Best Friend🍂

Can I get a Daryl and reader? The reader has ADHD and talks very fast that never stays on one topic but Daryl is used to it?

I can feel the groups eyes on me as I ramble on about the run that Daryl and I went on earlier, bouncing around from topic to topic, wanting nothing more than to tell the group about all the different things we saw at the abandoned mall a few hours away without forgetting one thing.

It was possibly the biggest building we've seen since the prison and possibly the most stocked, my mind running back to all the different types of stores and materials we were able to find for the first time in years.

"We found almost everything on our list, even the baby food for Judith and- oh my god I completely forgot, there were little to no walkers too. It made me wonder if, maybe, someone was staying there previously, maybe recently." I explain, my body sinking into Daryl beside me who just chuckles, pressing a kiss to the side of my head as his arm wraps around my shoulder.

I can tell the group is a bit overwhelmed by my ten minute long speech, my face warming in embarrassment as I seal my lips, turning to look up at Daryl who gives me a reassuring smile.

"Daryl, you must be a really good listener." Glenn jests, my eyes rolling playfully but my stomach drops, worried that I rattled and rambled for too long, annoying my friends with my stories.

"I like 'er stories." Daryl mutters lowly with a shrug, my lips fanning out into a sweet smile at his kindness. He always had the ability to make me feel less annoying, even when I'd get overwhelmed and self conscious that I was talking too much. "Sometimes you just gotta busy 'er mouth to get her focused and quiet." He chuckles and the wink he sends me has me gasping, the whole group laughing like middle schoolers at his innuendo.

"Daryl!"

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o- Taglist: @bubblebuttwade @rafelover2405 @leslienjazzy @sorceresss @grxnde-dwt @alex–awesome–22 @bunnietoof @niyamar1e @serialghost @plantlungs @geniusohn @akaliltimmytim @lilaalouuxx @xshariex @elliotsbeigeguitar @elle4404 @lelieja @srhxpci @joselyn001 @taysirene @spinkspanther @thedivineuphoria @peter-maximoffs @tsukishimawhore @poohkie90 @szlaco @distantsighs @nstyles4299 @wolflover384 @givemefoodandlovesstuff @vane28282 @yeswhatever33 @amirrahfranson @vvaalleennttiinna @f-mu @yaspillz @jeyramarie @skylievin@abbybarnes17 @jointherebellion215 @visiondaddy @steezysimfinds @its-ya-gay-boi-luigi @crunchytoenailsyum@glizzymcguirex @beth123lg @melovesmut @rafecameronswhore @ariianelle @write-from-the-heart @vampviolets@haylee-e@popehaywardssecretgf @honee-chai-tea @lokiandbuckywife @smoke-and-fire @officiallyunofficialperson@heyaitsklaudia@rosepetalsparks @bluetreecloud20 @scenesofobx @double-shot-of-tequila @1dluver13xx @colbysbrocks @iamasimpingh0e @smoke-and-fire386 @loveshineslikethesky @id-3-kbro @diorsitgirl @errorfound101-allideasburnedout @neverwillknowme18 @ellyskey @taylors-folk @loversjoy @myaloveee @thyris-is @lagataprrr

I screamed!!

Never Say Goodbye - Part 5

Pairing: Dean x Female Reader

Summary: The first time you and Dean sensed each other’s thoughts and feelings, you were just kids. It would take years to realize that you both were bonded for life, and even longer to finally meet. [Soulmate AU] (Rated M for eventual scenes – 18+)

Word Count: 4,800 Warnings: **(Trigger warning) physical assault, mentions of blood, language.

Part 5: Self-Defense

Your scream muffled as another hand grabbed your arm, pulling you tight against someone’s chest.

Terror was a living thing inside you. It paralyzed your heart and lungs and mind, but thankfully not your instinct to get away.

You thrashed and kicked over a lamp trying to escape the hold. You were all but dragged across the living room and into the kitchen. There you caught a glimpse of your attacker through a reflection on the microwave—it was a man and he was tall and blonde.

Your mind finally cleared of your panic just enough to remember the years of self-defense your dad had taught you. So you used your somewhat free arm to grab the man’s hand and bite down hard.

He yelled in pain and loosened enough for you to throw an elbow back into what you hoped was his face. (It was his throat, but you didn’t know or care at the time.)

You were able to scrape a bit of freedom, getting just a few steps away until he grabbed at you again. This time he forcefully turned you around and slammed your head on the counter. Your senses fuzzed as you slipped and fell into a heap on the ground.

You struggled through a haze of pain to open your eyes, but your vision was blurry. Your face felt wet. And for a second, all you could see were shapes.

Those blurred edges cleared up when the man knelt down and took your throat in his hand. You blinked through a few drops of blood dripping down your face, when you finally saw his. And you recognized him.

But then he started squeezing. The panic started in earnest as you clawed at his hand on your throat. Behind him on the counter were the kitchen knives, but you couldn’t even get up, let alone reach.

He had you pinned on the floor and you couldn’t fucking breathe.

Dean was in a panic.

One moment he was washing his and Sam’s dishes in the kitchen, teasing his girl. The next, the icy grip of your fear (and your scream) squeezed around his heart like a vice. He’d felt the intensity of your fear before, but not like this.

The force of it actually made one of his knees buckle and he accidentally cut himself with a small steak knife he’d been washing. Fuck!

But the pain persisted. It brought him down as he tossed the knife into the sink and clutched his chest.

He could only try to make sense of your thoughts. You were instinctively imparting to him one after the next, but it was a blur of jumbled words and emotions that he couldn’t make out. 

You couldn’t hear him calling your name either. All that came through his connection with you was your terror.

And then…nothing at all.

It terrified him into stillness.

Dean slowly raised himself into a sitting position on the floor, and he called your name, repeatedly.

Hey, can you hear me?   

After along moment, he realized that the silence didn’t mean you were gone. He could still feel you. You were just in shock. Frozen. 

Sweetheart, you with me? he pressed. You finally roused enough to reply.

Yeah…I’m…here.

Good. Dean closed his eyes and released a breath. Fuck, sweet relief. He sat up against the kitchen cabinet. His hand was still bleeding all over him, so he held it closed with his other hand.

Good. I need you to tell me what happened just now. Are you hurt?

You looked down at the body in your kitchen: Danny Schmitt. He laid face down on the yellow tile with a chef’s knife lodged deep into his spinal cord.

Your throat and neck hurt (along with your head), so it was a good thing you didn’t have to speak to communicate with your soulmate.

Someone broke in, and…

You realized that your hands were shaking. As you saw again in the microwave reflection, tears streamed down your face. You had a stream of blood drying on your forehead and down your cheek.

And you had no idea what to do next.

Dean swallowed a surge of protective anger and nervous suspicion, trying not to assume the worst.

Did he hurt you? he asked.

He um…he’s dead. And I…

Your reply shocked him, but he let out another relieved breath. He carefully picked himself off the floor. Okay, call 9-1-1.

My…my dad is a cop. I have to call him.

Interesting.

Good. Call him now, Dean said. But what’s your address? I’m coming now.

On shaking legs, you left the kitchen to find your phone—in your purse in the living room. There was broken glass everywhere.

What’s your address? he asked. I’m coming now.

You froze, clutching your phone to your chest. No.

No? What do you mean no?

Fear and shock were making your erratic, but all you could focus on was the fact that you were in absolute shambles. You didn’t want him to see you like this. You didn’t want to meet him like this—with literal blood on your hands.

No, you repeated.

This isn’t up for debate. His tone was firm and worried. Don’t do this to me. Come on.

He called your name, but you stubbornly shook your head.

And you shut down the connection between you two. You didn’t know you could do that, but you did. And then you sat on the couch and wept.

Dean was paralyzed with shock. I can’t believe she just did that.

You were still terrified, probably hurt, and now he couldn’t get to you. He didn’t even know your last name. He didn’t have your number or anything to go on.

“Shit!” he growled, slamming his good hand on the counter.

“What the hell happened?” Bobby asked from the doorway. He took in the blood on the floor and Dean hunched over the sink with a bleeding hand.

“Think you can guess, right?” Dean snapped, gesturing to his hand. That was frustration enough for anybody, but he knew that Bobby didn’t totally buy it.

Right now, he didn’t care. He had to find you somehow. Right fucking now.

Your dad’s embrace was warm, protective, tight with worry and relief simultaneously. You sat in the back of the paramedic truck while they wrapped your injured head and checked your vitals. Jack was patient as he went through the questions he needed to ask about your attacker.

Your house had already become a crime scene, swarmed with police personnel. They’d already taken the body out of the house.

The paramedic advised getting you to the hospital for a head CT. Your father agreed, but you held onto his arm.

“Can you give us a minute?” you asked the paramedic. The woman was probably just a few years older than you. She nodded and went to connect with her partner on getting ready for your transport. Slowly, you got off the back of the ambulance.

“Whoa, what are you doing?” Jack said in alarm.

“Dad, listen to me,” you said. You guided him closer to the house and away from his unit of policemen. You opened your coat enough to give him a folded towel. He took it and unraveled it, revealing the bloody knife.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered. “Okay, don’t worry. This is standard self-defense.”

“Dad, I don’t remember grabbing the knife,” you said.

Jack rested a hand on your shoulder. “That happens. You’re in shock—”

“No. I don’t remember because it was never in my hand,” you whispered harshly. “I didn’t grab it. The kitchen knives were too far away. It’s impossible!”

“Okay, calm down,” your dad said gently. “You…you’ve been through a lot. You’re just in shock. You’ll get checked out at the hospital, but when all this clears, you’ll be fine.”

“Think what you want, Dad. But when they dust that knife for fingerprints, they’re not going to find mine,” you snapped.

Slowly Jack’s expression dimmed from patient to understanding. At the very least, he finally believed that you believed what you were saying–that you had no idea how that knife ended up in Danny Schmitt.

After discreetly taking a quick look around, Jack held out the knife to you, hilt first. He looked into your eyes. “Grab it.”

You released a breath and, for the first time, took it in your hand. You held it at the angle you would’ve needed to stab the knife downward. As if you had really stabbed that man.

Then Jack took the knife back.

“It’s cut and dry this way,” he told you. “Self-defense.”

You nodded, even though you regretted the motion immediately. The left side of your head ached terribly.

“This place is still going to be a crime scene when we get you out of the hospital,” Jack realized.

“I could ask Bobby if I could stay with him,” you said.

“No,” Jack said firmly. “The last thing you need is to be around that drunken idiot. No, you can stay with Jody Mills. She’s good people.”

