#jensen... control your face

[magnificent-winged-beast]

JIBCON 15

Look at Jackles happy face.

[castiels-influence]

I don’t think bro was feelin’ that joke. 🤷🏻‍♀️

(X)

[castiel-left-his-mark-on-me]

That face you get when your totally platonic buddy gets anally penetrated.

[inacatastrophicmind]

Jensen, control your face

[cryptfile]

✶ nuclear seasons, [ soldier boy x reader ]

summary — he was friend’s with your mom. friend is a understatement cause when he appears in the middle of the night looking for revenge in your little apartment in the suburbs, you know he’s far from being nice.

warnings — +18 minors dni, smut, dead dove do not eat, we have a last name (also a mother!), kind of porn without plot? but not really cause it HAS one okay, we call it 50/50, fem!reader using she/her pronouns, p in v, masturbation ( m! receiving but blink and you miss it), dirty talk, age gap, choking, degradation, spitting (i'm sorry), fingering, mentions of injury, cancer (not you tho), tons of tension.

side notes — i’m never experiencing the post ovulation clarity lmao, that being said english is not my first language so sorry for any mistakes, also i’m a whore for jensen ackles, and i stand for what i like proudly. // 5k+

Nightshade is a hero.

You're proud of your mother since you were pretty young. The hero that fought against Vought to death during the time Payback was active, America’s Troublemaker that you only knew as Stella Nightshade, a blonde woman that talked with the death during her golden years.

Maybe it’s your mother the one that pushed you to fight crime, to pursue the bad guys and look out for the victims that can’t stand for themselves, so even when you don’t inherit much from Stella’s gifts, you joined the CIA as soon as you can so you can do something that matters.

You’re the best in your class, work your ass off to be taken serious, to be more than the look of disappointment you receive when people ask, once again, if you have any powers like your mother and you have to admit — In pure shame, that you didn’t born as a superhero but a baby who cried loudly when is too hungry.

But as years pass you make a name for yourself, one that even if differs from Stella’s job has the same noble reasons behind. You also realize you were too naive growing up, believing in heroes that don’t deserve to be called that way.

The country has made a mistake on making superhumans so openly, and it’s clear that got out of control now, backfiring as they got so much power it’s almost impossible to take accountant of any of them.

You’ve worked along Grace Mallory from the shadows, and even when Stella would not be so proud of you for helping get his kind out of the streets, the justice is enough to feed you and keep you warm on a cold night.

You like it that way. You know Grace has a team for it, a legal army of supe-haters as you called them, yet, you prefer to stay in the dark, not let your personal life get involved cause one slip and you can lose it all— Even when you don’t have nothing at all. You like to have an outside life from work, it’s the sane thing to have, so when the CIA Deputy Director asks you about joining the infamous Boys, you politely decline assuring the woman you’ve been more helpful from the outside.

What would Stella Nightshade would say? Now that you’ve grown older and you don’t look at her the same way you used to when you encounter her files and read about your mother. You know she has done wrong, yet with the years, you don't imagine Soldier Boy himself was going to seek for revenge first thing he does when he wakes up, his plan including your mother even when she was long time dead before he even appeared in the picture.

That night especially you let your guard down. It's been a rough couple of weeks back in work, so when the night comes you're a victim of the stress, victim of your bosses and the people that surrounded you. You pour a glass of wine for yourself, light a cigarette even when you haven't smoked in years, and turn on the TV to see something else rather than the face of Homelander in every single channel you've been tuning lately.

It's a weapon. When you leave for a warm shower and start filling the bathtub, you're not aware of what that night was really going to be for you. Oblivious as you stand naked in the middle of the bathroom, holding the glass of wine between your fingers before entering the warm current that relaxed your muscles.

It seems tension is your worst enemy, makes your muscles feel like stone as you got in the water, the cigarette that hangs from your dry lips splashing with tiny droplets of perfumed water as the silence filled the air. It's what you needed, at least ten minutes with your brain shutting off completely, the pleasure you haven't experienced in forever by being so compromised with work.

It's a much-needed break. The smoke that leaves the room by the almost-closed window, the taste of wine still lingering in your lips as you sip another taste of the crimson liquor you love. You don't happen to notice when he's breaking in your apartment, silent and deadly as you were protected by a door closed and a white curtain.

You don't happen to hear him too. The music coming our from your phone is loud enough to silence the knocks on your door at first before breaking the wood, you're too deep in the still water that smelled like roses and vanilla, to even pay attention to what was going on outside the warmth of the four walls that surrounded you.

There's vapor coming out of the water and you find comfort in closing your eyes, in letting the blow of the smoke travel through your throat before suspending itself in the air, flowing as you drank.

In your defense, you haven't been like that in ages.

It's been a long time since you last fill the tub and have a relaxing session with yourself, so it makes sense you are enjoying it a little bit too much, too much cause when the invader is making a lot of noise when stepping into your property, you still enjoy the taste of the alcohol on your lips.

The ashes fall to the ceramic floor outside the tub and you should blame the CIA to make you so tense to the point it leads you to more problems than you ever had. In the dark room of your apartment, it's Soldier Boy the one who's going through any drawer he comes across, the ones closed, the ones hidden, any slit he can find, any clue that can trace your mother back to his personal vendetta.

He's oblivious to Stella's death and her daughter, so when the former superhero hears the noise in the bathroom he's fully convinced it's your mother the one who's behind that door, that she's the one who's going to tell him the truth, if she also sold him to the russians as well in the process.

He's decided also on killing her. She must need it after all that time getting older, closer to death more than ever.

Of course it's an unpleasant surprise when you can see the bathroom door opening when you're sure you left the front door closed and lock with at least two bolts to prevent anyone from getting inside, it makes you jump in the spot, quickly covering yourself from the new stranger that enters your bathroom.

"Stella?" he asks, it's the last room that the hero needs to check for himself.

You spot the green fabric of his suit immediately as you pressed your chest against the cold surface of the tub, and when the invader notices you're naked, he doesn't look away as any person with a hint of respect would do, but instead, continue on checking you out as you try to cover yourself in the water tinted in a nonexistent transparent color red.

You can feel his gaze as soon as you recognize him too, as you happen to notice that face from your mother's pictures, the propaganda in the TV when he did almost every commercial back when you were a kid. It's a shock, and dressed in his damn suit, you don't know why an old superhero is there standing beneath the yellowish bulbs of the light your bathroom happens to have.

Your cheeks adopt this pink color as you panic, grabbing the cup of wine to throw the liquid in the floor, breaking it against the marble walls just to shatter the glass in pieces, a weapon of defense as you lifted up against him.

"You're not Stella."

Soldier Boy looks amused: it's funny that you think you'd be able to kill him with shattered glass, yet he lets you keep thinking that way when he's enjoying the view.

Is he to blame? He just got out from this giant cooking oven back with the communists and he hasn't got his way with a lady since what seems are centuries, so when he spots you in the tub he simply cannot contain himself from peaking around. You should be in what? Not more than your 20's? Soft-looking skin that asked to be marked with his hands, by the force of his lips crashing in your flesh.

The thought is compelling, you're looking all feisty with the glass in your hand, threatening him and speaking something Soldier Boy cannot catch at first — Shit, he doesn't even notice the blood in your hand that's dripping all over your small rug in the floor, the power women like yourself seemed to have now and weirdly enough, a huge turn on.

"Get the fuck out!" you scream in an authority voice, the same you use back at work when you're mad, when you're usually holding a gun in defense more than a piece of broken glass "Stella is not fucking here!"

It takes a few more words to actually get him out of there, and as he closes the door behind him you finally stand to grab a towel covering from the currents of wind, trying, really hard, to think about anything else more that the fact that Soldier Boy has entered your house and your bathroom in the worst moment, far from what you were last updated with.

To be honest, it almost gave you a heart attack, leaving the bathroom to find your home torn apart, the drawers open and all the papers you've meticulously kept in place being all over the place as Ben stands awkwardly holding a shield in the middle of your living room.

"Fucking hell" you're cursing under your breath as you gathered some important things you cannot leave on the floor even when you're still wet from the shower, expelling this nice aroma that mixed the roses and the vanilla together with your personal scent — Weirdly enough, a fucking show to the hero that's already rock-hard from the peak he had of you from before.

You don't really notice it at first, too busy being mad as you let the papers you gathered on top of the table. You lose the shame you got left as the wet drops of the shower leave a trace in the floor — And as usual, you clearly don't notice it, but Ben does when the water is running down your back, and you're barking something about calling someone called Grace, holding onto a white tower with your dear life.

"Where is Stella Nightshade, sweetheart?" he speaks out loud cause he don't understand anything you say, really fighting to be nice with you like it would give him an opportunity to get under your skin.

"My mother's dead," you stand there without knowing what to say after. You know he and your mother were close, but you don't imagine he was going to actually go find her teammate when he recently woke up in a different country. "She died years ago dude, i'm sorry."

The information gathers in his head as you take a clean oversized shirt from the laundry basket covering with it as you throw the towel to the floor, Red Hot Chili Peppers it says, but he thinks it's a place in Italy more than a band like he isn't troubled already by the fact you were Stella's daughter, the person who thought was her only friend back in the time now dead.

"Does anyone know you're here?" your mind is drifting back to work again as you wondered if anyone knew he was going to break into your apartment and choose not to send any help — "Ben."

You've read his file. Hell, to be honest you've read every single file in Payback, so it's no surprise you know his name, but to the hero, it seems to be amusing when you call him by his real name, his mind fueled in a different direction as he notices you're not wearing any underwear beneath the shirt you're choosing to wear, one whose fabric's barely covering your tights.

"What do you mean dead?" he asks, furrowing his brows "It's not been so long."

"She got cancer three years ago" you explain with a sad tone, even when you disagree with Stella, it pains you to remember what sickness made out of her, consuming her from the inside at a cruel pace.

"Motherfucker," he states clearly angry, and you cannot help but look at him with a weird face, searching for the phone you left in the sofa to call any-fucking-body in the office that could send a damn army to get you: Didn't the Boys have everything under control? That's what you're told anyway, then why the fuck is the subject of matter cursing in your little messy apartment? — "Bitch just got away with it before I could do anything, isn't it? What a fucking shame."

