Ben was leaving the cabin now, and you were just about twenty feet away.

You move more quickly, limbs swift, and weave through the branches, twigs catching on your cotton nightgown. You groan with each soft rip, realizing you've accidentally wandered into a dense thicket of branches and thorns.

“Come on, sweetheart,” he taunts aloud, loud enough for you to hear. “Don’t be a dumb bitch like last time, pickin’ the worst fuckin’ spots known to man,” he calls out, and you swallow hard.

You grimace, eyes narrowed, trying to navigate your way through the unfortunate area you sound yourself. Your feet are muddy, dense branches pressing into the bottom of your feet, and you look over your shoulder, the cabin completely out of sight.

Ben is wandering around slowly, his sharp eyes scanning the area for any sign of you; he can smell you, that sweet scent he smells every single day, and it smells even better when it’s mixed with the obvious fear of scent, too.

There was fear wrapped into the entirety of it–a twisted sense of it, mingling with the excitement. You knew he was a powerful man, hands big enough to snap you in half, and you’ve seen the bruises he leaves you with, how relentless a single man can be, pounding into you like it’s all he can do–it is; he’s been stuck out here for god knows how long, and this is the only piece of entertainment he gets. And it’s from you.

“Not even makin’ this fun for me anymore,” he mumbles, and you can hear his voice getting louder, and you’re on your hands and knees. “Lazy whore, just wantin’ me to fuck her without playing the actual part of the game–not how you play it,” he drawls out, and you squeeze your eyes shut.

You move on your hands and knees, feeling the twigs grasping at your nightgown, slicing the white fabric, and you whimper each time a sharp rock grounds itself into your hands and knees. You keep crawling, staying lower to the forest floor, panting, adrenaline coursing through you, actual fear filling your chest. He’s threatened to kill you more times than you want to remember. 

“Can smell you, you know,” he taunts again, and you hold your breath as you hear twigs crunch beneath his feet. “Fear, and how wet your fuckin’ panties are right now, all excited, ain’t ya?” he practically laughs, and you grimace in disgust, his words sharp.

You swallow hard and keep crawling on your hands and knees, shuffling, and you can hear his footsteps growing louder. You breathe heavier, ducking your head, much too afraid to look behind you and find that man looming over you–he’s so tall, and muscle, and taut skin against him, and you bite your lip.

“What should I do with that little body of yours, once I find you?” Ben calls out, and you freeze. “Fuckin’ your mouth this time sound fun? Maybe usin’ every hole of yours,” he clicks his tongue, and freezes too, scoping out his surroundings.

You cover your mouth and hold your breath, hearing his steps suddenly quicken as he's somehow caught your scent like a rabid dog, and he walks right by you. Your eyes widen when you see him slightly; just his large feet, the soft grunts from him, and you glance up, seeing his face; his eyes are narrowed, nostrils flared, but he’s mostly hidden. It’s too dark.

“Can’t wait to see that look on your face.” he pauses again, inhaling, trying to smell you. “All scared n’ helpless lookin’ like a deer caught in headlights–makes me wanna fuck your brains out, hope you know that,” he mocks, and you shake your head.

You inch backwards once you know he’s slightly ahead of you, somehow missing your form hidden under a few branches and twigs. You gulp, feeling a thorn catching on your dress again, and it rips. You wince, glance over, and Ben is gone; you freeze again.

Two large hands reach down and grab you by the hips, and you let out a loud squeal; Ben knocks you off balance. The minute you’re on your stomach, he doesn’t hesitate to reach down and grab your ankles instead, shamelessly dragging you by them, and you’re already whining, trying to grasp at the dirt and twigs.

“Hid in the worst fuckin’ spot, again,” he spits, pulling you out of the little spot. “Just wantin’ me to find ya’, huh? Could just ask me to fuck you, instead of bein’ a prude all god damn day,” he grumbles out, letting go of your ankles.

He doesn’t let you go, though. Instead, he kneels into the dirt, his knee pressing into your lower back, and he presses his hand on the back of your head, forcing your face into the cold dirt. You mumble something into the ground, your legs squirming, and he looks at the way you shift and squirm, and he shakes his head. 

“Watchin’ this is the best part sometimes,” Ben drawls, watching your hands try to push off the ground, but he purposely digs his knee into your back. “Just fuckin’ hopeless, squirmin’ around like an animal caught in a trap.”

You whine and shake your head, and he purposely pushes your head down again, this time knocking it forward, and it sends stars behind your eyes at the roughness of it. He watches the squirming lessen in real time, and he licks his lips, easing his knee off your lower back.

He twists his hand into your hair, pulling your face out of the door, and he glances at you; your cheeks covered in tears, and dirt smeared across your face, a painful throbbing at the corner of your head. He laughs, clicking his tongue in admiration.