“Dad,” you tried, but he was already calling Jody over.

“Hey Jody, can she stay with you tomorrow? I’ll bring her over once we’re done at the hospital tonight,” Jack said. Jody nodded and rested a hand on your shoulder.

“Of course, hun. Call me when you’re on your way,” she said. Jack nodded, and Jody got back into the fray of policework in your house.

You glared at him. “I’m not a kid. I can make my own decisions.”

Though you rubbed at your aching head. Jack ushered you to the ambulance and the paramedics strapped you in.

On the bumpy ride to the hospital, you felt terrible. Not just because your body was a walking welt, but because you shut him out of your mind. Whatever his name was.

You craved feeling his presence. Even though you still didn’t know what your soulmate looked like, you could imagine what it would be like to be held by him. Comforted, safe, with that deep voice like rich whiskey and still somewhat boyish, to tease a smile onto your face.

You wanted to open the connection and say, I’m sorry.

You almost did. But right now, you were a coward that let your fear win.

You kept the connection closed.

The next morning, Sam and Bobby sat at the kitchen table with mugs of coffee. They shared a mixed look of confusion and annoyance as they watched Dean make a pan of scrambled eggs.

It was the aggressive stirring and none-too gentle banging of various spices and cooking utensils that had them concerned (and significantly weirded out).

When Dean served up the food and set down their plates with a clang, Sam looked up at his brother with a raised brow. Dean didn’t notice though. He just sat down and tasted the eggs. A bit dry. Goddamn it.

“Dean?” Sam tried.

“What?”

“What’s up with you?”

“Nothing,” Dean said. Even he knew it wasn’t convincing, but he didn’t care. His mind was too preoccupied with what happened with you last night. His connection with you was still on radio silence. He heard and sensed nothing at all…

And he was worried.

He debated going through the old-school yellow pages for every person with your name in Sioux Falls, but that could be hundreds. And he didn’t know your last name, or anything concrete about you except…

Shit, I’m a freakin’ genius! he thought. Dean remembered one thing: you were a student at the University of South Dakota. History major.

“Well, I’m gonna head out,” Bobby said. “Got a sixteen-wheeler to fish out of a gutter.”

He purposefully didn’t mention the tense atmosphere, but he gave Sam a look. Work it out, it said.

Dean turned to his brother after finishing up his coffee. “Look, before we hit the road, I’ve got something to take care of.”

“Oh yeah? Is it whatever’s got you on edge right now?” Sam asked.

Dean kept a stubborn lid on it. “It’s just an errand I’ve gotta run.”

“Uh-uh.” Sam shook his head. “What’s going on with you? Where are you going?”

Dean got up and ignored his brother’s questions. He didn’t know why his instinct was to keep this to himself, but it was easier than explaining the mess he’d gotten himself into.

Sam followed him into the living room and watched Dean grab his phone and the keys to the Impala. So Sam grabbed his wallet and phone too.

Dean shot him a firm look. “Stay here, Sam. It’s no big deal.”

“If it’s no big deal, then I’ll just come with.”

Dean made a sound of aggravation. Sometimes, Sam could be a massive pain in the ass. Dean’s lips were tight as he left Bobby’s house and headed for the Impala. Sam was hot on his heels. They got into the car and soon enough, Dean drove onto the highway going south.

“So where’re we going?” Sam asked.

Dean shot him an annoyed look, but his brother was unrepentant. So he gave up. “To the university.”

Sam had to think for a moment. “Of South Dakota?”

“That’s the one,” Dean said flatly. He stared out at the road ahead.

Sam had a feeling this wasn’t hunting-related, or Dad-related.

“What, are you scoping out chicks or something?” he asked, only half serious. He watched his older brother’s expression tighten.

“Not exactly.”

“What does that mean?”

Dean glanced at Sam, then made a sound of both frustration and defeat. “Chick. Not chicks.”

“Excuse me?”

“As in singular chick,” Dean emphasized. “A girl, Sam. My…well, not my. Not yet anyway—”

“Dean,” Sam interjected. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“I’m looking for someone, okay?” Dean snapped. “You could say I’ve been hearing thoughts that ain’t mine, if you catch my drift.”

For a moment, Sam couldn’t compute. He stared at the side of Dean’s face, burning a hole in his head.

“Damn it, would you just say something? My head’s about to spontaneously combust,” Dean snarked.

“Your soulmate?” Sam clarified. “Your damn soulmate. You couldn’t just tell me that?”

Dean shot him a defensive look. “It’s a little personal.”

Sam released a frustrated sigh.

“Fine. You know where she is?”

“Kind of,” Dean admitted. “We haven’t met in person yet.”

Sam blinked in confusion. “Okay…this still doesn’t entirely explain why you’ve been so on edge. Damn near crazy.”

Dean hesitated, but eventually he explained.

“Something happened to her last night. Some guy broke into her house.”

Sam frowned in concern. “Is she okay?”

“She’s fine. Well, she’s alive. But she isn’t fine,” Dean said. “Anyway, I just want to be sure.”

Sam’s eyes widened a fraction, both incredulous and recognizing his brother’s knack for downplaying these things, like he had with Cassie.

Well, it didn’t matter. Sam wasn’t going to let Dean let go of his happiness this time. 

After you were cleared to go home from the hospital with a concussion, but nothing else majorly wrong, your dad dropped you off at Jody Mills’ house.

You liked Jody, but you didn’t appreciate your dad controlling the situation—and by extension your life, as he usually tried to do.

So once you’d said goodbye to Jody and her husband when they left for work (and to drop their son off at pre-school), you took your keys that Jack had left you, grabbed your bag, and snuck out of the house.

It was more effort than you should’ve exerted, but you walked the two blocks home. Then you grabbed some more clothes, toiletries, and your car keys.

While the brothers Winchester searched for the university’s History department, Dean continued to beat himself up internally. Sam noticed his brother’s less than peppy attitude and shot him a questioning look.

“I should’ve just gone to meet her the first night she reached out,” Dean muttered. “I should’ve told her my name, at least.”

He should’ve reached out four years ago, when he had the chance.

“You didn’t even tell her your name?” Sam asked. His surprise was followed closely by anger. “You’ve got a chance here that not many people get in life, and you’ve been playing games.”

“I’m not fucking playing,” Dean shot back. “Do I really gotta remind you what Dad went through after Mom died? Not to mention how freakin’ insane our lives are. How can I seriously bring someone else into this?”

Sam understood how Dean felt, to a degree. He felt guilty for what happened to Jess every day—for not being there. He’d loved her with everything he had, and he still missed her. He wouldn’t stop hunting the Yellow-Eyed demon until he avenged her.

But he wasn’t like Dean.

Jess hadn’t been his soulmate.

Sam had a feeling Dean was hesitating because of something else. Something deeper than Dad’s example. Something that had a lot more to do with how Dean saw himself.

So as they walked down the hall towards the Dean of Ancient Studies’ office, Sam held Dean back a second by his arm. He was gentle, but firm.

“Dean, most people spend their whole lives looking for this, waiting for this to happen to them,” he said. “How can you shut her out?”

Dean slipped his arm out of Sam’s grip. “Right now, she’s the one shutting me out.”

Sam frowned, but Dean didn’t give him a chance to reply. He followed Dean over to the office and watched him knock on the door.

A woman answered. She looked refined, with her pencil skirt and severe heels. Her thin blonde hair was twisted into a tight bun, peeling back the skin of her face. She also looked irritated to be bothered by anyone.

“Yes?” she asked. Dean glanced up at the name plate on the wall. Dr. Helen Birch.

“Hi there, Dr. Birch. We’re looking for a history major, graduate student,” Dean began. When he gave her your name, she recognized it instantly.

“Yes, she’s my graduate assistant. She’s not in today,” said Dr. Birch. “She had an accident last night, poor thing.”

“Well, wasn’t really an accident,” Dean said, his mouth quirking humorlessly. “Someone broke into her house and attacked her.”

Dr. Birch nodded.

“A hellish thing, to be sure. But she sounded all right on the phone this morning,” she said, adjusting her Prada-framed glasses. She released a hum of a sigh. “Though you know, my husband died last year. I still came to work bright and early the next day.”

Dean’s gaze hardened, and Sam knew the tell-tale signs that his brother was about to lose his temper.

He laid a hand on Dean’s shoulder and cut in quickly, “Well, we’re her cousins. We just wanted to grab some of her things for her.”

Dr. Birch pointed at a room to the left of her office. “That’s her office right there. Give her my best for me.”

“We’ll do that,” Dean smiled thinly, but he allowed Sam to pull him away towards the office. Sam gave him a warning look.

“That lady’s lucky I’m a gentleman,” Dean muttered. “Freakin’ old bag.”

She wasn’t that old, but Sam wasn’t going to point that out.

“Just calm down,” Sam whispered back. They squeezed into the closet-like office and went over to your desk, where Sam sat and opened up your laptop. It was password protected. He worked on cracking it while Dean surveyed your work desk.

It was very organized. Your notebooks were piled neatly with various pens and highlighters in their own container. He felt bad about this, but he looked through the drawers next and found an old picture. He had a feeling it was of your parents when they were young. It was even labeled on the back: Jack and Christine — November 1985.

“Sam.” Dean showed him the picture. Sam nodded, taking the hint. He thought for a moment, then tried Christine as the password.

It wasn’t a match…until he tried Christine85.

Then the home screen finally booted up. From there it wasn’t hard for Sam to get into your email so they could find your full name. Next, he found your address from a PDF scan of a payroll stub in your documents folder.

“You’re too good at that,” Dean said. His guilt was growing; normally he would have no compunctions about rifling through people’s junk, but this was your stuff. They were invading your privacy to the nth degree. This is an emergency, he rationalized.

“There,” Sam said, after taking pictures with his phone. They knew exactly who you were and where you lived.

“How do you want to play this?” Sam asked, once he and Dean were on the road back to Sioux Falls.

“Let me handle this,” Dean said. It was a delicate thing. Their plan was essentially dropping in on you, whom he’d never officially met, after stealing your private information. Not to mention, you’d already gone through a lot in the past 24 hours.

Dean shook his head. “Let’s just regroup at Bobby’s. I’ve gotta think.”

An hour later, they were pulling into the driveway at Singer Salvage. Next to Bobby’s truck was a blue Camaro.

“I guess his niece dropped by again,” Sam said. Dean was curious, but that was quickly swallowed up by his ever-mounting problem: going to see you. How the hell am I gonna do this?

His mind was so consumed when they walked in, that he almost missed seeing Bobby’s guest in the kitchen.