"Pardon me?" it catches you by surprise at first, but it hits you soon after. Soldier Boy is not there to say hello to your mother or ask for her help, but instead, he's there to get revenge and actually kill Stella by his own matters.

Fuck. Of course is something new, something that makes you feel cold all sudden, your wet hair making you visible shake as you became aware of his plans.

"You know them. You know the people from the lab" it's more of a fact than a question, letting the words feel salty in his own mouth. "The ones that let me get away."

He's quickly to gather the pieces too, not as dumb as you think he is as the puzzle is finally coming up together in his head, and it's all it takes for him to take a step closer to you, cutting that space you've created since you kicked him out of the bathroom — He's angry now.

The red globe on his hand is now holding you by the throat, applying enough pressure to cut the air flow going to your lungs almost completely, his fingertips warm against your bare skin as he holds you in front of his figure, pushing you against the cold wall.

You usually would enjoy such activities, yet in the context you are trapped in right now, you began to choke, your own hands trying to push his grip back even when he’s too strong, not even flinching when you’re squirming, gasping for some air as your face became red, tears gathering in your eyes as he let you breathe for a couple of seconds when he senses you’re too close to black out.

“Talk little Nightshade” he says in a low voice. “Or else i’m breaking your pretty neck.”

“I work for the CIA!” You explain quickly as your breathing became more labored by the seconds. “Not for the people who let you out! I promise!”

He’s going to kill you. You can see the determination in his eyes, that predator look he happens to have.

What you don’t know, somehow, is that he’s going fucking insane. Your smell coming up to his nose to make him shiver, the sight of you in an oversized shirt that barely covers your shape is more than enough to push his buttons, to make him forgot about any killing he was allegedly so concentrated in fulfill, the sight of you almost crying messing with his brain.

Little Nightshade is a fucking tease.

His eyes follow your expression, the hand that gripped your neck and choke you harshly now pressing enough to only suppress the air flow in a more enjoyable way, the tension quickly shifting from dying to pleasure all over again as he kept you in place so easily.

It’s impossible to move, to do anything more than be pressed against a cold wall. Your mother has once again lied to you and you notice the relationship she painted with Soldier Boy was more of a movie in her head than reality itself. Makes you gulp in response when you stare at his expression, the face of a trained killer as you knew, fucking knew, a bit more of force in your neck and it would snap without any difficulty.

“I don’t work with them” you assure once again, maybe it’s your survivor skills hitting when you repeat it in a low voice, catching on your breath when he lets go allowing you to fill your lungs with air just enough before pressing that very spot again, the one that actually turns you on. “Fuck’s sake.”

Is that how you end? On your lame apartment?

The next is a weird thing, cause in the blink of an eye he’s close to your face planting his own body next to yours and you’re shivering at the feeling, his armor pressed against your chest as he left the shield he was holding on the floor.

The metal is pressed against your skin covered by the thin cotton of Red Hot Chili Peppers shirt, and he is so close, so close you froze there, no longer fighting his tight grip but mesmerized by his damn face, the same you watched on TV when you were a kid, the handsome man you happen to severely crush on in secret, just because you don’t want Stella to know or she will give you a long talk about how he is her age.

But he is, handsome as fuck, and now being so close to his face you can say it with all confidence. His beard is shaved perfectly and he smells incredibly good even for someone who has spent time locked away without any kind of hygiene, his green suit protecting him from the cold air that was getting through the opened window.

“Who are you?” he asks, scanning your face with a curious look as he wanted to know what expression you would have when you know why he's there in the first place — “What do you know about Stella Nightshade, your mother, selling me out?”

Fuck. So that's why he's there. You know she did it. And it's impossible for you to lie when he's making you so nervous, away from any weapon, any form of defense as you left the glass in the bathroom sink when you notice large gash on your hand, and your silence makes nothing more than leave him fuming. If he was angry before, he now reaches a higher level as his grip turns more violent now that he knows you know what he meant, why he's there claiming to talk with your death mother out of nothing.

"Call her then. Use your powers" he demands dryly, and you're shaking at this point cause it's more shame added to the long pile, the bathroom already being a humiliation by itself. "Fucking call her."

You squirm beneath his grabbing, when he's pushing you harder against the concrete wall and you can just feel him from under the suit, hard cock pressing against your belly, green in your vision as he towers over you. He knows what he's doing, and even when you try to be disgusted by it, you find yourself enjoying his closeness, how he's pinning you with no effort at all, hands on your throat while he demanded an answer.

"I can't call her" you admit in a low voice, cheeks now red as the embarrassment crept upon your face — "I don't have my mother's power."

Soldier Boy seems to not believe you for a mere second, after that you can feel the blade of the knife pressing against your skin, a threat that now becomes more real as you can feel the cold metal stomach. One swift movement and you'd be stabbed without a second thought.

It's sick how much you enjoy it when you are squirming against him, goosebumps in the zone he threats to destroy.

A force pull his lips upwards in a smile, unable to pay attention to nothing else but the sound you made without even realizing it. "You like that, huh little Nightshade?"

It seems to be a joke for him, bitting your inner cheek to prevent you from saying something stupid, from letting out a moan in response to all the sudden desire.

Despite all conditions you stay silent, holding his gaze like it's a game you're not going to lose. He didn't respond either, trapped in a second that seemed longer than the usual when time stopped around you, eyes looking like he can surpass the old fabric of the white shirt you choose to wear.

It's the tension what makes you mad. You're so into getting people like him, that your ego is bruised now that you notice you are actually attracted to all of that, to the way he's pressing you against the concrete, how all falls into place when he's pushing himself against you, invading any private space you could require.

He's kissing you soon after. Ben crumbles against the tension as the hand on your throat demands a kiss now, pulling you closer to his face without any warning nor concern as he crash his lips against yours in a rough kiss. You try to push him away in response even when you don't want to; see, it's hard to even admit you have interest in Soldier Boy in any other way more than the professional, but when he's bitting your lower lip you're letting your defense down: When is the last time you've been kissed like that?

You remind yourself you're tired from work, that the CIA has done nothing for you more than fuck your over and over even to this point, losing sight of one of the most important heroes of the word, and it's making you encourage to let go just for a mere hour.

"Lookin' so good takin' a bath" he says, and the sound of his deep voice is enough to send an electric wave through your spine, like he’s talking to himself as the hand on your hip is now tracing the curves of your body, taunting you from over the shirt he now learns to love. His beard is now scraping against your skin and you can feel his lips going down, tracing an invisible path to the crook of your neck as his hand is no longer choking you.

Jesus. Was that even happening or was that your imagination? Did you feel asleep on the bathtub? Maybe it’s a reflection as you are close to drowning, your brain doing that happy thoughts shit. You’re tilting your head to the side just to give him more space to work with and you’re just letting it be, enjoying how he’s sucking and nibling on your skin to leave a red mark behind, all teeth and no fucking control as he uses a good amount of force to make you moan in the process, the pain enough to remember who’s really on charge.

Ben forgets about asking any more questions, he’s too busy when his hand are taking decisions by themselves as they slide under your shirt, body still cold from the bath you just took, water still drying in your flesh when he’s like he usually is — An invader.

His hands are big and they’re capable of holding your whole tummy as he caress the soft skin that seems to expel a warm sensation, how it leaves goosebumps in any place he touches. You remember you’re basically at his mercy now that his hands roam with all liberty under your shirt, the look he gave you in the bathroom mistaken you for Stella, his eyes looking at any exposed skin he could look at.

“What the fuck,” you try to say under your breath, to keep on this facade you have of a composed person, one that won’t give in to be manhandled “What the fuck do you think you are you doing?”

“Well, i’m not seeing any complains” The blade cuts through the cotton leaving a large hole you know you won’t be able to sew after yet he’s right: There are no complains, nothing but eager that makes him go further as the seconds passed “In fact, can see that you’re pretty much enjoying it, Doll.”

You hate the nickname, that old man way of speaking when he’s squeezing one of your breasts with more force you can even handle, cursing at how easy it seems to be for him, how he wants to see you simply destroyed.

“You’re loving this isn’t?” he ask all sudden, studying you with his hazel eyes — “You love being a good whore f’me? My little Nightshade.”

He’s hard under the suit, covered in a green material you don’t know how to call as your hand searches for him, crave for him, convincing that it's what you must do as you trace the invisible lines his muscles made.

Soldier Boy’s messy, much like an animal when he’s groaning beneath your touch, his own body seeking for yours as your fingers grew bolder, demanding for a deeper contact — “Careful there sweetheart, i’m still fresh out of the oven. May be a little rusty."

You laugh at his words cause you know what he means, yet your hands work by themselves as you barely even touch him from over the suit, the hard feeling of his cock against your palm, hips buckling against your hand seconds after seeking for you, eyes shut for a couple of seconds.

“M’being careful” you say, catching yourself stealing a look at his reaction, taking your time on pleasuring him , gulping as he experiences the torture of your touch “Taking it slow for an old man.”

“Old man, huh? Now you're talking” He teases, and the sound of his laugh just fucks you up. Maybe it has to be with the fact he’s placing two fingers in front of your lips while looking at you, swollen pink lips he’s so fixated for a second, or it’s because he is, indeed, way older than you are — “Spit.”

It’s not a command, but it sounds like one as you’re unable to disobey, quickly spitting in his hand as you can visibly see the traces of saliva leaving a wet residue in your chin, one Ben looks at it for a good amount of time: How is something like saliva is so damn erotic? He doesn’t know it, but it’s enough to send him into a spiral.

He’s strong you think, cause he’s a superhero. He’s Soldier Boy by any meaning, so it’s not a big effort to hold you in his arms and lift you in the air as you let out a gasp of surprise, spanking your ass as one of his hands separates your legs for him, holding one up as you stand in the other.

“Relax, 'got you, doll” he says, your back against the wall as he kept a bruising grip in your hip, holding you in place so you don’t have to keep your balance — “Fuck you smell so damn good.”