“Lookin’ your best, too,” Ben quips, his eyes raking over your face. “Cryin’ like you’re not the slut who gets excited for this shit; it’s pathetic, actin’ like you’re not soaked right now.”

You whimper and look away from Ben, and he moves his knee completely off your back. He’s all strong and rough, and his hand slides down, lifting right beneath your stomach, scooping you off the ground and tossing you over his shoulder. This strength comes with his supe abilities, and you learned it through this.

You squirm and kick your legs, and he has a wolfish grin as he walks through the forest, hearing the soft whines and groans as you try to free yourself from his grip. 

“Keep kickin’, doll, I want you to,” he mocks your failed attempts and keeps moving through the woods, taking you further and further away from the cabin. 

You’re not speaking, just making those sounds like a wounded animal; all whines and soft whimpers, and he’s the wolf about to feast on whatever is left. You lightly hit his back, and he lands a harsh slap on your ass.

“Who the fuck do you think you are?” He curses out, finding a slightly open patch, and your body is quick to hit the ground. He merely tosses you onto the ground, not bothering to lower you.

You hit the dirt with a thud, wide eyes looking up at him, and you’re panting, shuffling back until your back hits the base of a tree trunk. He smirks, tilting his head to the side.

“Stop puttin’ on this show,” he shakes his head, inching closer to you. “Crawlin’ away, actin’ like a frightened little girl,” he narrows his eyes, reaching down and grabbing you by the ankles again.

You almost scream this time—it gets caught in the back of your throat, and he drags you towards him, forcing your thighs to part and your nightgown to hitch you to your hips. He gazes down, nudging his way between your legs, and he sees the glistening slick against your underwear. The moon is coming out, and it hits it perfectly.

“Would a frightened lil’ thing be drippin’ like this?” Ben asks, glancing up at you, and he harshly slaps your core. “No, she wouldn’t—lyin’ bitch,” he mumbles, and then he spits, soothing the sting with his own saliva. 

You wail and tip your head back, and whine even louder when his strong hand rips the underwear right off you. Another reminder of his supe strength, the cotton breaking and ripping right off your body, and he’s staring down at your bare lower half.

“Just fuckin’ soaked,” he groans again, inhaling the sweet scent he could smell from miles away. “And you’re cryin’ like I’m doin’ somethin’ wrong, and your body ain’t a hole for me to rip apart.”

You whimper, and he lands another slap against your core. It stings more this time, a faint burning, and you wince, your toes curling into the dirt, and he grins. He stares into your eyes, gathering saliva in his mouth, and then he spits right down again, and you moan the minute it hits you.

Ben’s fingers slide into you with ease, zero hesitation in the movement, and you gasp out, your back arching off the cold ground. His other hand holds your thigh, forcing you open.

“Clenchin’ around me already,” he curses out, letting two fingers curl and hook, finding that soft spot immediately, all spongy and warm. “This why you act like such a stupid slut? Hidin’ in the open, makin’ it easier for me to find you?” He ticks his head.

You’re already in another world, feeling a third finger slide in and you squeeze, and he scoffs at the feeling around the digits—he finds it amusing how much you want him, yet how you flailed around and whined, acting like every instinct wasn’t for him.

“Three fingers deep, and she’s wantin’ more,” Ben shakes his head, wetting his lips. “Think she can take five, doll? My whole fist in her?” He asks, tilting his head to the side, and you’re shaking your head, whimpering.

His fourth finger slides in, but his thumb refuses. Instead, it finds your clit that still has his saliva glistening against it, and he rubs it into you, and you’re moaning louder. He watches, your face comforting, eyes rolling back, back arching. 

“Can’t believe you were runnin’ from me,” he mumbles and shakes his head, this time landing spit on your face,e and you wince. “Actin’ like you didn’t want this, and now you’re squeezin’ around my fingers, takin’ me in.”

You can feel his spit dripping down your face and you whine, shaking your head, feeling it slide onto your lips. You lap it up and Ben watches, narrowed eyes.

“Yeah… whinin’ about my spit, too,” he stares at you. “Meanwhile, got my whole fuckin’ hand inside of you.”

Ben pulls his fingers out of you, and you instantly gasp when you don’t feel it anymore, that full pressure. He lands another slap against your core, whining louder now that it’s sensitive and tender, all raw. He smirks at the look on your face, and you shift against the ground.

He lifts his hand and slides his fingers into your mouth, forcing you to taste yourself, and he’s doing it on purpose, making sure you’re gagging—he’s got them halfway down your throat, and you’re choking, tasting yourself. You close your eyes and claw at the ground. 

“Taste that, sweetheart?” He taunts, pulling his fingers out to hear you choke when they finally slide out. “How fuckin’ wet you are, yet you keep kickin’ around like a scared bitch.”

You look up at Ben when he briefly pauses, and he’s carefully unbuckling his pants, slowly moving onto his zipper and pulling them down with zero hesitation.