You were sitting with Bobby at the kitchen table, drinking lemonade. Sam and Dean shared a curious look though, because you had a bandage on your left temple and scattered bruises on your neck and arms, but you still looked friendly, casually dressed in jeans and a soft college shirt.

Dean noticed your pretty face, the shade of your hair, your curves…but he narrowed in on the shirt. It read University of South Dakota.

His heart started to beat faster, though he didn’t realize it.

“Boys, this here’s my niece,” Bobby said. When you stood up and greeted them with your name, Dean knew it was you—the girl he’d practically been scouring the entire state for.

His brain caught up with his heart, which had already recognized you from the second he stepped through the door. Your name fell from his lips, and then your head tilted curiously, like you’d recognized his voice.

Finally, finally, the bond between your souls flared in his mind and warmed through his chest. You’d opened the connection again, and he felt your shock, your recognition, your wonder. Dean grabbed ahold of that pulsing thread of energy.

Hi, sweetheart, he said with a crooked smile. Except, you didn’t exactly have the reaction he was expecting.

You gasped and nearly dropped your drink.

All three men lunged to help you, but you caught the glass yourself. “I got it!”

You then set it down carefully on the table.

“What’s happening here?” Bobby asked. He seemed very confused. Dean couldn’t blame him. He only just now realized that Sam and Bobby were still in the room watching their little movie play out.

Bobby turned to you next. “You know Sam and Dean?”

You wiped your hands on your jeans, looking embarrassed. You gestured vaguely at Dean. “Well, just…kind of…”

“Me,” Dean said, pointing at himself, then at you. “I’m…we’re…”

Because Bobby was smart and intuitive, his face slackened in realization. “Hells fuckin’ bells.”

“Yeah,” Sam nodded with a smile.

Meanwhile, you and Dean took each other in. Slowly you approached each other from opposite sides of the room.

Your gaze fell to the cut on his hand, which he’d bandaged up last night.

“Are you okay?”

Dean gave you a rueful look. “I’m the one who needs to ask you that.”

Your eyes lowered as you bit your lip. “I’m fine.”

Dean would be the judge of that. He drew close enough to examine the gauze bandage on your head. His hand raised to ghost along the bruises on your neck. It stirred his protective, righteous anger again, but he did his best to put a clamp on it for your sake. You were a scrapper, a survivor, and for that he was proud of you.

“Are you in pain?” he asked.

“The meds work just fine,” you said with a smile, but it soon fell as you chanced looking up at him. Dean looked into your eyes for the first time. They were beautiful, but sad and contrite.

“I’m sorry for shutting you out,” you said.

Dean huffed. “Yeah, that wasn’t pleasant.”

Behind him, Sam snorted and gave his brother a pointed look, which Dean ignored.

“I know. I was just…scared,” you admitted, gesturing with a hand to your injuries. “I didn’t want this to be the way we finally met.” 

Dean could understand that. He reached out and tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

“Still, can we keep the heart attacks to a minimum?”

You smiled again, and it reminded him of all the times you’d teased him through his mental connection with you. “No promises.”

Then you stared up at him with more of that wonder on your face.

“What?” Dean quirked a smile. You were starting to blush; he could see the faint pinkness spreading across your cheeks.

“You’re…tall,” you said.

Dean grinned. “Just tall?”

You crossed your arms in amusement. “And other stuff.”

“Yeah, that’s nice. Poetry, really,” he teased. “Definitely uh, putting that college stuff to good use.”

Sighing a laugh, you covered your face with a hand, fighting further embarrassment. It made Dean chuckle.

“All right, just teasing,” he said. “No need to hide.” He bypassed your hand to prop a finger beneath your chin so he could see your face. You met his gaze, waiting somewhat patiently while he looked you over. He could feel the heat rising off your cheeks though, and his smile deepened. You were adorable, and all too easy to tease.

But you were also beautiful.

Without really thinking about what he was doing, Dean found himself leaning down to brush his lips with yours—

Until your voice stopped him. “I, um, have to go. Take a shower.”

Your eyes were wide and somewhat nervous. Dean backed off, cursing inwardly at himself. His hand fell from your face.

“Okay,” he said slowly. “Need help?”

Your lips fell open in a soft “o” shape. Once Dean realized what he’d said, shock gripped both of you.

“Up the stairs,” he clarified. “The shower’s upstairs.”

Behind him, Sam made a pained face—like he was watching a car wreck and couldn’t stop. It made you smile, despite your lingering embarrassment.

But for Sam, he’d never seen his brother tripping up this bad over a girl. Usually he prided himself on being “Señor Smooth” (Dean’s words, not Sam’s).

Meanwhile behind you, Bobby rolled his eyes at you both.

“Sure, thank you,” you said.

You took Dean’s hand as he led you up the stairs. Maybe you shouldn’t have been trying to climb stairs with a concussion, but the pain medication really was helping you enough to be functional. Besides, Dean was supportive and went slow to help you.

When you made it to the top, you let go of Dean’s hand to grab your bag of clothing from the guest bedroom. When you came back, Dean was still waiting outside the bathroom with his hands in his pockets.

He really was tall, you thought. His grip while helping you had been gentle, but you’d felt the strength in his arms. You knew he wasn’t going to let you fall.

There were so many things about him that you hadn’t expected. His green eyes and sandy brown hair, his boyish, charming smile, his confident swagger, his lips…

“I’m sorry for putting Sam out of his room,” you said, mostly so you would stop staring. Dean rubbed the back of his neck.

“Nah, Sam’s like a dog. He can sleep anywhere,” he said. “On the floor, even.”

You laughed, though you tried not to at Sam’s expense. Dean smiled at the attempt.

“So, you’re Dean, the traveling exterminator,” you said.

His smile kicked up into a smirk. “Guilty.”

Your lips curved, a bit shy, but also a bit mischievous. He had spent a long time playing games with you. Now it was your turn.

You leaned up toward him on the tips of your toes, so you could reach his lips. With a raised brow, his body bowed towards you.

Once your lips were just a whisper away from his, you stopped.

“Good,” you said simply.

And you closed the bathroom door in his face.

AN: Okay, so an action-packed chapter for ya. And yay, they finally meet! Dean also encounters the infamous Dr. Birch, Jody Mills makes a brief cameo, plus Sam being a supportive brother.

One thing I want to note, in case people have questions about "Jess not being Sam's soulmate" here. I just really couldn't do that to him (losing his soulmate in his 20s on top of everything else). It was really so I could keep things open for Sam, not anything against Jess as a character.

That being said, let me know what you think about the first meeting!

To keep reading: PART 6

Series Masterlist

Dean Winchester Masterlist

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This thing keeps on growing! Thanks to everyone following this story so far.

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the sexual tension between me and unread books on my bookshelf

Sweet Escape (Poe Dameron x Reader) - Masterpost

Being a Resistance newbie was always going to have its challenges, but you’d never expected them in the form of Poe Dameron; Black Leader, heart-throb of the fucking Resistance; being your bunkmate from day one. You realise he isn’t someone you want to indulge in early on, but the more you treat him coldly, the more he latches onto you.

Warnings: Eventual smut, swearing, mentions of sex, violence and death

Tags: Ongoing, Enemies to friends to lovers, a mixture of comedy, fluff, angst and the good stuff. Full of comedic sexual tension. Resistance OC’s and Force Sensitive!Reader

Chapter One | Chapter Two | Chapter Three | Chapter Four | Chapter Five | Chapter Six | Chapter Seven | Chapter Eight | Chapter Nine | Chapter Ten | Chapter Eleven | Chapter Twelve | Chapter Thirteen | Chapter Fourteen | Chapter Fifteen | Chapter Sixteen | Chapter Seventeen | Chapter Eighteen | More to come…

If you want to be added to the tag list, tell me! Feel free to message me or send prompts to my ask box. 

Read it on Ao3 here!

Rock Paper Scissors

Adrian Chase/Vigilante x Reader

Adrian Chase Masterlist

Request: “I was wondering if you could write an Adrian x Reader with the only one bed trope?”

Thank you @r3tr0sp3ct for the request.

Warnings: None that I know of. (If you see something please let me know!)

A/N: I was so excited about this request when I got it. I love writing for Adrian! If you wanna see something for our boy (as long as it’s not smut) send it my way and if I feel comfortable writing it I’ll eventually get to it!! Hope you guys enjoy! :)

Keep reading

me and the joel miller girlies

Only bars keep us apart - Chpt. 2

Pairing: Jonathan Crane x femReader

Word Count: 4280

Summary: Over the past few weeks you keep on catching yourself thinking of Crane more than you should. You two get to know each other better, and he knows exactly what impact he has on you. At least you're safe with him behind those bars...right?

Warnings/Tags: angst, teasing, protective!Crane, minor mention of blood

A/N: I am truly sorry that it took so long🥲but the second part is finally here! It's not yet the end of the story but I hope I'll finish the next part quicker than this one XD. Have fun reading😊💜! ~✨Star

PART ONE

You’ve been working at the Asylum for three months by now and you’d be lying claiming that you didn’t like the attention he gave you. How couldn’t you now that you saw him every day and were allowed to have longer talks with him? You’ve been interested in him from the start but over time just like the trees outside your interest in him blossomed into something beautiful. He was intimidating but somehow it gave you a sense of safety to have the bars between the two of you at all times. His smart ocean eyes that bored right into your soul read you like an open book. His smooth, deep voice sent shivers down your spine and made your heart flutter. You’ve never met someone like him before and still, there was something drawing you in.

You had gotten used to your daily schedule by now; Get to the asylum in the morning, check in with your boss before talking to a few of the more harmless inmates. Then you had lunch and finally, it was time for your daily conversation with him. The only thing that changed was that with every day that passed, you walked down the hallway of his cell a little slower when it wasn’t quite time to see him yet. You lived for these few more seconds you could feel his eyes on you. For these few more words that fell between the two of you. Your interactions were the only thing motivating you to go to the asylum.

At night you lay awake, unable to shake off the feeling of his eyes grazing your body up and down. Whenever you fell asleep eventually, your dreams revolved around him. Somehow deep down you seemed to wish for him to step through that door and overcome the barrier between the two of you. But every night, right before he did, you woke up. And you hated yourself for it every single morning. Why the hell would you want him to get out of the cell they put him in for good reasons? Why were you so intimidated but longed for him to be free in your dreams? How did that make any sense? Were you slowly going insane in there?

On your way to the Asylum, you thought back to one of your many talks a few weeks ago…

Crane casually leaned back in his chair and folded his chained hands on his lap. His eyes studied you intensely as you sat down and adjusted your blouse. Looking up you noticed his gaze and raised an eyebrow at him, which made him smirk. “Good morning, beautiful.”