The roses and vanilla aroma lingers on your skin as you finally understand what he's doing now, his hand close to your cunt as he taunts you, torturing you like you did so eagerly before, his personal pet as his digits get lost in your entrance now, your folds spilled with juice he can physically feel in his fingertips, your arousal's so nice against the palm of his hand he cannot help but kiss you, a feverish desire taking over his actions, the lewd sound his fingers made when he finally pushes his digits inside of you, velvety walls welcoming him as they seemed to squeeze him already — He has made such a good job on turning you on, it’s impossible to not react when he’s finally touching you, pumping into you in a constant pace.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he says, the look on your face is enough to make his cock twitch in his pants in response, imagination running wild as he thinks about that very same feeling in a much deeper way, how you’d look now stretched out, crying just like you did when he choked you asking for information — “Such a nice cunt, so wet f’me.”

He's looking at you, holding the image in his mind forever: Pink pussy displayed for him, white t-shirt rising over your chest, lifting your leg over his arm as his muscles flexed by the force he's using to fuck you deliberately, your lips parted as you ask for more in between erratic moans as his fingers curved inside you so he can hit that nice place he can reach with no effort at all, that one spot thats makes you moan louder.

"Ah-fuck" you let out. Ben's all about touching you for what it seems an eternity, thumb grazing against your clit when he's plainly torturing you, testing how much patience you have left now that he has full control of you.

"Don't cum," he demands, your heartbeats are louder by the seconds as he lifts you slightly, lips attacking your neck before the words escape from his mouth "Need you to come undone in my cock first."

He's leaving marks, marks you don't remember how to hide but don't bother you at all, touching you as he pleases you, taking all the time in the world cause it seems like the night belongs to him — Getting started as you shake your head in an improvised yes.

Yes. The thought is pure electricity, the sudden need to please him as you shake your head once again.

“Please Ben,” you don’t recognize what you’ve become now. “Please let me cum in your cock.”

"Go on doll, put on a show f'me" the supe says with a grin you cannot resist. "Bend and show me that lovely ass."

It’s all it takes. His fingers are now away from you, but you’re now facing the wall as you obey, bending until your cheek is pressed against the concrete and you can hear how he’s now unzipping his pants, the green fabric of his suit now to the side.

You look at him from over your shoulder, bitting the your lower lip as you check him out, his slightly curved dick pointing upwards, precum already leaking out.

“Like what you’re seeing or what?”

“Yeah, but there’s no fucking way.”

You’re feeding on his ego now, but you can’t help it when his size is far from what you consider it’s common — “Common’ doll. You can hadle it.”

You gulp in response cause you know you’re more than eager to try, just the sight of his own hand holding his lenght as he strokes himself making you drool in response. Fuck. It transforms in a need now. When he positions himself beneath you and he’s spitting down to that very place where he’s pushing against your hole, saliva coating his cock before just letting the tip inside.

Lubricated, he pushes a bit more and it feels just damn right. Even when it begans to hurt as he’s thick enough to force himself inside you.

Benjamin knows you’re in pain so he waits a second before shoving his cock inside one more time. You need some time as he stretches you out, clenching your teeth while he works.

"You're doing it s'good" he praises, hand massaging your back as he prevents himself from fucking you at his liking, “Takin' me like a champ."

"God" you let out a sharp moan moments after, crying when you felt the pain more than anything else — "Can't-"

"No doll" he hums as he pulls slightly more. “You can do this” he forces himself in until he's finally balls deep inside your cunt, letting you adjust to his size as he can feel fucking everything. Your blood flow, your velvety walls that squeeze him unused to someone as big as he was, your face distorted in what seems an intense mix of pain and pure, devastating pleasure — "Atta girl."

Strikes like lighting.

Soldier Boy's bitting your shoulder-blade as he waits, waits for it to switch into pleasure, to become intoxicating to the point you cannot longer remember your own name.

"Please move," you ask sooner than he thinks, and when he moves, you can feel it in your belly, melting your fucking brain as he repeated the process again, burying his cock as deep as he could go without any previous warning — "Ah, just like that, please-"

"Do you like how my cock is stretching you out now?" Ben's voice is way deeper than what usually is as he laughs, grunting behind you as one of his hands reach a fistful of your hair, grabbing it with force to pull your head backwards "Good girl, keep huggin' my cock."

You're drunk on the feeling, on the vibrations his voice sends every time he's saying something dirty for you, when he laughs victim of the pleasure.

"Gonna' keep you as my personal slut," he thinks out loud, pushing you against the wall every time he fucks you, using his other hand to spread one of your ass cheeks to the side so he can hit it harder. "Use you as my fucking pet so I can cum on your pretty face whenever I want."

He's moaning, your body’s sweaty as he pulls your hair without caring, not concentrated on the pain it produces as his hips continue on collide against you.

"Would you like that, little Nightshade?" he asks then in a low voice, his thumb pressing against your asshole as he fucks you harder now that you're used to his size. "Could get used to this pretty cunt. Promise to keep my cock whore nice and full."

It doesn't take long. Soldier Boy's moans are now filling the room as his pace becomes faster, slurred words between his erratic breathing when the hand on your hair comes up to finally grab you by the neck, like he can read your mind cause it's exactly what you need to get there, to experience by first hand a set of crashing waves that were getting more and more intense on your stomach.

You're close to the edge. He can smell it in the air when the sound of your skin slapping against his is loud enough to be all you can hear, mixing with the lovely moans you produce when he’s pounding into you with no mercy, fingers pressing the side of your neck with enough force you’re running out of breathe.

It’s messy, violent and you love it, love how he’s ruining you all sudden, fucking you up from the inside, making your vision turning dizzy in response. You’re immersed in the haze he’s driven you into before admiting:

“God i’m so fucking close.”

“Cum on my cock,” it sounds like he’s begging you to do it, fingers finding their way to your swollen clit to move against the sensitive flesh “Come on doll, leave me full of you.”

He’s making you move now, hands now controlling your hips as you take him as his liking, mere seconds until you’re finally crumbling, violently shaking as you finally reach your peak. He keeps on fucking you through your high, long enough so he’s pulling out all of sudden, stroking his lenght over you as his cum finally lands on your back leaving you convered with his load.

Fucking hell.

When you’re coming down from your orgasm shame seems to hit you hard, however for Ben is not enough when he’s kneeling on the floor, eyes on the mess his cock made out of you.

“Wanna go again, little Nightshade?” he asks curiously, and the question makes you laugh in response, forgetting about formalities and the trouble it meant you were intimate with Soldier Boy out of all the supes in the world.

“Hm,” you seem to think about it for a second, his breathing close to your wet pussy as he’s still wearing his clothes in contrast of you being so exposed — “But you’re keeping the suit on.”

He don’t have any complains when he’s the one pressing his face against your wet folds.

Funny thing is now when you’re forced to join the Boys days after that very encounter — A bad joke when you’re now babysitting Soldier Boy himself.

“Been missing you s’much little Nightshade” he admits after a couple of minutes alone in the filthy motel “Thinking about how cute you are, how you felt taking my cock so nicely in your living room.”

“Fuck off, Ben.”

“We’ll be quick” he promises “That stupid assholes back there wont even notice.”

You seem to think about it for a second before lifting your middle finger in response — “I said fuck off, Ben.”

For now, it’s enough for him that you’re thinking about it.

my masterlist

[daylighted]

─ BITE THE PILLOW, dad's best friend ! jackles

jensen's been breaking a lot of his rules and traditions for a little more time with you -- and he's getting less and less inclined to care.

warnings. ( 18+ ! ) pls for the love of god don't interact with this series if you're a minor. hefty age gap. unprotected p in v. daddy kink. dirty talking. manhandling. he whimpers you're welcome. he actually pulls out this time good for him! aftercare. <3 word count. 4.6k

sneak into his room here!

SATURDAY NIGHTS AT YOUR HOUSE WERE always for one thing and one thing only: football. it was a tradition for as long as you could remember: the living room would fill up with your dad's rowdy friends, slinging ice cold beers back and forth from their spots on the couch, a mountainous pile of pizza boxes piling up on the coffee table.

some things never changed. your parents go apeshit downstairs over a sports game in the living room, you stay very far away from downstairs as long as you can.

not that you didn't show your support in some little ways. you avoided your family and their antics and the chaos of it, but you still wore the blue and white of the dallas cowboys; you weren't crazy.

it was one of those instances where you couldn't just avoid going downstairs, needing to eat something before the night wrapped up. you could only stay locked away in your bedroom with the sound of muffled shouting and drunken cackling through your bedroom door for so long.

"hey, sweetheart," your mom says the second you hit the bottom floor, which completely zilches the attempt you'd been making to get in and get the hell out without being noticed. "comin' to watch halftime with us?"

your face falls, exasperation dropping your jaw and leaving your mouth hung partly open. "it's only halftime?"

"sorry," she apologizes like she personally had a say in how long this game felt like it was stretching, which brings a little bit of a smile back to your lips. "your father started his little indoor tailgating party earlier since jensen's here for the weekend. that's probably why you thought it'd be over by now."

even better. jensen was in the other room, kicking the shit with your dad and uncle tom, probably drunk off of his ass. not that you cared what he did or got up to or anything, it just made the fact that you'd only thrown on one of your dad's old dallas cowboys jerseys on and nothing else a hell of a lot more interesting.

"is there any pizza left?"

your mom leans against the doorway from the kitchen to the living room, hand braced on the wall as she looks. "yeah, the top box at least has a few slices," she says, patting your shoulder warmly. "they've been talking about you."

you try your absolute best to pretend like that isn't a terrifying thought, what with who the three men in mention were. "why?"

"well, jensen asked about your studies, i think, and your dad and uncle couldn't help but start bragging on you." heartwarming as it was, you could only focus on one part of that explanation. jensen asked about your studies. after the conversation you'd had with him last night on the patio, you didn't think you liked the thought or reasoning behind that very much.

instead of pressing, you just smile at her. "oh, that's nice." it was, too, and it sucked that the only thing you could think about was how he'd use the fact that you were acing your classes without a blip on your record against you.