“You miss this, doll? Miss this fuckin’ you?” He coos, taunting even more. “My fingers not enough for you? My knee not enough for how greedy you are?”

You shake your head, biting your lip, glancing down when he takes himself out of his pants; long, hard, and you can tell he’s just throbbing. You remember the first time you saw him like this, and he couldn’t stop laughing and mocking you; your eyes blown out in shock, and you kept asking if he was sure if it would fit. He didn’t reassure you.

“Lookin’ like the first time you saw my cock,” Ben drawls, his hand wrapped around the base. “Looked like you saw a fuckin’ ghost, dumbest thing I’ve seen, until you told me… a virgin,” he grins, and you look away, already feel shameful about him taking your virginity.

“Let me defile you like a bitch I’d pick off the street,” he says, leaning a bit closer to you, nudging between your thoughts. “First time meant to be slow, sweetheart… a special thing between two people n’ you let me rip you open, like you’re nothin’, a whore. And you are.”

Ben uses the soft spot for leverage, and he thrusts into you, always loving that look on your face; the wide eyes and the parted lips, the way you slowly slip into a headspace of nothingness. Just need and want, a twisted desperation for a man who is just as desperate, and doesn’t hide it. Not at all.

“Yeah… yeah, missed stuffin’ this pretty hole,” he growls, two hands finding your hips, the grip absolutely bruising, and he’s pressing over old ones. “Grips around me… like she was meant for me. Think she was meant for me, baby?”

Your head is lolled back, and your eyes are rolled back into your head as Ben trusts and thrusts, hard, quick motions that are unforgiving and relentless. Your nightgown is all hiked up, and his hand drifts down, holding beneath where your knee bends, giving him an angle that has noises you’ve never heard before leaving your mouth.

“Whatcha’ think, doll?” Ben started, groaning as his own head tips back and he licks his lip. “Should I let you cum tonight? Or should… I make you hold it, all in.”

You whine when he threatens not to let you finish, something he’s done before, and it was the most agonizing thing ever, especially when he’s so big. So, so big, and he does it all so well.

Ben’s hand slides up your thighs a little more, and you immediately whimper the second he pushes on your lower abdomen, letting his fist drive into it. 

“Gonna piss you’re so scared, yeah?” He asks, pushing hard onto your stomach, and you whimper, squirming. “Don’t be a dirty girl… nobody likes a messy bitch, you know this.”

It’s hard to think when there’s pressure everywhere; his hand on your stomach, the pressure from it, how hard he’s thrusting, the trees creaking and groaning, the smell of dirt and the water from the small creek trickling by. You’re in another world, and Ben is taking whatever it is out on you. 

“You’ll be pissin’ on me, before cummin’, get that through your head,” he hisses, briefly lifting his hand to slap the side of your cheek. “Know how thick that skull is.”

You whine at the stinging, and there it comes, the soothing of his spit against your face, and you grimace, and he loves that look; the fake disgust, like you aren’t waiting for this to be done so that you can do the whole thing again tomorrow. And the next day. And the next day.

“You’re gonna let me stuff you,” Ben says, leaving you no room to protest. “Gonna make you leak everywhere, all down these thighs,” he says, slapping the side of your thigh.

He never tells you when he’s going to finish, never gives you a heads up, but you know it—he’s groaning and grunting and growling, every animalistic urge surging through Ben’s body. And then it comes, that feeling in your stomach.

You’re not sure what it is, but he cums, and cums, and cums, a never-ending stream spilling inside of you, and he basks in it. The way you’re helplessly whining and shaking your head, asking how he has so much inside of him—he’s a fucking supe, and he’ll say it like it’s the most obvious thing in the fucking world. 

Why would he not have a supply that could stuff you until you’re begging for him to stop?

Ben pauses, burying deep inside of you, his face nestled in the crook of your neck, his beard brushing and poking at your skin, all rough and hard. He lightly thrusts, letting his cum push deeper and deeper, forcing it in to fill every crevice. He knows every crevice, too. His fingertips have touched and curled against every single one.

“This fuckin’ body of yours,” he growls into your neck, his hips touching yours, his hand pressing right onto your lower stomach again. “Takes all of me, all my seed… think you were built for this, not even meant to cum, just a hole,” he breathes, licking up your neck. 

You’re absolutely blissed out, your cheek still stinging, your mouth agape. He punches your stomach instead of pressing, emphasizing just how full he’s really made you.

“If you weren’t full of my cock right now…” Ben drawls, licking at your earlobe, his tongue sliding over it. “Would be spillin’ all over… ain’t that the cutest thing? Punchin’ your stomach, and forcin’ you to leak out.”

You don’t say anything; you just pant, and he pulls back, his rough hands brushing your hair from your face. 

“A minute, this time.” he nods, licking his lips, his chest heaving. “Start runnin’.”