“Don’t call me that,” you said firmly.

“Why not?” he asked calmly. “Is it that wrong to state a fact?”

“It’s rude, we barely know each other,” you told him and grabbed your pen, scribbling down the date on your paper.

Crane sighed and rolled his eyes. “I miss the time when you could compliment a woman without being called rude or a creep.”

“Oh, so it’s a compliment?” you asked defensively. You wouldn’t fall for his charms even more. You were here on a professional basis and not to flirt with the inmates.

“It was intended as one, yes,” he said calmly and raised his eyebrows at you. “Is that a problem?”

You met his eyes and swallowed hard. “I’m here to do my job, okay? You are part of my assignment, that’s why I’m here.”

“Purely that?” he asked curiously.

“Purely that,” you nodded firmly and brushed back a strand of your hair.

“So you drew the card no one else wanted,” he nodded more to himself and you frowned at him confused. “I’ve been there…but I found it quite interesting here.”

“I bet,” you commented dryly. “It must’ve felt like home,” you added and bit your tongue hard once you realized what you just said. Shit, you weren’t here to tease him and make fun of him.

“Does my suffering amuse you, L/N?” he asked, not looking offended one bit. 

“Did the suffering you put others through amuse you, Dr. Crane?” you asked back, deciding not to let him win that one.

“Amusement is the wrong word here…It delighted me, actually,” he told you and studied your face observantly. He watched your expression change to a mask of horror before anger and disgust laced your features. “There we have it.”

“You’re sick,” you spat out and stared at him. Well, what did you expect? That he didn’t decide to send people into insanity with his fear toxin? That in fact he was just a misunderstood soul who longed for nothing more than to be loved by someone and not harm others?

Crane shook his head and made a disappointed noise. “What’s one of the first rules you learned talking to a patient or client?”

“Excuse me?” you asked.

“Let me help you out,” he smiled, almost gently. “Never, and I repeat, never, judge the person sitting opposite you and insult them. Always stay neutral while talking to your client, no matter how crazy they really are.” His blue eyes lit up for a second as the word crazy mockingly rolled off his tongue.

“That’s rich coming from you,” you spoke firmly. 

“You think so? Allow me to elaborate on that,” he said and started talking. You didn’t really listen, trying to calm down and sort your thoughts. You had a job to do, for fucks sake. Before you realized it your eyes were wandering over his body. You took in his confident posture, the way his full lips moved as he rambled on, his ocean-blue orbs displaying a theatre of emotions. You-. “Why aren’t you taking any notes?”

“I’m not here to write your memoirs,” you snorted softly. “I’m here to analyze you and I have a good memory, thank you.”

“Analyze me…Are we talking about my psyche here? Because the travels of your eyes tell me there’s a different sort of analysis going on,” he said almost mockingly and smirked succeedingly as the blush rose to your cheeks.

“Shut up,” you pressed out.

“So you can write down that I seemed awfully quiet today as if I had something stupid in mind? I don’t think so,” he smiled politely.

“Can we focus on the task at hand?” you asked frustrated and scribbled down his name on the questionnaire.

“I can,” he nodded.

…

Your casual conversations had gotten interrupted several times by now. About two weeks ago, a soldier from the military had been appointed to keep Crane behind bars, since rumors of a planned breakout sent panic throughout the city. The soldier had laid eyes on you and he had not given you a minute to breathe ever since. Not once. Suddenly, making your way down that hallway wasn’t fun at all anymore.

It was rather irritating, as you were trying to enjoy Crane trying to indulge you in some small talk, slowly easing you into longer conversations, when said soldier kept on flirting with you. Persistently so. 

You really didn't want to hear how hot you looked in your work clothes. And you definitely didn't want to hear how he praised himself to heaven and back, annoying you with what a good boyfriend he would be. It made you uncomfortable and not even Crane’s mindfuckery reached that level of discomfort.

Speaking of Crane, he obviously noticed your discomfort. He had not spoken up - not even once - which made it worse. No, he rather seemed to enjoy your aggressive talks with the said soldier. He seemed to like seeing you try to get out of the conversation, and how you tried to be polite and stand your ground at the same time. You hated him for the joy it seemed to bring him.

Three days ago the soldier really stepped over the line, smacking your bum as you walked past him. You had been too stunned to speak, trying to swallow down your fear, and quickly made your way back home… 

You couldn’t sleep and tried to fight down your sickness as you walked back to Crane’s cell the next day. You sent the soldier away, as always during your sessions with Crane, and sat down heavily. Quietly, you wrote down the date and his name, not looking up at him once. “How are you feeling today?” you asked then, staring at your first question. Crane remained quiet and after a long moment of silence you sighed and looked up. He studied you intensely, tilting his head a little as you finally looked up. “What? You didn’t hear me?” you asked more aggressively than you had intended.

“I’m doing fine, thank you,” he said calmly before squinting his eyes at you. “I suppose it’s a bad moment to ask you the same?” You remained quiet, only confirming his thoughts. “You can’t even keep eye contact, that’s dangerous in here. There won’t always be a guard around to protect you.”

“The guards are even worse than some inmates,” you spat out, still not looking up at him.

“I could’ve told you that on day one,” he smiled as you glanced up at him suspiciously. “Will you really let him mess up this opportunity for you?”

“Excuse me?” you asked quietly, a shiver running down your spine. “Who are you talking about?”

“I thought someone as stunningly beautiful as you are would be familiar with men acting up around you?” he gave back and raised his eyebrows at you. “But as it seems him touching you has been a first.”

You shifted in your seat and swallowed hard. “Why would I be alright if it happened more often?”

“I didn’t say it would be alright…but you’d be less shocked,” he shrugged. “Are you afraid of him?”

“Why would I tell you that?” you asked sharply. “So you can analyze someone’s fear? It’s the other way around here, I’m the one in charge.”

He smirked and rolled his eyes. “My dear, the patient is always in control…So, are you afraid?”

You stared at him before grabbing your things and getting up. “I won’t deal with this. We either do this my way or I’m leaving.” 

“Would you accept something like that from me? Or him?” he asked smirking.

Tears shot to your eyes and you firmly grabbed your notes. “Fine, I’ll leave.”

His smile faltered a little seeing the tears and he didn’t respond anymore, watching you leave.

…

Going back home that day made you question your planned career. Yes, the asylum was an extreme, especially here in Gotham, but were you really ready to deal with people like Crane on a daily basis? Were you ready to walk such corridors more often and encounter all types of screwed-up people? 

You weren’t looking forward to coming back to work today, knowing Crane would find it amusing that you took a few days off. The soldier would still be where he had been when you left and he wouldn’t stop. You subconsciously pull your sweater even further down, hoping it would hide the parts of your body he loved staring at. You wondered about Crane noticing your discomfort the last time but still questioning it. Did he really not care at all?

The moment you stepped into the asylum you knew he did care. The director met you at the door and filled you in about the events of last night. Apparently, Crane had gotten into a fight with one of the soldiers and you couldn’t help but wonder if it was that soldier. If it had been you somehow felt no compassion for the soldier which scared you a little. Why did that thought give you some sense of safety? Were you even more insane than Crane himself?

Your hopes of avoiding Crane for another day vanished into thin air the moment you heard there was an issue with the electric safety system of his door at the isolation cells. Of course, typically for your luck in life, the assigned electrician was at home because of a heavy flu. You had watched him a few times working at the doors and you had some past knowledge of circuits yourself. Apparently, you had mentioned that in your application because now you were being escorted to Crane’s temporary new cell to fix his door. You felt like the asylum’s personal monkey; just good enough to do whatever others didn’t want to.

And that's how you ended up in this awkward situation of sitting on the floor in front of Crane's cell, trying to fix the door and him continuously watching you. He had a small cut on his cheek; clearly the result of his fight. 

You decided you had had enough of the silence. "Why did you start a fight with a guard? I thought you enjoyed your cell outside the isolation corridor." 

Crane was surprised about you initiating the conversation first this time. Positively though. He smiled and shrugged. "He was...annoying." 

You huffed and rolled your eyes. Of course. "So if someone annoys you, you just punch them in the face?" 

"He said some disrespectful things. That's all. I thought it was only appropriate to teach him some manners." Dr. Crane's mood had worsened within seconds. You wondered what the guard said for Crane to react like this. Sure, he had a threatening aura, but normally he was rather calm. Stiff, almost. Seeing him lash out into a physical fight was something new. 

"Appropriate. Somehow you using this word in combination with a beating actually makes sense. It's you after all." You made a vague gesture with the screwdriver to emphasize your words. 

Crane's face lightened up and he chuckled. "Oh? You know me that well? I had no idea you studied me this throughout." You looked up at him in annoyance. This guy really had no shame, now did he? 

Deciding, it had been enough small talk, for now, you resumed your work. At least you attempted to. You really did. You tried to concentrate on the circuit, you really did but it was incredibly hard when you could practically feel his eyes burning into your skin. Were you simply another pretty thing for him? Or was he actually interested in you?

You put down the screwdriver, a bit too aggressively than necessary, catching yourself fantasizing once more. "Turn around."

"Excuse me?" 

You immediately regretted saying that. How weird must that seem to him right now? "I feel watched. I can't work like this." You groaned in frustration as one of the cables once again slipped from your grip. Him laughing at your request just made it worse. "Prick", you muttered under your breath.

Crane actually heard that and started laughing even more. Something inside of you snapped and you grabbed the screwdriver and threw it through the bars, right at him. You only realized the impact of your action, when he easily caught it and his smirk grew. "What a nice gift from you."

Your throat went dry. Shit. This could easily be used as a weapon. "Give it back.", you demanded in an attempted authoritative tone, though it came out shaky. Fuck.

Crane spun the screwdriver between his fingers and watched you thoughtfully. "Alright." You were surprised but also relieved that he agreed so easily. "Just hold out your hand."

Your heart dropped. Of course, it wouldn't be this easy. As if he had read your mind, he answered by rattling the chain of his hand. You were a bit confused. If you remembered correctly there weren't any cells with non-extendible chains. Maybe it was an extra addition because it was him. "Safety measures since my little...confrontation. I can't get to the door. So you'll have to stretch your hand inside. I'll do the same." Dr. Crane could practically hear the fight you were having with yourself in your head. "Unless...you want me to keep it?"

No. That could end horribly. You took a deep breath and stepped closer to the bars. "Fine." Shaking all over, you reached through the bars.