"go say hi to uncle tom," your mom urges, nodding you in the couch's direction, "he missed at your party when you ran off, wanted to congratulate you face to face."

you very much did not want to go say hi to uncle tom, since that meant being in close vicinity to jensen. sometimes, things were out of your control, like the fact that the reason you missed saying hi to uncle tom was because of the other of your dad’s visiting friends.

your little life was beginning to get big complications.

still, your say in the matter was naught, because your mother was nudging you in that direction already by your jersey-clad shoulders.

and there isn't any way that you can do this subtly, either, without more attention than necessary drawn to you, because you make it half a foot from the arm of the cream-colored couch your dad and his friends are spread out on, and uncle tom is on his feet.

"here she is!" he exclaims, like he hasn't seen you in weeks when, really, it'd just been a couple of days, if you counted your party. if you didn't, it'd only been a few months while you were away at school, and your dad provided you with many occurrences where he'd been with tom and he said hi.

uncle tom tosses his arms around your shoulders, tugging you tightly into his chest. he smells like beer and tomato sauce from the slice still held in his hand. he plants a big kiss on your forehead, and you can't even find it within yourself to be angry because of the dopey grin on his face when you pry yourself from his grip.

"didn't come say hi on thursday," he says, dropping back down onto the spot of the couch he took up space in, right next to an arm that you refused to look at who belonged to. you knew. that tattoo was pretty recognizable, unfortunately. "thought i pissed you off or something."

"no, i was just tired." the lies come easier now, which only makes your stomach churn just a little. you shouldn't have had to lie to your family about what you'd been up to, but you certainly weren't telling them that you'd been charmed by a devil to dance with him. "jetlag and all."

there's a reason he was your godfather. he looks relieved at that, like the prospect of you being easy on yourself and resting instead of talking to him two days ago was something he supported. he wouldn't if he'd known what you really were up to that night.

nausea churns in your gut, but you shove it down with force. the best you can do in this situation is avoid the man that'd caused it, which you were doing a wonderful job of doing.

"well," you say on a sigh, snatching the top pizza box with a little smile, very carefully dancing your eyes across the couch and skipping over jensen's in the middle, "i'm gonna go back upstairs, now. have fun with..." you wave your hand aimlessly at the tv screen. "that."

you can hear uncle tom's and your father's voices saying something, but everything is a blur outside of the tunnel vision you have for getting the hell out of there. the stairs are only a couple feet away, and you restrain from straight out running to them.

"hang on," you hear jensen mumble from the middle of the staircase, the clink of a bottle being sat down, "m'gettin' a call, i'll be back."

you literally could not move faster trying to slip into your bedroom and get the door shut before you had to cross paths. sure, he'd be on a call, but you purposely avoided his gaze entirely for a reason. he could keep up this facade with ease, but it was starting to weigh on you.

your door half-latches by the time his voice crests the top of the staircase, and you leave it, hoping he takes it as an invitation to bypass it entirely.

"yeah, i can come by monday," you catch from your spot in the center of your bed, pizza box haphazardly open next to you. you aren't even thinking about eating right now, not when you're so focused on making sure jensen walks past your room and goes to the guest one. "any time good? good."

there's a light tap on the other side of your door, and you're certain that you can feel the blood drain from your body. two more light taps, and the door pushes open slowly. jensen has his phone to his ear, a half-quirked grin on his mouth. "quick thinkin', ain't it?"

you blink your confusion. "what?" your lips mouth, not wanting to interrupt his call.

jensen flashes the blank screen of his phone at you for a second before pressing it to his ear again. "not a real call, pretty girl," he clarifies, the amusement evident in the lilt of his voice. "but you're real cute for bein' respectful about it."

the confusion melts away into exasperation. "you're ridiculous."

"you wouldn't look at me," he says, giving you an exaggerated pout that, just as fast, becomes indifference. "got a little creative."

"why?"

"don't play stupid, pretty girl," jensen steps fully into your room, closing the door behind him. the big fingers that dwarf his phone drop the facade, slipping it into his back pocket. "you're too smart for that."

you cross your legs beneath you, adjusting the end of your jersey over them — an action that jensen very blatantly tracks with his gaze. "you wanted me to."

"good girl," there's a part of you that's thankful he isn't examining your frozen-in-time high school bedroom, and another that wishes he had any indication that he wasn't just using you for a quick fuck while he was in town, because he bypasses everything to get to your bed, moving the pizza box over to the desk perpendicular to it, "and why do i want you to?"

your chin raises in defiance. "because you've been fucking me underneath your best friend's nose, and it's more fun for you to test the limits of that."

jensen's eyes flash with something, enough that his expression flattens, but that carefully constructed mask of indifference is back. "wrong." his weight sinks the edge of the mattress beneath him as he sits. "wrong twice, actually. c'mon, baby, don't make me spell it out for you."

you turn in the bed to face him, fingers folded in your lap. "how is that wrong twice? you are."

"i fucked you once." his smile is bitter and saccharine-sweet at once, a combination that almost makes you want to shrink away. you'd seen a couple sides of him before — the side that flirts with you and death at the same time and the side that pushes you and the limitations you've put on yourself, no matter how cruel it feels — but you've never seen the wolf that crowds you into a corner with his teeth bared. "i've just thought about it more than a few times."

his eyes are dark, the green swallowed by blown pupils that only serve to make him look more predatory. he leans over, his body looming over yours enough that you're forced to lean along with him, spine grazing the pillows behind your back.

"i want you to look at me," he whispers it like it was a secret, and from the look in his eyes, you didn't think he'd repeat them again, "because i wanna see those cheeks flush all pretty pink tryin' to pretend i haven't spread you open before."

you swallow thickly, unable to look away from him. he's got you held captive both in the cage of his arms he's put you in, and the intensity of his eyes. "you just wanna see me squirm. that's not fair."

"no, i want to see you scream my name, but we all can't have what we want." he tips your chin up with his index finger, caressing your jawline with the knuckle. "sometimes life ain't fair. sometimes you gotta take what you can get, when you can get it."

his expression shifts again, less predatory and more gentle, even though the dark of his pupils never pull back from their drowning of the green. "tell me to go away, and i'll go away."

and you should tell him to go away. this was becoming more of a pattern than you wanted it to be, bordering on a desperation that would do nothing in the end besides get one, or both of you, into deep waters you couldn't get out of.

but you think back to last night, how it'd felt to hear that so much of your life was kept in a tight-knit box, never straying loose from what was expected of you.

so you kiss him.

you kiss the taste of beer off of his lips, kiss the scratch of stubble that tickles against your own mouth, kiss him with your hands wound into the strands of his hair, tugging him down on top of you further so you could melt into the pillows behind you.

jensen doesn't hesitate to rise up onto his knees and move to lay over you, held up by one palm sinking into the springs of your mattress, the other pressed lightly against your chest, fingertips tracing lightly over your collarbones. it's just enough pressure to make you shiver, the callouses on his fingers leaving goosebumps peppered across your skin.

they slide down, down, down until they lift underneath your jersey and brush across the soft fabric of your panties. "i knew it," he laughs breathlessly against your mouth, hooking a finger into them and tugging, "naughty girl, prancin' around in front of me in just this."

"you weren't supposed to still be here," you say in answer, though it sounds weak in your mouth. everything sounds weak when he's pressed to you like this, daring you to open your mouth wide enough for him to invade it with his tongue.

jensen's palms flattened on your sides beneath the elastic of your panties, his fingertips pressed into the curve of your ass like he owns it. he probably does at this rate. you're so quick to melt into putty in his hands. "thank fuck i was, then," he rasps against your mouth, and then suddenly, you're on your stomach, your cheek resting into the pillows.

you don't even have time to process it, not before his hands are working so much more carefully than you'd expected from him, tugging down your panties. the cold air of your bedroom sends another wave of shivers down your spine when it breaches the newly exposed skin, wet with desire that never seemed to fade when you were with him.

jensen doesn’t waste any time, erasing any moment for you to feel vulnerable or nervous about your body being exposed — he licks a slow stripe up the slit of your folds, deliberate enough to make your toes curl into the thick muscles of his thighs.

"christ," he swears under his breath, closing his fingers around your thighs to pull you further against him. one of his palms moves to flatten on your spine, pressing it down until your back arches and pushes your ass higher into the air.

there’s the sound of a zipper and the shuffling of jeans behind you, and you writhe beneath him, a low mewl in the base of your throat. his laugh is breathless, breath ghosting over your ear as he bends down. "as pretty as you sound right now," he murmurs, his voice deep and gravely, "m’gonna need you to bite down on that pillow for me, baby girl."

you get two seconds to process the implications of that request before he slips into you, gliding effortlessly between your gushy tight heat. you understand instantly why he asks that of you when you gasp sharply, your mouth hanging open as it presses into the pillowcase.

"shh, what did i say?" jensen grunts into your ear, still sheathing the entire length of his thick cock between your tight walls. "c’mon, princess, what’d i say?"

"bite the pillow," you echo back to him, your voice wavering as he stuffs you full of him.

his fingers stroke through your hair, twirling the strands around his fingers affectionately as his hips start to rock. "good girl. you gonna do that for daddy? keep quiet for him?"

your fingers curl into the sheets, managing a nod despite the shudder that trembles like electricity through your veins. "mhm."

the hand in your hair gathers it into a ponytail and clutches it in his fist, tipping your head back. his lips graze your ear as he whispers, "doesn’t look like it to me. i wouldn’t push me, baby girl. i don’t know if you’ll like me mean."

it felt like a challenge, in its own way. he was still moving slowly inside of you, your fluttery walls stretching around him with each shallow, painstakingly slow movement. he’d chastised you for your blind obedience; did he want you to fight him on this?

you tip your head back to meet his gaze, a fire in your gaze that makes jensen grin wolfishly. you don’t say a word, but you hold the eye contact as you moan, a sound that makes his own green eyes flare.

"oh, you want daddy t’be mean, that it?" he releases your hair to push your upper back down into the mattress again, sliding his palm up to shove your head into the pillows. "always knew you were naughty, baby. someone’s gotta fuck that out of you."

you couldn’t move your face if you tried. each little noise you make in the back of your throat is muffled by the fluff of your pillows. only then does he start to quicken his pace, not as much as you want, but enough to make his heavy balls slap against the sensitive skin of your full cunt.

his one hand stays on your cheek, the other grips your hip, guiding you back against his shaft to take him deeper, hard enough for you to feel the imprint of his fingerprints in your thighs.