Crane calmly stretched the screwdriver in your direction. It was right over your hand. Come on. Just give it to me! 

You should have never trusted him. The chains had been extendible from out the wall after all. He had lied to you. He dropped the screwdriver and launched forward, grabbing your wrist, and pulling you in his direction. The pull caused your body to collide with the cell bars, at the same moment, the screwdriver dropped to the floor. Fear spread through you like a wildfire and you felt your heart starting to race.

Your breathing was speeding up as you stared into his unreadable eyes. To test the waters, you gave your hand a little pull but Crane didn't loosen his grip one bit. "Dr. Crane. Let me go,” you spoke as calmly as possible.

His gaze was calm but that made you feel all the more threatened. Where were the guards? How could it be that you two always ended up being alone? Maybe this was your karma. You had wished for some time alone with him - without the stupid, flirtatious guard around - after all.

Crane stood up and walked forwards until he was right before you. The metal of the bars dug into your rips. He was so close that his breath mingled with yours. Crane lifted his hand - you tightly closed your eyes. You expected a punch. A jab. Him forcing you to open the door. Anything. Anything but this.

He very gently wrapped a strand of your hair around his fingers. The air got stuck in your throat. Crane smiled at you with something in his eyes you couldn't quite explain. "I always wondered if it was as soft as it looked."

Something about his smile and his casual demeanor made you really...angry. Maybe because you had just been afraid of him killing you and he does something like this. You gritted your teeth, putting as much rage into your gaze as possible. "Let me go!"

Crane blinked, seemingly knowing exactly what was going on. Another trait that was so infuriating about him. He tilted his head to the side, deep in thought, and hummed. "Why would I hurt you? I told you I'd give you a reason for you to feel safe around me."

"Then how about you don't just grab me and slam me against the door after you told me you'd only give me the screwdriver? Or how about you don't lie? That would make you seem more believable." You practically spat out the last word, staring over at the extendable chain. 

Crane followed your eyes and chuckled. "Fine. You caught me. But...the opportunity was just too tempting. If I would have asked you directly, you wouldn't have let me do it, right?"

"So you just force me into a situation where I can't run? Charming."

Dr. Crane's calm smile faltered when he realized how angry you were. He sighed, thinking about how to calm you down.

You decided to give him the answer by pulling at your hand again and glaring up at him. Crane huffed and rolled his eyes. It was the first time he was displeased in front of you. It made your blood run cold and you started shaking. Have you taken it too far? Would he hurt you now after all?

As always, the former psychiatrist noticed the change in your attitude and decided to gift you a calm smile. Which - in all honesty - just made him seem creepier.

Crane tilted your chin up with one finger, scanning your expression. "You are only angry… not scared at all. That's surprising. Or maybe you're just good at hiding it?"

You decided to use his own words against him. "Why would I be scared? After all...you won't hurt me." You said it with all the confidence you could muster but your voice shook a bit nevertheless. Crane smirked at that and nodded.

"You're right. I did say that." Your confidence faltered and you turned pale once more. What did that mean? That he was lying? You tensed when he got even closer, pulling you against the bars even more by grabbing your chin.

His eyes kept on flickering back and forth between the electric strike and you as if he was unsure whether it was worth forcing you to open the door after all. Unbeknownst to him you were contemplating too. In the end, you decided for it. Not the same thing he had thought about though. Instead of opening the door, you lowered your head quickly and straight up bit into the hand that had been grabbing your chin mere seconds ago.

The sheer surprise caused him to let go of your wrist. Without waiting for a moment more, you pushed yourself off of the bars, bringing several meters between you again. You only stopped when you collided with the bars of the opposite cell.

The look that Jonathan Crane was giving you was terrifying. In the next second, Crane's eyes flickered for a moment and then his threatening smirk dropped. "Y/N. You...should really step away from there."

"If you think I'd come even an inch closer to you, you are so wrong!" you hissed at him, unaware of the danger you were in.

Did he seem even more serious than usual and oddly...worried? No. That couldn't be. What would he be worried about? But he lifted both of his hands calmingly, the thumb of the hand you had bitten a bit bloody. You felt a bit of pride well up inside your chest. There. At least there were some consequences for his actions. He deserved it. It could barely be called a wound anyways. 

"Y/N." Crane swallowed and let out a light chuckle but it seemed stressed. "You don't need to walk over to me. Just...step aside at least."

"I'm not doing what you're telling me to do! I've had quite enough of your stupid games! So stop it with your smooth words and your stup-." The words got caught in your throat, by a strong arm wrapping around your throat and slamming you back against the bars.

Oh. Of course. You had been so infuriated by Crane that you had forgotten about the fact that you should stay away from the other cells as well. This was the more isolated and safer corridor for a reason.

Your nail dug into the flesh of the arm, trashing and gagging. This wasn't good. How the hell was the person behind you so strong? To believe you had even the smallest chance was a joke in itself. Your shoe didn't fit through the bars so kicking the inmate wasn't an option either. All you could do was claw at his arm. He didn't budge. Calling out for help turned out to be impossible. You'd need air for that. 

While you kept on searching for options and solutions, your sight got blurred and your throat dry as it tightened. Someone kept on calling your name frantically. Who was that? It was hard to focus on anything, with your lungs clenching painfully like this. They were aching for air, your whole being begging you to just breathe but you couldn't.

Your thought process slowed down. Of course. You could just-. But no. What that would mean for Gotham...how could you ever be so selfish? 

The consequences would be enormous. You pressed your eyes closed, croaking out a weak sound. This could've been your last one. The thought itself was so scary that you changed your mind within seconds. Nevermind. You didn't want to die. You'd rather get locked away for this than die.

You took your last remaining strength and kicked in the direction of the opposite cell. If it was destiny or sheer luck, you didn't know, but the sole of your shoe collided with the electric strike.

The corridor had been overshadowed by your tears and black dots dancing in front of your eyes. In the background, you could hear the loud, aggressive tone of a door opening. A door? Which door again?

You got your answer surprisingly fast when someone screamed in your ear like his whole life had just been turned into a living hell and the arm that had been choking you, let go. Staggering forward, you braced yourself for the impact with the floor. Instead, you fell face-first into the chest of someone else, and strong warm wrapped around you.

You frowned. Who was screaming around like this? It only increased your headache. And what was that shrill sound? Was that the alarm?

Your head was spinning, barely able to comprehend what had happened. At least until you looked over your shoulder. Now, you were able to see the inmate that had attacked you as you slowly regained your senses. He was lying on the floor, nails dug into his head, screaming and crying with wide eyes. You scooted back - or tried to - remembering that someone had caught you. Remembering your kick and the sound of a door, caused goosebumps to spread over your arms. Your heart was pounding like crazy when you slowly lifted your head. Please not him. Please not him. Please not-. 

You slowly turned your head and instantly met a wild blue ocean. It was him. For the first time since you knew him there was fear in his eyes that frantically searched your body. He grabbed your hand and pulled you up, starting to run whilst pulling you after him. There were no bars left between you two anymore.

PART ONE

MASTERLIST, PROMPT LIST, NEWS

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Break Me Down - Part 6

Pairing: Soldier Boy/Ben x Female Reader

Summary: You’re a private investigator by trade, but now you happily sit at a desk — leading a surveillance team at Supe Affairs. After managing to end Homelander in New York, Soldier Boy escapes custody. You are recruited for the manhunt, joining Butcher’s team.

Truly, you joined the S.A. for the right reasons. But after you become his accidental hostage, Soldier Boy will break down every single one of them…

💚 Break Me Down Masterlist

AN: This chapter is a heavy one, but ultimately shifts her relationship with Ben…

Word Count: 6,700 Trigger Warnings: (18+ only.) Attempted sexual assault, violence, mentions of domestic violence, torture, and past trauma. Angst, hurt/comfort, fluff.   

Part 6: A Hot Meal

Frank informed you the next morning that Simone, the new chef, had to call in sick. Apparently she’d slipped a disk in her back after yesterday’s festivities. 

Poor thing. You wished her a safe recovery, and an STD panel. 

But that left you and a handful of hungry men gathered in the kitchen like stray cats.  

Soldier Boy’s crew was a mere few. Some were former military, all were gruff, grisly-looking guys.

Frank was their leader, stocky and stoic, and an ex-Marine from the Dominican Republic. Followed closely by Saul, who was a taller blonde from Idaho, and ex-Navy. 

Then there was Lorenzo, appropriately nicknamed “Loco,” who reminded you the most of Frenchie. Loco was Colombian, lean, and covered in tattoos, but generally the most laid back and always cracking jokes (dirty or otherwise). 

You’d learned that he’d been in the same unit as Frank. And he was the one who took the second shift on watching you in the beginning of your imprisonment. 

And finally, there was asshole Tony, the only true local. But you didn’t hold that against the rest of Colombia. 

He at least was still sleeping after an all-night job, according to Frank. 

You assumed Ben was still in bed as well, because he hadn’t yet graced you all with his presence. 

The rest of them were staring into either the fridge or the pantry, trying to work out breakfast. 

“I could whip up some eggs,” Loco said. 

“You mean those rubbery shits you made yesterday?” Saul quipped. Loco frowned, but shrugged in admission. 

“We’ve got cereal,” Frank pointed out. 

“Cinnamon Toast Crunch?” Loco asked hopefully. 

“Raisin Bran.”

“Maldito hijueputa. I can’t live like this.”

You watched them fumble around like they’d never seen the contents of a fridge before, shaking your head in disbelief. Were all men really this helpless? 

You sighed and stood up from your stool at the breakfast bar. 

“All right, guys. Step aside,” you said. “My powers are limited, but I can attempt an omelet of some kind.”

Frank discreetly let out a relieved breath, while Loco made fervent Catholic blessings to the Virgin Mary. Saul seemed to be reserving his judgment until he tasted said meal. 

You smiled and took out two cartons of eggs, some evaporated milk, onions, garlic, ham and cheese, and some fresh spinach you found in the vegetable drawer. Then you rooted through the pantry and found the seasonings you needed, like sea salt, pepper, and oregano.

Yvette taught you this recipe, and it was one you’d been successful with before. So it stood to reason that you could do it again. 

Within half an hour, you were serving sections of two massive omelets to each man (seriously, it might as well have been a quiche), with a generous portion for yourself. Though you still saved a large piece for Ben…and yes, even Tony. 

Loco took a huge bite and moaned. Saul frowned in disgust and shot a fist into his shoulder. 

“Shut the fuck up, man,” he reproached. 

“But it’s hella good,” Loco said, rubbing his shoulder. He offered you two thumbs up and a wide smile. “Gracias, corazón.” 