"you’re so goddamn tight," he hisses through his teeth, finally beginning to sound ragged and breathless himself, "i love your pretty pussy, baby, y'know that?"

you nod against the pressure of his hand, your fingers flexing at your sides after they'd started to go numb from how they'd clutched at the sheets. you'd been doing really good keeping the sounds to a minimum, but the faster he started to pump himself into you, the less inclined you were to try.

you didn't want to give into his request so easily, but you couldn't help it. your parted lips close around the fabric-covered pillow and you teeth clamp down on it, each moan and mewl from your mouth completely swallowed by the fluff inside of the pillow.

finally, his palm relents from your face, smoothing the back of his hand down the side of your face. "good girl," he murmurs, and he stops touching you and instead, grabs the polyester in his fist to jerk you harder down the aching length of his cock. each thrust is hard enough for you to push forward into the bed, deep enough for the tip of his cock to bruise your cervix.

your legs tangle around his behind you, and he shifts closer to you, making it that much more intense as he buries himself balls deep inside of you. "i'd stay inside you all fuckin' night, if i could," he pants behind you, rugged voice muffled by the soaked sound of him fucking into you, "don't got that kind of time though, do we? never have enough time for me to fuck you stupid."

you weren't so sure on that. every single time you'd been alone with him, you seemed to stop thinking entirely; obviously, considering you always ended up with some part of him inside of you. "m'not gonna last with you behavin' for me like this," he actually whimpers in the rough of his voice, the sound going straight to the ache between your legs, the building pressure of pleasure that you were so close to cresting over.

the pace jensen had set speeds up, and it's clear that he was just as close as you. you were bucking your hips against him, each noise in your throat getting more ragged and desperate. he releases your hip with his one hand, dropping it to clutch your fingers in his.

there are tears in your eyes when you finally reach your breaking point, stinging the corners. you barely manage to keep your mouth around your pillow as you cry out through the clench of your teeth, your legs shaking as he keeps going, keeps going, keeps going.

there was something raw about him like this, fucking into you with reckless abandon, enough so that his groans wavered into little whimpers. you're about to squeeze his hand to get him to stop, to slow, before the tears pooling in your eyes become overstimulated sobs, when he pulls out.

the feeling of the loss is immediate, almost as overwhelming as the feeling of his balls hitting against your clit, over and over. you gasp, lifting your head just in time to see him spilling in your previously discarded panties, the fabric fisted around his cock as white hot streaks seep through it.

jensen's eyes reopen after a couple of moments, a thin sheen of sweat coating his forehead, making the jersey he wore cling a little tighter to his arms and shoulders. he laughs, somewhat sheepish for how you usually see him, waving your panties like a white flag. "tryin' to be responsible." a joke followed by a curve of his lips.

"i'm gonna throw those away," you rasp, just as teasing as he was.

he raises an eyebrow, and you mimic the action right back at him. "i don't think you will," he hums, tossing them aside onto your hardwood floor. jensen crawls over top of you, all but crushing you under his weight as he looses a deep sigh. "jus' gonna stay like this for a minute."

"long call, then," you whisper into his ear, trying to shift underneath his heavier weight to get more comfortable. it was comforting to be so wrapped up in him.

he huffs a laugh, lifting his head to press his forehead against yours. "yeah. long call. i'll tell 'em downstairs i was talkin' to my bank or somethin' important."

his fingers brush across your cheek, tucking the strands back behind your ear. jensen leans in to press a kiss to your forehead, lips lingering for much longer than needed to be. it was this that kept you letting him into your room — the gentleness that only ever came in the aftermath, when you could believe you were more to him than just a convenient fuck.

"wasn't too rough?" he pinches your cheek affectionately, then brushes the pad of his thumb over the bone.

you shake your head, the smile on your lips lazy and sated. "no, but you're real cute for being respectful about it."

this time, his laugh is full and hearty. jensen sits up, reaching across your bedroom space to snatch the pizza box off of your desktop. "probably cold, now, but..." he settles back onto the backs of his legs, setting it between the both of you. "you should eat."

"mmm, not hungry anymore."

jensen shoves the box open, snatching a cold piece of pizza from it and shoving it in your direction. "mmm, don't care." he waves it adamantly until you take it with a dramatic huff. "you got a towel in here? lemme clean you up."

it was a striking difference to the closed-off jensen you'd gotten the first time you hooked up. he was on his feet, tucking himself back into his jeans as he genuinely searched your room for a towel or something.

you take a bite from the pizza slice, nodding toward your closet door. "it's my shower one," you feel the need to explain, though you don't really know why. you're not used to small talk with him. little details and small talk never really came up when you were together.

jensen grabs it and quirks a half-smile over his shoulder at you. "not anymore." his footsteps echo on the hardwood as he makes his way back to your bed. he hooks his fingers around your ankle and drags you closer to the edge of the bed, startling a gasp out of you, and nudges your legs open with his other hand. he wipes the towel gently up and down the inside of your thighs, glancing up at you through the short strands that fall in his eyes. "keep eatin'."

"you're distracting me." and he was. it was domestic, in a way, how gingerly he held your ankle and how careful he was with the towel between your legs.

jensen shrugs. "don't care," he repeats, though he follows it with a warm, teasing smirk, "keep eating or i'll start."

what kind of masochist were you if that sent a renewed thrill down your spine? jensen catches the sparkle in your eyes and shakes his head, tossing the towel in the same direction as your defiled panties. "you are becoming a little fiend."

you give him a toothy smile. "your fault."

"oh, my fault?" he leans in like he's going to kiss that smile, and at the last second, turns his head to steal a bite from your pizza. you gasp in surprise, laughter bubbling out of you before you can stop it. "i think i'm just pullin' the deviant out of you."

"you're pulling something out, alright," you shoot back through the fit of laughter, and he is utterly captivated by it. it makes you all too aware of how close he is, of each sweep of his eyes over your expression.

jensen leans in to kiss your forehead again, another lingering one that eases the slight tremor in your muscles still. "you'll be okay if i head back down?"

you don't want him to, and the grimace on his lips makes you think he doesn't want to, either, but you nod regardless. as he'd said before, the moments you had together were fleeting and weighted. "i'll run you a bath in the bathroom, when i head out. should be warm by the time you finish eatin'," he says, brushing your hair back out of your eyes, "and no one down there will hear the water runnin' for a few extra minutes over your uncle tom's damn shouting."

"he loves football," you say in his defense, ignoring every other bit of information he tells you so that you don't do something stupid like take it anyway else but face value. he probably wouldn't be like this again next time. there probably wouldn't be a next time. he had one day left at your house, and then he'd go back to wherever he lived, out of your life.

jensen's face falls at whatever is reflected in your eyes, and he kisses your cheek this time, the stubble tickling the skin around your lips. "you can come down after, if you want," he offers, pressing his forehead against yours. "i'll behave."

you smile, settled again from the bout of unease. "if i'm not too tired."

"i'll save you a seat."

jensen slips away, then, steps slow and reluctant like he was waiting for you to invite him back in, even though both of you knew he couldn't. he keeps the door gapped again just like you'd had it before his arrival with one last look over his shoulder at you, something unreadable and soft in his eyes.

moments later, you hear the water start to run in the bathroom at the end of the hall, and you smile to yourself.

maybe you lived as prominently in his head as he did in yours. maybe, you'd started to unravel the elusive mystery of his closed-off exterior, one day at a time.

notes | sigh i love them. they r everything 2 me. i am so excited 2 finally get this out of the drafts! ───ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤfeedback & reblogs appreciated <3 !!

tags | @soldiersgirl @seven7lee @deansbeer @titsout4jackles @winchestersbgirl @tinas111 @bejeweledinterludes @lonelylonelybaby @mourningthewicked @ultravi0lence14 @1-imbroglio @hughesinthebox @angels-silhouette @blossomingorchids @chris444evr @cassiecourtemanche @writtenbyhollywood @adrienneleclerc @losers-clvb @bluemerakis @fuckedupfate @legalmente-loca @k-slla @fxckingjo @blueschevy @fitxgrld @viluren @youdontknowe @sizzlingcheesecakepanda @cupidluvzz @lanasgirlfr @h8aaz @coralfacecrown @doublecrazyyymofo @1ghxstt1 @mahi-wayy @narniabusinessbitch @zqarax @angelicjackles @arcannaa @am0rem @sthefferrete @v1v1-3 @spxideyver @suckitands33 @beausling @pieandflannel @briisbananass @cowboysandcigarettes @deanswidow @aurevina

[deansbeer]

lil jensen drabble <3

eighteen plus. minors do NOT interact.

WARNING(S). smut | fem!reader | penetration | dominance | control dynamics | praise kink | pet names ( sweetheart, darlin', babydoll ) | sub!jensen | dom!reader | cowgirl position.

KARI NOTES. i visualized this set around the time while he was filming for BIG SKY — don't know why, but it might have something to do with the cowboy references.

you're perched on top of him, his favorite stetson resting on your head, a little too big but somehow perfect on you. the brim tilts slightly as you move, slow and lazy, rolling your hips over him like you've got all the time in the world. he's a wreck beneath you, hands gripping your hips like they're the only thing tethering him to sanity, but he doesn't dare take control. not when you've got that look in your eyes, not when you're holding the reins.

"sweetheart," he groans, voice thick and needy, "darlin', c'mon—let me—please, babydoll." every word is drenched in desperation, his drawl getting rougher with every syllable, but you just smirk down at him.

"easy, cowboy," you tease, your voice sweet but firm, fingers trailing down his chest. "you're not in charge right now."

and god, the way you say it—low and sultry, like you know exactly what it does to him—makes him whine. actually whine. you roll your hips again, slow and deliberate, watching the way his jaw tightens, the way his green eyes darken as they drink you in. he looks at you like you're a dream, all flushed and hazy and perfect, and you can feel the way his muscles tense beneath you, wanting so badly to thrust up into you.

but he doesn't. because you're in control, and he'd do just about anything to see that wicked little grin light up your face again.

"you look so goddamn beautiful," he murmurs, voice wrecked, the words tumbling out of him like a prayer. "my girl. my perfect girl."

you bite back a moan at the praise, fingers tightening on the hat as you lean over him, your lips brushing his ear. "that's right, baby," you whisper, your breath warm against his skin. "your girl. and you're my good boy, aren't you, jay?"

he nods frantically, his hands trembling as they grip your hips tighter. "always, sweetheart. always yours."

and he is—completely, utterly yours. every broken sound he makes, every breathless plea, every filthy word spilling from his lips is all for you.

[witchywithwhiskey]

Hi molly! For the conversation hearts (thank you so much for doing this 🥺🥰):

Jake Jensen + Kiss Me

off-limits

pairing: bodyguard!jake jensen x female reader

summary: you're spending your valentine's day at home alone with your bodyguard, who you have a major crush on. when you start to wonder if he might like you as well, you use some conversation hearts to find out his true feelings.

warnings: 18+ content (minors dni!!!), smut, dry humping/dry sex, breast play, nipple sucking, biting, cumming while fully clothed, orgasm control/permission, light bdsm, dirty talk, praise kink, pet names (princess, dream girl), aftercare, non-graphic allusions to more sex

word count: 4.4k

a/n: thank you for sending in a prompt, Essie!! i always enjoy writing for Jake—he's just such a fun character to play around with, and he's a perfect fit for the "idiots in love" trope, which is one of my favorites. plus, he's always so sweet, which lends itself perfectly to some sweet and smutty valentine's shenanigans 🤭 thank you for playing my sweethearts game, i hope you enjoy ♡♡

sweethearts game masterlist

Jake Jensen was off-limits. He was so far off-limits. He was your bodyguard, for fuck’s sake. But that didn’t seem to matter to your pitiful heart. You were hopelessly crushing on the big, broad-shouldered mercenary with the goatee and glasses, and the charmingly crooked smile that made butterflies take flight in your belly every time he flashed it in your direction.

And no matter how much time you spent with Jake Jensen, no matter how much you whined and wheedled to get to know him, until he was keeping you updated about his sister’s terrible boss and his niece’s soccer team’s excellent record, your crush just wouldn’t go away. 

You were infatuated with the exact shade of sapphire of Jake’s eyes, and the nervous laugh that fell from his lips when he was flustered. You were downright smitten with the way he’d talk to your stuffed animals when he thought you weren’t looking—and the way he’d give them all funny little voices when he knew you were watching him do a sweep of your room. 

You couldn’t stop yourself from imagining Jake in your bed, his strong arms wrapped around you and his face buried in your neck while you woke up. You’d have bet anything that Jake was the best at cuddling, and you could so easily picture the way you’d wiggle your ass in his lap, enticing him into some slow morning sex…

You shook your head, clearing that wildly inappropriate thought from your mind and tried to focus back on your TV. A romantic comedy was playing on the screen, the lights in your living room dimmed low, and there was a whole spread of festive snacks and candies on the coffee table. None of which had been touched.

Admittedly, you may have gone a little overboard for a Valentine’s Day spent home alone with your bodyguard, watching movies while candles flickered romantically around the room. But, in your defense, Jake hadn’t been meant to work Valentine’s Day. It had been Roque’s turn in the rotation, but the gruff man had come down with something at the last minute. 

You knew Clay had called all the others before he’d called Jake, but Pooch and Cougar were busy, and since he didn’t want to play babysitter himself on Valentine’s Day—no matter how many favors he owed your father—he’d finally called Jake. Jake, of course, had no other plans and had happily agreed to take the shift watching you.

He’d turned up so quickly at your doorstep, relieving Clay to go get ready for his date, that you couldn’t help but wonder if Jake had broken some speeding laws getting to your apartment. He’d been wearing his usual puppy-dog grin and gave you a box of conversation hearts before wishing you a happy Valentine’s Day while Clay rolled his eyes. 

The head of your security team had fixed Jake with a pointed look before leaving the two of you alone. Even though no words had been exchanged, even you could tell Clay had given Jake some type of warning, though you couldn’t imagine what it could’ve been about. Jake was always polite and respectful when he was with you. 

It was you who had all the inappropriate thoughts about your bodyguard.

On the TV, the romcom leads were bickering about something. It was still early on in their love story and they were still convinced they hated each other. However, it was painfully obvious to anyone watching that they both had feelings for the other. 

You’d seen the movie plenty of times, so you risked a glance at Jake, who was lounging comfortably on the other end of your couch. You caught his blue eyes darting away from your face and had the distinct impression he’d been looking at you, though you decided that couldn’t be true. 

Surely you would’ve noticed if your bodyguard had been staring at you. Wouldn’t you?

The question gave you pause. You’d grown so used to being watched, whether it was by the mercenaries your father had hired as your bodyguards or by any of the strangers who stared at you and your entourage with curiosity when you went outside. You supposed you’d long since stifled whatever sense people got when they were being watched.

As you ruminated on the idea, you were staring at Jake, which you didn’t notice until he leaned forward suddenly and grabbed a handful of popcorn from a bowl on the table. He shoved the whole lot into his mouth and cut a glance in your direction, coughing when he realized you were still watching him. He gave a laugh, the one he always let out when he was flustered, and it hit you like a lightning strike.

Jake Jensen liked you. 

Your eyes watched him closely, taking in the slight pink tinge of his cheeks and the way his bright blue eyes kept cutting over you to like he was uncertain. His fingers pushed up his glasses and he coughed into his fist. 

He was nervous. Of that, you were sure. But given who your father was, it wasn’t out of the norm for people to be nervous around you. You had to know if Jake was nervous because of your father, or because he liked you.

Turning back to the spread of food on the coffee table, you spotted the box of conversation hearts and a plan began to form in your mind.

As casually as you could manage, you grabbed the box and ripped it open, your eyes fixed unseeingly on the TV as you tried to pretend to be watching the movie. For a few minutes, you sat in silence, making it seem like you were engrossed in the movie, though you were much more interested in watching Jake out of the corner of your eye. 

He kept looking over at you. Long, lingering looks that didn’t seem to have anything to do with making sure you were safe. You couldn’t believe you’d never noticed it before—you must’ve been too wrapped up in your own thoughts about your bodyguard to see it.

Your heart raced in your chest with the possibility that you were right, that Jake Jensen might like you just as much as you liked him. But you knew you had to be careful. You didn’t want to spook your bodyguard—not if you wanted him to be so much more than that.

“Do you want one?” you asked, forcing your voice to remain casual as you turned to Jake and held up the box of conversation hearts. You shook it for good measure. 

Jake’s eyes darted between your face and the box, like he could sense a trap. But when you refused to give anything away with your expression, he sighed and reached a hand out. 

“Sure, princess, I’ll take one.”

A small smile played around the corners of your lips and you peered into the box, rooting around until you found one that had a message you wanted to convey to Jake. Finally, you found a pink one that said Kiss me, and your heart lurched excitedly in your chest.

You grabbed the candy and dropped it into Jake’s palm, a shiver racing down your spine when your fingertips brushed against his warm, calloused skin. Little tingles of awareness darted through your body and you had to bite back a gasp as you drew your hand back, watching intently as Jake brought his hand to his mouth. 

But he wasn’t even looking at what the heart said! How was your plan supposed to work if he didn’t even read what it said? 

A little distressed sound fell from your lips and you cried, “Jake!” 

The big bodyguard froze instantly, his head whipping around and blue eyes darting sharply toward the door like he was expecting a team of mercenaries to barge into your apartment and threaten your life. When he couldn’t find any danger, Jake turned his gaze on you, his blue eyes bright with panic behind the frames of his glasses.

“You can’t eat a conversation heart without reading it first,” you said, infusing your voice with an innocent playfulness while you rolled your eyes at him, as if it was a hard and fast rule of eating the Valentine’s candy and he was breaking it. 

The side of Jake’s mouth pulled up in a crooked smile—sending butterflies fluttering and swooping in your belly—and he glanced down, taking care to turn over the little heart in his palm to read what it said. You could tell when he had because he went still again, a light pink blush tinging his cheeks.

“Princess,” he grumbled, keeping his head ducked while his finger traced the candy in his hand. 

“Y’know, I heard it’s bad luck to ignore the words on a candy heart given to you by someone you care about,” you said in what you hoped was an innocent tone. You turned your head back toward the TV, but kept your eyes on your bodyguard, wondering what he was going to say or do to that.

“Princess.”

That time, your pet name was a groan from Jake’s lips as he tipped his head back and closed his fist around the candy. Despite the torture in his tone, your body lit up, responding to the gruff way he said the pet name. Your mind instantly wandered to other ways you could make him groan it like that. Maybe with your mouth pressed to his bulge…

Jake was staring at you, his blue eyes blazing with heat and hunger and so much restraint, it cracked something open inside you. It wasn’t like you to allow yourself to be vulnerable around anyone, but there was something about the way Jake was looking at you that made you think you could take a chance with him.

“Please, Jake,” you murmured, your voice quiet and pitiful as you begged him openly. “It’s just a kiss—and I haven’t been kissed in so long.”

Jake groaned again, and your body was lighting up all over again, tingles dancing along your nerves and butterflies soaring in your belly. But your bodyguard distracted you from your body’s reaction by grabbing your hips and dragging you across the couch until you were right next to him. 

Your bare thigh was flush against his, your skin pressed to the rough jeans he was wearing. You almost couldn’t tear your eyes away from the sight of your leg pressed against Jake’s, but he made a sound and you looked up at him.

Jake loomed over you, his blue gaze darkening as they flicked between your eyes and your mouth, like he was considering giving you exactly what you’d asked for. That realization made your breath catch in your throat and you leaned into his side, basking in his warmth and letting the spicy scent of his cologne fill your senses. 

“Just this once,” Jake said sternly, his gaze roving over your face like he was trying to memorize every bit of it and commit it to his mind. “Clay’s going to fucking kill me,” he muttered, but you didn’t have a chance to wonder over what he meant by that.