“You’re very welcome,” you said with a laugh, and fought hard not to blush in embarrassment. Frank gave you a rare, conspiring smile. 

Who would’ve thought a hot meal could make you friends among criminals?

“Even Saul’s got nothing to complain about,” Frank remarked, noting the other man’s silence in his thoughtful chewing. Until Loco teasingly prodded him in the side with a fork. 

Saul made a sound of irritation around a mouthful of food and fended him off with a warning look (and a threatening butterknife).  

Loco tsked. “You have to untighten your asshole, my friend. You will give yourself a hemorrhoid.”

“You are my hemorrhoid,” Saul snapped. 

You stifled a giggle. 

Frank wore a deadpan look, but amusement still glinted in his eyes.    

“He’s just mad because Loco put peanut butter in his gun last night,” Frank told you in a lowered voice. But Saul still heard it, because his frown deepened while Loco’s grin edged into a smirk. 

“You know how hard it is to unjam that shit out of the slide?” Saul said. “Even the safety’s clamming up now.” 

“Shit, I should’a put jam too!” Loco said. “PB&J in a barrel, no?”

Saul punched his shoulder again in the same spot as before. Loco made a pained sound, but took the abuse with a good-natured smirk.    

“Very mature,” you laughed quietly. 

“Fucking children,” Frank agreed, with a sip of his coffee. But something told you that he was fond of these assholes. 

And that’s how Ben found you all. 

He stood in the doorway with his arms crossed, for a moment just watching his crew eating, joking, laughing—with you at the center of it all. 

He’d been standing here long enough without them noticing that he was actually getting annoyed, until Frank finally looked over and straightened a bit. 

“Sir,” he said. All eyes in the room went to Ben, who raised a brow and strolled in with a casual, lazy gait. He nodded at his men, who all greeted him back with respect. 

He noted you tightening up too, your expression turning more careful as you lowered your eyes and continued eating. 

There was something about it that annoyed him. But he ignored that for now, in favor of heading over to the pan on the stove. 

“Your plate is over here,” you mentioned, sliding over his breakfast. “Coffee’s still hot in the carafe.”

Ben flashed you a sly smile. “All right, sweetheart. Why don’t you get me a cup?”

He knew you’d frown, just like that, with annoyance glinting in your eyes. Try as you might, you couldn’t hide it all the time—your stubbornness. You were mouthy too, with an answer for fucking everything.

But when he took the proffered plate and tried the eggs, he raised his brows in pleasant surprise. 

“Okay. So you can cook,” he said. “Good to know.”

You raised a brow at that, but you handed him a mug of black coffee. He took a sip and made a face of disgust.

“Jesus, could at least put some sugar in there.” He passed it back to you. “Fix that for me, would ya?”

Your brow twitched again, but you took the mug wordlessly. Saul got up from his seat at the bar and washed his plate in the sink himself before he left, followed by Loco, who thanked you one more time before he followed Saul’s lead. 

You gave Ben his coffee while you started putting the leftovers away and soaking the pan in the sink. When Ben next took a sip, he coughed as his tongue was assaulted by sweetness. He shot you an irritated look.

“What the fuck is this?” he snapped. 

You looked over at him with widening eyes. “Oh, I’m sorry. Too sweet?” 

Your face was all innocence, but he was starting to figure you out. He caught a gleam of satisfaction in your eyes. His lips twitched, not sure if they wanted to smirk in amusement or frown in annoyance at your audacity. 

Ben glanced over at Frank, who stood near you with an empty plate. Clearing his throat, Frank set his plate in the sink and also washed it himself.

Ben dumped his coffee there and gave Frank a look—one that said to fuck off. 

His subordinate actually hesitated, making Ben’s frown deepen. But the man eventually left you and Ben alone while you finished up the dishes and Ben ate his breakfast. He didn’t mind complimenting the chef. 

“You surprise me, sweetheart. Now, if you start cooking more often than you eat up the pantry, I may need to keep you around,” he remarked teasingly. And he dumped his plate into the sink while you were busy washing the large pans you’d used.

It was meant to be a joke. He’d said worse things to you before and you’d volleyed back playfully, or at worst case, brushed it off. So the way your head whipped towards him with a glare managed to take him by surprise. 

“Maybe if you put as much energy into feeding yourself as you do into fucking your way through South America, you wouldn’t be such a helpless asshole,” you said. 

It changed the air in the room, making it tense as Ben raised his brows at you. He straightened to his full height and approached where you stood at the kitchen sink. 

“Care to fucking rephrase that?” he asked.

Did this bitch really just call him helpless?

You had one hand on the counter, maybe to steady yourself. Your chin took on a defiant tilt as you stared up at him and crossed your arms. 

“At least your team has the decency to say thank you,” you snapped. “You can’t even be bothered. What are we, your fucking slaves? Should the whole fucking world bow to suck your wrinkly dick?”

Your vitriol somewhat put him on his heels. He stared at you, incredulous.

“I knew that doe-eyed Mary routine was a fucking show,” Ben growled. “Behold the salty cunt underneath. When yesterday, I know for a fact you were contemplating sucking on my cock like the fucking slut you are.”

Your expression became enraged. You aimed to slap him, with even your nails poised to scratch at his eyes, but he knew the attempt would hurt you far more than it’d hurt him. He grabbed your wrist and threw it away from him. 

You huffed, irate beyond belief, and tried to walk away from him before you said anything else you’d regret. 

But Ben’s hand closed on your arm again and whipped you around. You saw the anger in his eyes, the effort he was making to hold himself back. You both knew that with just a fraction of strength, he could crush you. He could end the game.

You were angry enough right now that you didn’t care. 

“Do it,” you challenged. “Bat me around until I act right. You supes call yourselves heroes, but I don’t see anything noble about you.” 

Instead of your arm, Ben gripped the counter next to you as his nostrils flared. His fingers bit into the tiles, cracking through them and making you flinch. 

“Go to your fucking room,” he ordered. “Before I take you up on that offer.”

Before he loses his shit, you interpreted. 

Your sister’s words again managed to cut through the red of your temper.

Protect yourself.

You hesitated, trying to slow your breath. Then, you lowered your eyes. And you scurried back to your room. 

You only released your tears when you were blessedly alone.  

Meanwhile, Ben was fucking fuming. He took it out on a potted plant, smashing it on the kitchen counter. He watched the fractals of clay spin off like bobble tops and the soil scatter across tile and in the sink. 

All the while, he refused to actually acknowledge how your words had affected him—other than infuriating him.

You were stubborn, with a smart goddamn mouth. You clearly hated him, and not just because you tried to help Butcher put him back to sleep. 

But he’d been spotting hints of attraction behind your blushes, whenever he teased you. He was mollified, slightly, with the knowledge that your body was interested, even if your mind was having a hard time being persuaded. 

Ben could work with that. 

But another part of him wondered…what the fuck was it about this girl? 

Why does it matter if she’s fucking into me or not? What the fuck do I care? He certainly wasn’t wanting for pussy. 

He should’ve gotten rid of you a long time ago. In fact, he should’ve shipped you back to Butcher, better yet, with a bullet through your skull so his band of morons would get the message…

But there was something about you. He’d known it from the moment he saw you in that club. When you broke dumbass Tony’s foot with that lethal goddamn heel, wearing black leather and a sexy gleam of confidence in your eyes as you walked away. 

To continue your hunt for Soldier Boy.

If Ben was honest with himself, (and he wasn’t), you had a fire he just didn’t want to dim. 

You were avoiding him. That was obvious. And maybe Ben was avoiding you too, a bit.

He whittled away the next couple of days with lines of coke, weed, and booze, among other things. Still, none of it managed to dull his mind enough to get a full night’s sleep. Because every time he closed his eyes, he dreamed of being in a metal coffin, unable to pry his eyelids open.

Most of it was flashes of memory mixed with nightmares. Of being frozen and defrosted, his head held underwater just to see how long he could go without breathing.

Being electrocuted on every surface of his skin to see which parts of him were more sensitive than others, less or more durable. What affected him more, bullets or acid, electricity or burning. 

Then the serums that lit his blood on fire, making him feel like his bones were liquifying from the inside out…

Ben would wake in his large bed, covered in sweat. And it took a hell of a lot to even make him dewy. 

The problem was, this was happening more often. Thanks to his abilities though, he was able to function on less sleep than most people anyway. 

At night, sometimes he walked through the dark and empty halls of this huge fucking mansion that felt empty as shit, even when he crossed one of his men. 

Sometimes, he wondered what it was all for—the long years of his life. Sometimes he wondered why he was still here, with no team, no family, no fame, and no real fucking life.

In the morning, after he cleared through the brain fog of post-drugging, Ben wandered downstairs and slurped down a mug of coffee. 

Simone was back, and she dutifully put together a frittata for him. Really, he was craving some plainer eggs and bacon, but this would do, he guessed.

After he finished eating, he wasn’t really sure what he wanted to do. The drugs were starting to bore him, as were the women, if he was honest. 

Ben ventured near the French doors leading to the backyard. He noticed you sitting outside in the garden, surrounded by little yellow flowers. Your mouth was moving, but he could barely hear you. 

Slowly he opened the door, so you wouldn’t hear him. Ben approached from behind, but didn’t go far. He just got close enough to hear you softly singing, letting the wind carry your voice away. But now he heard you perfectly. 

“If I didn’t care, more than words can say…if I didn’t care, would I feel this way?”

You had a good voice, he acknowledged. And just within the safety of his own mind, it reminded him of the way his mom used to hum along with the radio when she cooked. 

His mouth quirking, he returned inside and fished for the phone in his pocket. He scrolled through his contacts and found the number for his favorite escort service here in Colombia. 

Now that your anger had died down, you were feeling a bit guilty. You felt more than justified in raking Ben over the coals, and when you thought of how he’d snapped back at you, it still made your blood boil…

But somehow, your guilt remained. Maybe there’d been a better way to say those things. A gentler way that his massive ego could accept. 

Though you snorted as you walked through the halls that were now second-nature to you. It was late at night, but not too late that your brain could be calmed and cajoled into sleeping.

He doesn’t understand gentle, your mind reasoned. All that gets through his head is brute force. And sometimes, not even then. 

But he’d had every chance to lose his temper violently with you. While he’d certainly been an asshole, he hadn’t tried to break you. Just the kitchen counter. 

Curiouser and curiouser…

Without meaning to, your feet brought you close to his door. Your hand was poised to knock…but you hesitated.   