Because, in the next moment, Jake was ducking down and pressing a soft kiss to your lips. 

Fireworks exploded behind your eyes, a sizzling, sparkling feeling of delight filling your body from the tips of your toes to the crown of your head. It was better than you ever imagined, and you couldn’t get enough, chasing after Jake’s mouth when he tried to pull away, sucking on his lower lip and feeling the tickle of his goatee when he kissed you again, harder.

Your fingers twisted in the soft cotton of Jake’s t-shirt, pulling him closer while you stretched and arched into him. Beneath your fingertips, you could feel his heart racing in his chest, matching the quick rhythm of your own, and you smiled against his lips.

All too soon, Jake was pulling away, his hands cupping your face and easing you back when you tried to kiss him again. 

A disgruntled noise fell from your lips and you followed Jake as he retreated, sitting up and swinging a leg over his thighs. Before you even knew what you were doing, you were sitting in Jake’s lap, both of you blinking at each other like neither of you knew how you’d gotten there.

Jake’s hands idly kneaded your hips through the lounge shorts you’d worn to look cute and casual on your Valentine’s Day in, and your eyelashes fluttered at the feeling of his firm grip on your body. It was enough to have heat pooling between your thighs, wetness gathering and dripping into your panties, but you forced yourself to focus. 

You grabbed the candy heart that read Kiss me from the couch cushion where it had fallen when Jake had kissed you and you pressed it against his full lower lip. Wordlessly, Jake opened for you, and you placed the candy on his tongue, watching greedily as he closed his mouth around it.

The two of you hung in a suspended moment, your eyes fixed on Jake’s perfect mouth and deciding whether you wanted to try to lick the candy from his tongue. Jake’s hands squeezed your hips hard, and you glanced up into his eyes, finding his pupils blown so wide, they nearly blotted out the bright blue of his irises. 

“Princess,” he rumbled, his voice full of warning. Inexplicably, though, his tone only made you squirm in his lap, biting back a gasp when your core grazed against something hot and hard in Jake’s jeans.

“Jakey,” you whined softly, looping your arms around his broad shoulders and pressing your soft tits against his hard chest through your oversized sweater. You pouted up at your bodyguard from under your lashes, giving him what you hoped was both an innocent and enticing look. 

Jake cupped your cheek and he grinned crookedly, ducking down to press a kiss to your lips. 

“You’re gonna get me fired,” he murmured teasingly when he pulled away, but you tugged him back, kissing him more firmly.

“I’d never let Clay fire you,” you said fiercely, drawing back enough to stare into Jake’s eyes. His glasses were a little askew and you fixed them carefully, smiling softly at him. 

Jake huffed a laugh and grabbed the box of conversation hearts from the other side of the couch. You sat back, curious about what he was doing, but also a little excited that he was clearly continuing your idea of communicating through candy. 

He cupped his hands, preventing you from seeing what candy heart he was picking out until he found the one he wanted. Then he grabbed your hand and held it palm up, dropping one of the conversation hearts into your palm, which you eagerly pulled closer so you could read it.

Dream Girl.

“Jake,” you breathed on a delighted sigh. Looking up, you caught him smiling that crooked grin at you, the butterflies in your belly rioting with happiness as you smiled back at him. “Am I really your dream girl?” you asked a little shyly, ducking your head and looking up at him.

“Yeah, you are,” he said softly, snagging the candy from your hand and pressing it to your lips. He watched you take it on your tongue and close your lips around it. 

Jake gave you a moment to suck on the candy and revel in the chalky sweetness of it before he was cupping your face and tugging you in for another kiss. He licked the sugary sweet taste from your lips, making you moan softly into his mouth as you melted into him.

That time, there was no pulling away. There was none of Jake trying to hold himself back and you chasing after him to make sure he didn’t put distance between the two of you. There was only your mouths fused together, your tongues exploring each other, your breaths mingling as you kissed and kissed and kissed while the romantic comedy played in the background.

After a while, the heat that had built up in your body became nearly unbearable, and your hips squirmed on Jake’s lap restlessly, needing something. Your core brushed against the hard ridge of Jake’s bulge in his jeans and you moaned obscenely into his mouth, pressing down hard enough that you could feel him twitch against your heat.

“That’s a good girl, grind on my cock, princess, take what you need,” Jake muttered, pressing hot kisses to your neck while you rocked on him. His glasses got knocked askew and he took them off, putting them aside with one hand while the other guided your hips to grind harder on his lap.

“Jakey, you feel so good,” you moaned, rolling your hips and grinding your wet slit down on his bulge through your clothes. A part of you wanted to tear through all the fabric that was separating your bodies, but you couldn’t seem to stop yourself, the pleasure too good and quickly driving higher and higher. “God, it’s been so long, I’m gonna cum so fast.”

Jake made a rumbling sound, like hearing that pleased him, and his hands grabbed your hips more roughly, his strong fingers kneading your ass and helping you hump harder on his cock. 

“Good girl, wanna feel you cum on my cock, princess,” he rumbled, his sweet praise making your body hotter and your slit wetter as you rode him through your clothes. “Want you to make a mess all over my lap.” 

“Jakey, Jakey, Jakey,” you whined, leaning back and changing the angle of your hips as you ground down on his bulge. Your fingers clung to the back of Jake’s neck and you panted as your body strained, rocketing toward your release, but you knew you wouldn’t get there without something else. “I need…” you huffed unhappily, not knowing what you needed. 

“I got you, princess,” Jake murmured, pushing your sweater up and pressing a hand between your shoulder blades, lifting your tits to his mouth. His lips wrapped around one pebbled nipple and he sucked, flicking his tongue over the hardened peak and making you cry out. “Fuck, you’re so fucking perfect, princess, you’re my fucking dream girl.”

“Oh god, oh Jake, that feels so good,” you babbled, shoving your chest into Jake’s face and pressing your pussy down on his rock hard cock. You began grinding your clit down on his hard length, and you knew you’d reach your release in moments, your lips parting with a gasp as you asked, “Please, can I cum, Jakey?”

Jake froze for just a second, then he was giving your nipple one last affectionate flick of his tongue before moving to the other. He wrapped his lips around it, sucking the hard peak and the softness of your breast into his hot mouth as he stared up at you with his bright blue eyes. 

“You need my permission, princess?” Jake asked teasingly, letting your tit fall from his mouth so he could lean up and cup your face, pressing a heated kiss to your lips. 

“Yes, Jake, please,” you begged in a tight voice, holding yourself back from cumming. 

“You have it,” he rumbled, a ghost of his crooked grin on his lips. “In fact, it’s an order—cum on my cock, princess, let me feel you come apart in my lap.”

Jake’s fingers pinched your nipple at the same time as his hips thrust up from beneath you, his other hand holding you firmly on his lap so his cock was wedged perfectly between your thighs. It was too much and too good and too perfect and the tension in your core snapped. 

You shattered apart with a sharp cry that Jake swallowed with another kiss. His arms wrapped around you and held you tightly as your body shook through the pleasure of your release. Your hips stuttered and your pussy clenched around nothing, and you moaned obscenely into Jake’s mouth until you needed to pull away to gasp for air.

“Oh fuck, you’re so fucking pretty, so fucking gorgeous cumming on my cock,” Jake babbled, pressing kisses to your jaw and neck and cheeks and anywhere he could reach. “I’m gonna—oh shit.”

He groaned loudly, pressing his face into the valley between your tits, his goatee tickling your sensitive skin while his hips rutted up into you from below. Between your thighs, you could feel his cock twitching and a growing wetness pressing into the heated flesh of your legs. 

It took you a long moment for your pleasure-dazed mind to realize what had happened, but when you did, you wrapped your arms around Jake’s neck and raked your nails soothingly through the short hair at the back of his head. 

“Jakey,” you purred, enjoying the way he shuddered through the remnants of his release, his cum sticky through his jeans and cooling rapidly on your inner thighs. “Did I really just make you cum in your pants?” 

“Yes.”

The word was grumbled against your tits a moment before Jake sank his teeth into the soft flesh, making you squeal and writhe on his lap. You may have just gotten off, but you already wanted more. You wanted Jake’s cock buried inside you, filling you completely while he made love to you slow and hard, whispering praises in your ear. 

“You’re too fucking perfect, my fucking dream girl,” Jake muttered, licking his tongue over your skin to soothe the place where he’d just bitten. His tone was a little resentful, and you could tell from the way he was refusing to meet your eye that your big, tough bodyguard was feeling a little insecure about cumming in his pants.

“And you’re my dream guy, Jakey,” you murmured, squeezing him tight and dropping a kiss to his forehead. 

Your words made Jake finally look up, though it was only to give you a dubious look. You laughed lightly and raked your nails through his hair, petting him affectionately.

“My dream guy is someone so obsessed with me that he’d cum in his pants just from watching me cum in his lap,” you explained, grinning down at Jake and lifting him up for a kiss that felt like a promise. “I love that I made you cum, Jakey—especially since it means we have to throw your clothes in the wash now.”

A wicked grin curled your mouth as you pushed yourself up on shaky legs and stood from the couch, dragging Jake up after you. He grabbed his glasses and put them back on, then let you drag him into the laundry room off the kitchen in your apartment. His eyes darkened as you knelt down and undressed him, a groan slipping from his lips as you took your time cleaning him up with your mouth.

When you finally made it back to the couch, the credits were rolling on the movie you’d put on, so you started up another one, barely glancing at the title. You were too distracted by the sight of Jake in one of your t-shirts and a pair of oversized sweatpants that fit him just snugly enough that you could see the outline of his cock through the fabric.

The sound of candy shaking in a cardboard box pulled your attention away from Jake’s lap and you found him searching through the conversation hearts again. You curled into his side and waited patiently while he picked one out, then held up your hand eagerly when he gestured for it.

Be Mine.

Your heart thumped happily in your chest and you popped the candy into your mouth before leaning up and kissing Jake, sharing the chalky sweet taste of the candy with him. 

“I’m all yours, Jakey,” you promised, whispering the words against his lips, unable to stop yourself from grinning wildly. 