Then you heard the sounds coming from within, lusty feminine sighs and male grunting, and you grimaced. Memories of your previous experience in opening Ben’s door flit through your mind and made you blush. 

Nope, not this time. You made a sound of disgust and backed away from the door, then fled back down the hall. 

With a sigh of boredom, you supposed you could use a midnight snack. You’d just have to go it alone this time. 

Fine, you thought, suddenly petulant. And you would make something good too. Something that took some effort, and he wouldn’t get a single morsel! 

You went down to the kitchen and rifled through to find the ingredients you needed to make one of your mom’s old comforts: chocolate chip muffins. You didn’t have a Betty Crocker box mix, but you thought you remembered Yvette’s recipe to make them from scratch. 

You found a mixing bowl and threw in the powdered ingredients first—the flour, baking powder, sugar, salt. Then you added the vanilla extract, the eggs, vegetable oil, milk, and whipped them up into a batter. You dipped a finger in to taste it so far, and you smiled with a pleased hum.

“Whatever you’re making, it already smells good.”

Your smile fell as you looked up. Tony walked into the kitchen with his booted foot. 

You wanted to sigh. What the hell does this bitch want?

His long hair was tucked behind his ears, and he was dressed in tactical gear this time, complete with a belt, though curiously devoid of his gun.

The last time you’d seen him in this ensemble, he’d been kidnapping you. Maybe Soldier Boy sent him off on an “official” errand of some kind, like buying drugs off a cartel or something.

“Good evening,” Tony said with a nod. You nodded back at him, watching him as he approached the kitchen island. You made sure it remained between the two of you as you went to the fridge for some more milk. The batter was a bit too thick.

“What’re you making?” he asked.

“A roast chicken,” you sassed. He shot you a dry look and surveyed the ingredients across the counter. He reached for your open bag of chocolate chips and stole a few, scooping them into his mouth. 

Rude, but you didn’t comment. You knew you shouldn’t snipe too much with him. 

“Whatever it is, mind saving some for me this time?” he asked. “I heard you made breakfast for the guys the other day.”

“I did saved you some,” you replied. “Not my fault if the self-proclaimed King of Everything ate it all.”

In most ways, Ben was a bottomless pit. 

Tony started to curve around the kitchen island. You didn’t miss the move, and you stepped carefully in the other direction. 

“What? I just want to grab a beer,” he said, giving you a teasing smirk. “You afraid of me, mi vida?” 

You were really sick of men giving you unearned endearments. 

“Oh, yeah. Fucking petrified of the one-legged wonder,” you replied. Your voice was dripping with sarcasm. Tony’s sly façade fell into irritation. 

There it is, you thought.  

“You really are a bitch,” he said tersely. 

“Takes one to know one, bitch,” you rejoined. It wasn’t your wittiest comeback, to be sure, but it still seemed to infuriate him. You should’ve been trying to diffuse his temper, not goading him. You just didn’t really think he would try anything after what happened last time.

But you were wrong. 

Tony went after you, swifter than you thought possible with that big-ass boot. You muttered a curse and tried to evade him, but he grabbed you by your hair and yanked you back, making you shriek in both surprise and pain. 

You had no choice but to twist and aim a shot to his throat with your elbow. While he choked, you aimed another blow to the bridge of his nose, knocking his head back. 

You should’ve just fled the kitchen. Guaranteed, you could’ve outrun him. But his audacity made your temper snap. You followed up with a well-lined fist in the same region of his face, once, then twice, and he uttered a shout of pain as you both felt the crunch of his nose breaking. 

But then he managed to grab your arm. The two of you grappled, him slipping his foot out of the way when you tried to drive your heel into his boot. 

“Can’t get me twice, you fucking cunt,” he hissed, and pulled something from behind his back. Your eyes widened, thinking it was a gun. 

And it was a gun. Just not the kind you anticipated. 

A shock of electricity ran through your entire body as he tased you in the side, right below your ribs. You convulsed as he did it, unable to move until he relented. It made a few seconds feel like minutes of agony. 

You couldn’t even scream. Even when he stopped tasing you, you gasped in air and lost control of your legs. 

Tony hooked an arm around your waist and propped you up against the counter. With whatever strength you had, you raised your head, dazed and still in pain as you tried to grasp his shoulder.

He smirked down at you. With one hand, he ripped open your shirt so hard that the fabric burned against your already tingling skin. You gasped as you finally realized what he was about to do.

“Nnn…” you uttered, shoving weakly at his shoulder. 

“Shhh,” he said. His cold and lustful blue eyes roved over your heaving breasts still held in your bra, the expanse of your skin. He was able to get a grip of the button on your jeans before you summoned enough strength to fight back.

You shoved your hand against his face, trying to impale his eyes with your nails. But Tony ripped your hand away.

“Fucking bitch. Even now you won’t behave,” he muttered. 

He heaved you higher against the counter and pinned you there with a hand wrapped around your throat. He started squeezing, chocking precious air out of your lungs, but you kicked at him, bit your nails into his hand and clawed and fought as hard as you could when he tried prying your legs open with his knee. 

You tried crying out, but it was just whimpers making it through his tightening hand around your throat. He got frustrated enough to just break the button on your jeans, ripping the zipper down in the process. 

Then, two large hands closed on Tony’s arms.

Both of you looked up and found Ben’s steely green eyes. With a tightening of his jaw and a single upward shift of his grip, Tony’s arms broke. Bone struck through the skin, and the man screamed a horrific, blood curdling sound.

The hand wrapped around your neck released, letting you take in precious air. But that also meant you had nothing propping you up on your shaking legs.

You slumped to the floor against the kitchen island, then watched in horror as Ben grabbed the side of Tony’s face and bashed his head against the counter—over and over until his skull split open. 

Nostrils flaring, Ben took in long breaths as Tony’s mangled body fell to the floor in a bloody heap. 

Then he turned back to you. Your vision was a bit hazy as you tried to look up at him. Hot tears slipped down your cheeks as he slowly kneeled down to you, and helped you stand up. 

“Easy,” he murmured. “You’re all right.”

But you couldn’t stay on your feet. 

You made an uneasy sound, and Ben caught you when your legs couldn’t support you. You struggled to raise your head again, but you managed it.

Ben’s eyes roamed over your face and tried to discern what was happening. They held the question that he spoke out loud.

“What’s wrong?” he asked. 

What’s wrong. What a damn question, you thought.

Blinking, you tried your best to focus on his bearded face. 

“He tased me,” you told him through shallow breaths. 

Ben’s jaw clenched again, but all he did was nod. After a beat, he swept you up into his arms. You gasped, but he looked down at you in silent question. You nodded and relaxed against him, briefly closing your eyes. 

You wouldn’t know how that small gesture affected him as he carried you out of the kitchen. And up the stairs to the second floor, all the way to your room.

He was careful in laying you down on the bed. You were still crying, and now embarrassed for your own modesty as you grabbed a blanket and tried your best to cover yourself, your ruined shirt hanging from your shoulders and all. 

By the time you looked back over your shoulder, Ben was gone. 

However, a few minutes later there was a knock at your door. You sniffed.

“Who…” you tried to speak, despite the pain and coarseness of your voice. “Who is it?”

“Frank,” came the response. You didn’t know if you wanted him in here. 

But after a long moment, he spoke again.

“I’ve got some water for you,” he said through the door.

You licked your dry lips and tried to swallow, even though it hurt. Water, you could definitely use. 

With a sigh you said, “Come in.”

Frank entered with a bottle of water and a med kit. You eyed him warily as he dragged a chair over and sat across from you where you laid on your bed. 

“Can you sit up?” he asked. 

You weren’t entirely convinced that he was here to help you. But his brown eyes were calm and steady, and you didn’t detect a threat in them. 

“I was a paramedic before I enlisted,” he said. 

You blinked in surprise. You eventually obliged him by sitting up, but you still held the blanket around your body. Ben must’ve filled him in…and sent him to check on you. 

Tears welled up in your eyes again. Because every time you thought you had Soldier Boy figured out, the humanity of Ben surprised you. 

“Can I see where he tased you?” Frank asked. 

Though you hesitated, you opened your blanket enough for him to take a look at your bruised side. Sighing through his nose, Frank nodded. He wore medical gloves, and he raised his hands to prod at your neck.

You whimpered and leaned away from his touch. Frank slowly dropped his hands away from you. His eyes softened. 

“You asked about my family,” he said. You gave a belated nod, once you remembered that conversation from a few weeks ago. Had it only been a month since you’d gotten here?

It felt like a year. 

Frank held your gaze, and you remembered asking him. Got a family? Wife and kids?

He hadn’t answered you. You’d thought maybe there was a story there. Now you knew for sure that there was.

“I have a daughter,” said Frank. His tone held the weight of sincerity, just as his words held an underlying promise.

Finally, your tears fell. You nodded and allowed him to finish patching you up. 

He then left you alone, saying that he would bring you something to eat in a little while. But after the door clicked shut, you finally allowed yourself to let go.

You mostly spent the next day in your room. Frank came by to check on you, to offer you something to eat. You took what he gave you, but you only nibbled. You couldn’t quite bring yourself to enjoy eating.

You imagined it getting clogged in your throat, as a hand wrapped around it. First Antonio’s, then your father’s hand. 

You remembered when you were thirteen years old, and you finally snapped back at him when he tried to cut down your mom again with his drunken cursing.

You remembered the dryness of his hands, one of them closing around your neck and squeezing until you saw black spots encroaching on your vision.

And your mom intervened, threw herself onto him. You held your little sister in the closet. She was far too little to understand what was going on, but she knew it was bad.

You covered her eyes, and you watched through the slits as he beat your mom within an inch of her life.

You remembered fumbling with the landline, whispering into the receiver until police sirens circled through the windows and illuminated the dim house. 

You remembered until you had to shut your eyes against memories and hot tears. 

It was another day before your room felt like a suffocating cage once again. Night had fallen, according to the TV guide, approaching midnight. 

You had to gather your courage, but you got dressed into one of your new plain shirts and jeans (which Ben had bought you, you were reminded).

When your stomach growled, you frowned. You hadn’t been able to keep much down for the past couple of days. Sighing, you reached a hand for the doorknob.

Your fingers hesitated on the brass, but you remembered something Louisa told you the day she graduated from high school. 

You hugged her tight with the broadest grin and kissed her cheek. With tears in your eyes, you held up her hand, which held a diploma with honors. 

She had a chance to go to college—something you hadn’t had. But you were going to make sure she did.

“You’re a rockstar, Lou. I’m so damn proud of you,” you said. She laughed and wiped a tear from your cheek. 

“It’s only because of you,” she said. “You’re a rock, sis. Even when you’re not.”

Your sister was a smart little shit, wise beyond her years. And that had stuck with you ever since. 

You’re a rock. Even when you’re not.

Even when that insidious voice inside whispered things. That you were weak, not strong enough, not smart enough. A burden on your family, on your friends. A disappointment. A bitch with an attitude and not much else. 

But you sucked in a shaking breath and frowned at yourself, your brows knitting together. 

No, you thought stubbornly. 

And you opened the door. 

With cautious steps you made your way downstairs. You forced yourself to keep walking, your heart rate climbing, until you reached the kitchen. 

You didn’t know what you expected, but Ben standing there and staring into the fridge was not it.

It was the first time you’d seen him dressed down, in sweatpants, a soft-looking gray shirt, and some old man loafer slippers. You couldn’t help a smile at the sight. 

Maybe he sensed a presence behind him, because he perked up and glanced over his shoulder. Finding you standing there with a small smile, if a bit awkwardly, the corner of his mouth twitched upwards.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he said. 

“Hey,” you replied with a nod, and you braved entering the kitchen. It was spotlessly clean, almost as if nothing had happened in this room.

Except for the large section missing from the kitchen counter, revealing the cement underneath. Likely it had been too damaged to be repaired and needed to just be torn out and replaced. 

Your gaze roamed across the counter to the spot where you’d been assaulted. You couldn’t help focusing on it, so long that your vision started to glaze over. 

Until you realized that Ben was slowly approach you. He had a beer in hand, which he must’ve grabbed from the fridge. You sucked in a breath and looked up at him. 

“You’re up and about pretty late,” he remarked. 

“So are you,” you returned with an attempt at a smile. “I got hungry.”

Ben huffed in amusement. “Figures…though not gonna lie, was feeling peckish myself.”

He gestured at the fridge dismissively. “There’s not much.”

He could’ve woken up Simone, you were ready to point out. But maybe, just maybe, something you said had gotten to him. Maybe he’d wanted to just figure it out for himself, but didn’t know where to start. 

“Let me take a look,” you said instead. You went first to the pantry and took a brief inventory. “You feeling sweet or savory?”

“Savory,” he replied after a moment. He went over to the breakfast bar and sat down with his beer while you continued to rifle through.

“Hmm, how about spaghetti?” you suggested. 

Ben raised a brow. “It’s almost midnight.” 

You shot him a small grin. “So? You’re hungry, right?”

You could tell he wasn’t totally into the idea, but he shrugged. 

“All right.” 

You hummed as you gathered all the ingredients you needed. Ben watched you lay them out across from him on the counter: onions, tomato sauce, various seasonings, and more. He eyed the entire head of garlic you were getting ready to peel.

“Jesus, you tryin’ to kill a vampire or something?” he quipped. You gave him a wry look.

“Have you ever made spaghetti before?” you asked. This was as basic as it came, but the way he was looking at the vegetables told you the entire concept of peeling, cutting, and throwing them together into a pan was foreign to him. 

“Probably,” he said with a shrug. 

Meaning never, you interpreted. Ben really just had no idea how to cook, you realized. You didn’t understand how a century-old man was so lacking in everyday skills…

But maybe you did. The files neatly stored in your brain reminded you that he’d grown up a rich kid. Very rich. Then after he became Soldier Boy, he’d all too soon reached the pinnacle of fame. He’d made so much money in four decades that he’d probably never needed to do a menial task in his life.  

Maybe you could get him to try. 

However, you hadn’t realized it until now, but even after a full day, your body hadn’t fully recuperated from what you’d gone through. Maybe it was the latent stress, but you already felt tired, your body heavy.  

With a growing idea in your mind, you finished peeling and crushing the garlic and grabbed two onions. You held up one of them for his view. 

“Would you mind helping me?” you asked. 

Ben sat back in his seat, crossing his arms. 

“Do I look like Betty fucking Crocker to you?”

“Do you have to be so rude?” you clipped back. His lips twitched in amusement, until you sighed, and took a break from standing up straight to lean against the counter. Your side was starting to twinge from where you’d been tased.

“What’s the matter now?” he asked. His brows knit together, and you could almost swear you saw concern in his eyes. 

But you pressed your lips together. It really pained you to admit it, but…

“Still a bit shaky,” you said, lowering your eyes. “I…honestly don’t know if I can finish this.” 

For a moment, Ben just stared at you. 

He frowned, then made a sound of annoyance. 

“Christ,” he muttered, and finished off his beer before he stood. He took his time coming around the island to meet you. 

“Fine,” he deadpanned. “What is it you want?”

A smile grew across your face, bright and grateful. You handed him an onion. 

“Peel and chop this, please.”

You made room for him at the cutting board and gestured for him to move in there. Ben considered the onion in his hand and took the knife from you. And after a beat of hesitation, he cut the whole thing in half. 

You made a halting sound, lightly touching his wrist. “I’d peel that first if I were you.”

“I know what the fuck I’m doing,” he retorted, but you read the defensiveness in his eyes. 

Hiding an amused smile, you relented and let him do it the way he wanted. But you did notice that he started peeling off the first layer of skin before he started cutting again.

Meanwhile, you found a sauce pan in the cupboard and a pot for boiling the pasta. And the two of you fell into a strange, companionable silence while cooking together.

Until you noticed him glancing at your neck. You knew there were bruises there, still purplish, but healing. It reminded you to gather your courage for something else.

“Thank you,” you said, with difficulty. “For…for saving me.”

Ben’s gaze met yours, but all he did was nod. You’d expected him to be his usual cocky self about it. 

“Why did you do it?” you asked. He paused in his truly horrendous cutting; irregular pieces of onion were all over the cutting board, but he was still going for the second one.

Then he huffed. “Would you rather I hadn’t?”

“Be serious,” you said, before you could censure yourself. He raised a brow at you. 

“You know what?” he said. “Think what you want about me, but I’m not a fucking animal.”

His frown deepened, like he was offended at you just for asking. 

Well, fair enough.

So you let it go as the two of you cooked together. 

But as Ben was peeling the stubborn hide off the vegetable, it slipped out of his frustrated hands and rolled away. Thankfully it stopped just shy of falling off the counter. 

You couldn’t help a small giggle at his expense. He had the strength of twenty men or whatever, but he couldn’t chop an onion to save his life. 

Ben shot you a wryly amused look. “Oh, you better not be fucking laughing at me.”

That just made you laugh in earnest, even though you covered your mouth with your hand. His grin deepened at the sound, despite the embarrassment making his face and neck warm up. 

He grabbed the hateful head of veg and looked anywhere but you as he got ready to try again. There was no way he was letting you, or this fucking onion, make a fool out of him. 

But your soft hand soon covered over his. You offered him a genuine smile, your eyes gleaming.

“Want me to show you a trick I learned?” you asked. 

He hesitated, but he eventually moved over and let you in on the action. You took up the knife, held down the onion, and cut the ends off first. Then you were able to more easily peel off the rest of the outer layer. 

“You can do this part any way you want, really. But I like to cut it down the middle first, then chop up one half at a time like this,” you explained.

And you felt Ben move in closer behind you to watch your methodical work. 

The heat from his proximity actually made you start to blush like a damn school girl. You tried to stamp it down, but heat flared into your cheeks when his hand covered yours and took back the knife.

“All right, all right, I got it. Move over,” he said. You huffed, but you grinned and let him continue…

By the way his eyes later lit up when he tasted the meal, you knew he really did like your cooking. Now, you didn’t want to feed his outdated views on gender roles…but you could admit, seeing him enjoy something so simple as your grandma’s spaghetti recipe was gratifying. 

It wasn’t the first time you’d shared a decent moment with Ben. But it was the first time that it hadn’t felt like an act. You didn’t know what to do with that—or the conflicted feeling making your heart ache. 

And you certainly didn’t want to find anything about him endearing. 

AN: So first of all, sorry for all the angst and TWs in this one. But here lies the end of Tony's fuck ass. ✌🏽 And maybe she's starting to understand (and trust) Ben a bit more...

Next time: Two weeks later, Ben is getting under her skin in the worst (best) way. (AKA: the moment we've all been waiting for...)

You should’ve just pushed him away already…but his nearness was mucking up your good sense. 

The truth was, you weren’t afraid of him. Not anymore. And maybe you didn’t hate him.

Maybe…

“Well, what’s it gonna be?” he asked you.

Your lips parted, halting on a reply.

Keep Reading: PART 7

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Playing Twister with Spencer

You have no idea how you got roped into playing twister at the BAU’s monthly game night. But here you are in the middle of a game with Spencer while the rest of the team watch.

“Ok, right arm, red,” Morgan calls out.

You bend down so you’re basically on top of Spencer. He’s in a crab like position beneath you. You both have three limbs on the mat. Only your left arm remains out to your side, helping you balance.

Morgan spins the wheel again and laughs.

“Left arm, green.”

You bring your arm down to the nearest green spot and Spencer shifts below you, also finding a spot to place his hand. Now your face is only an inch from his. He blushes and the rest of the team laugh.

“Damn Reid, this must be the most action you’ve ever gotten from a woman,” Morgan chuckles.

“Just spin the wheel again, Derek,” you sigh, trying your best not to fall on top of Spencer.

“Left leg, yellow,” Morgan announces.

Both you and Spencer move your legs at the same time, causing them to hit against each other. The lack of support from your leg puts more pressure on your arms. They start to shake, unable to hold you up much longer.

“Shit,” you exclaim as your arms give way and you fall to the floor, bringing Spencer down with you.

Your face falls on Spencer’s shoulder and your legs tangle.

“Sorry,” you say, attempting to climb off him.

“It’s ok,” he replies, rubbing the back of his head which had hit the floor.

“How the hell did we get into that position?” you ask. “That spinner must have had it out for us.”

Then Morgan falls into a fit of laughter.

“What?” you say forcefully.

“Well, I kind of started ignoring what the wheel was telling me to say when I realised how much more fun I could make this if i just made up the positions myself.” Morgan explains.

“Are you kidding me?” you snap angrily.

“It was funny,” he replies, putting his hands up in fear that you’ll tackle him.

“Derek Morgan, I am going to kill you,” you shout. You try to remain angry but you can’t help but smirk when you notice just how flustered Spencer is after having you on top of him.

Kanej will always be the death of me. Like ur actually joking right? Kaz couldn’t tell inej that he wanted her but grabbed her arm!?? ND TOLD HER TO STAY WITH HIM!!?! Call the cops right now.