“And I’m all yours, princess,” he echoed, pulling away only long enough to pull off his glasses and set them aside. Then he was pushing you down onto your back on the couch and settling between your thighs. “You’re my dream girl.”

“You’re my dream guy,” you said, pulling him down for a kiss. 

It was a long time later when the two of you finally came up for air. Jake’s cell phone was buzzing on the coffee table and he grabbed it, glowering at the screen before typing a response with one hand. He tossed it back down before returning his attention to you. 

“We’re going to have to tell Clay about us, aren’t we?” you asked, giving Jake, then his phone, a wary look. 

Jake huffed a laugh and buried his face in your neck. “Apparently, he already knows,” he muttered.

That gave you pause, and Jake must’ve felt the change in your body because he lifted up, giving you a wry smile. “They all know I’ve had feelings for you since we started this security gig,” he explained. “Clay was saying my lack of timely responses prove Roque’s matchmaking efforts finally worked.”

Your eyes widened as you understood what Jake was saying. Roque hadn’t really been sick, he’d been trying to get you and Jake together on Valentine’s Day. You felt a sudden surge of affection for the gruff man, and even for the leader of the security team, since it seemed he didn’t mind you’d definitely acted inappropriately with your bodyguard.

But that made you wonder, “Will you still be my bodyguard?”

A crooked grin spread across Jake’s face and he ducked down to kiss you. “Of course, princess,” he murmured, squeezing you tight in his arms. “Clay knows I’ll take even better care of you now—I’ll be the best bodyguard you’ve ever had.” He brushed a kiss to your cheek, making you giggle at the tickle of his goatee. “He’s sending Cougar over to watch our backs, though.”

That made you giggle and pull Jake’s face back to yours for another kiss. “Good,” you said in between pressing kisses to Jake’s mouth. “Then I don’t have to worry about distracting you too much.”

You giggled when Jake attacked your mouth, and the two of you sank into each other again. It wasn’t long before you were tugging each other’s clothes off and exploring each other more fully. 

For the rest of the night, you enjoyed your time with Jake, getting to know him on an even deeper, more intimate level—and learning he was just as good at cuddling as you imagined.

It was the first of many Valentine’s Days with Jake Jensen, your bodyguard and boyfriend, and each one was more special than the last because your crush had grown into real feelings, which he returned. He was no longer off-limits. He was yours and you were his.

sweethearts game masterlist

[writing-for-marvel]

My Personal Player 2

Virgin!Gamer!Jake Jensen x Fem!Reader

Summary: You’re ready to take the next step in your relationship, but Jake has a secret to disclose first.

Warnings: strictly 18+, dry humping, Jake revealing he’s a virgin and insecurity around not having experience with physical intimacy

Word count: 1.2k

A/N: had this little thought bubble and ran with it. I just love the idea of an inexperienced JJ 🥺 banners by @vase-of-lilies

Masterlist | Ask me anything! | Library

“Jakey?” You coo, wishing to grab your boyfriend's attention. However, he’s far too engrossed in his gaming to hear you. Typical.

Seeing the way the muscles of his back tense, hearing the little grunts and growls slipping past his lips as he concentrates on conquering the game, is enough to turn you on, desperate for him to take action and ease the throbbing between your legs.

You’ve been doing a lot of hanging out since you started dating JJ. Well, actually, that is all you have done. Every time you are alone, making out, hands slipping below clothes, he always finds a reason to stop. You’d never force him to do anything he didn’t want to do, but after dating for a month without any action, you can’t deny you are straight up horny.

Perhaps he’s just someone who likes it when his girl takes control - that’s what your mind is focused on as you saunter over to the couch.

Frustration tightens your chest when he barely notices your presence, looking intently past you at his game. But from this position, you can watch his nimble fingers skillfully use the controller and it makes you wonder just how good they could make you feel if they were inside you.

“Jakey.” You repeat, firmer this time, taking off his glasses and forcing your way into his lap, straddling him so he can’t help but switch his attention from the game to you. “I need you to fuck me so hard that I can’t walk tomorrow.” You lower your voice and whisper directly in his ear.

It’s actually very endearing, the blush that creeps up his cheeks and the little whimper which escapes his lips. It makes you want to sink to your knees, take him in your mouth and hear him absolutely lose it as you choke on his cock.

“The thing is, I don’t- I mean I haven’t ever, umm…” His face is almost as red as a tomato as he struggles to admit what you’d suspected for the past month. As he mumbles, you direct his face towards yours with an index finger underneath his chin. His vulnerable eyes meet yours before you place a gentle kiss to his lips.

“Jakey, are you a virgin?” He cringes at the word, closing his eyes because he simply cannot look at you when admitting something he is so ashamed of and has tried to conceal for so long.

“Well… I mean technically…”

“Baby, that’s nothing to be embarrassed about.” He finally opens his eyes, surprise mixed with scepticism looking back at you.

“You’re not turned off by the fact I have no experience?” His voice is low, shaky and it breaks your heart in two that he really thought your feelings for him would be any different just because he’s taking his time being physically intimate with someone.

“Of course not, JJ. You know I’m actually quite possessive, it turns me on that I get to be your first, that I get to corrupt you, that you’re all mine.” You growl, in his ear, rolling your hips down onto his, earning you a whimper from his lips.

“I’m worried I won’t be good enough for you.” He whispers barely louder than the music coming from his gaming console. “That I’ll be bad at it and won’t be able to make you feel good.”

And that you’ll leave me because of it, are the words he leaves unsaid, hanging in the minimal space between you.

You place a soft kiss to his lips, feeling his bulge growing beneath you, his hands grip your hips, fingers tightly pressing into you as if to keep you anchored to him, stopping you from leaving as he admits his insecurities.

“Jakey, if you actually care about my pleasure, then you’re already doing better than pretty much every other guy I’ve been with.” He winces ever so slightly at the mention of you having slept with other people, as if he doesn’t want the reminder he’s the one completely out of his depth.

It’s sweet, how flushed he is, and the embarrassed glimmer in his beautiful eyes. Oh, you’re going to have so much fun teaching him all the sinful things you can do to pleasure each other.

“Do you want to touch me?”

He nods without saying a word. Eyes wide, taking in every small movement you make. You’ve never had a man look so captivated by you simply straddling them, fully clothed. You feel powerful, holding all his attention which had not too long ago been solely on his game.

You direct his hands beneath your shirt, slow enough that he can pull away if he so wishes, where he cups the swell of your breasts. His eyes are mesmerised by you as his hands explore your soft skin, whimpering as his thumbs push aside your bra and feel your hard nipples for the first time.

Jake’s breath catches in his throat when you move your hips. You can feel practically every detail of his hard, thick cock hidden by his sweatpants as you rock against him.

“You like that? Does it feel good, baby?”

“Mhmm.” He mewls with a squeeze of your hips, you instinctively quicken the pace of your grinding movements just to get him to make more sounds like that.

Resting your forehead against his allows you to not only hear every little whimper that falls from his lips with every rock of your hips, but also to see how much desire there is in his familiar blue eyes, how aroused he is by you.

You can feel how soaked your underwear is, how with each fluid motion of your hips your clit is stimulated as you drag your core against his hard length. A warm pressure slowly builds from the bottom of your belly, tightening like someone pulling a knot, but you’re trying to hold it together - this is about Jake’s pleasure, not your own.

He looks completely done for, eyes rolling back, his jaw slack, breathing shallow, and it’s the hottest thing you’ve ever seen. Someone so close to busting in their pants so quickly from a little grinding. Fuck, you can’t wait to have him naked and writhing for you.

“You’re so close, aren’t you JJ?” You hum in his ear and he bucks his hips as if to respond in the affirmative. “I want you to cum for me.”

And those simple words are the end of him, like you’ve finally provided him permission and he no longer has to hold back.

He cums with a cry of your name, fingers bruising your waist as he holds on for dear life. A wet patch on his grey sweatpants appears, spreading outwards as his thighs relax underneath you and a blissed out sigh falls from his lips.

“Fuck, that felt amazing.” He pants, out of breath, looking up at you with those innocent blue eyes as if you’re a goddess, the only woman in the world who could make him come undone.

Pride blooms in your chest knowing you’re the only woman who has not only seen Jake Jensen cum, but been the reason for his orgasm. You hope you’re the only person who will ever experience that pleasure.

“It’s gonna feel so much better when you’re inside me.”

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[magnificent-winged-beast]

I believe this was the time when Misha went to Jensen for him to listen the "Sex with Jensen Ackles" song.

What's important here is Jensen's face watching Misha leave.

[unsuperingyournatural]

looks like a win to me

Pedro Pascal x Actress!Reader

fluff

dividers @saradika-graphics

The soundstage hums with quiet busyness—grips moving equipment, lighting techs adjusting panels overhead, and wardrobe rushing a last-minute costume fix across the floor.

You and Pedro, however, are doing exactly nothing.

Or rather—you're doing nothing useful. You're curled into Pedro's side on a pair of canvas director chairs, your legs draped over his lap like it's your natural state of being, while Pedro scrolls aimlessly through his phone.

His free hand strokes absent-mindedly up and down your side, the soft brush of his fingers through the material of your hoodie a lazy, comforting rhythm. It sends little sparks across your skin even though he's barely paying attention—his focus glued to whatever absurdity he's found on Instagram.

You tilt your head slightly, watching him over the tops of his glasses as they slide down his nose, catching every tiny, adorable change in his expression.

The faint scrunch of his eyebrows when he reads something weird. The tiny huff of a laugh when he finds something funny. The way his mouth tugs into these almost involuntary little smiles.

It's ridiculous how badly you want to kiss him for doing nothing at all.

You shift a little closer, lowering your voice so no one else can hear. "I really wanna kiss you right now," you murmur.

Pedro's thumb freezes mid-scroll.

Slowly, he turns his head, a boyish, knowing grin already forming at the edges of his mouth before he even properly looks at you. "Oh yeah?" he says, voice warm, teasing, that easy mischief shining behind his glasses.

You nod, utterly shameless. "Mhm."

"What's stoppin' you?" he murmurs, tilting toward you slightly, the arm around your waist tightening just a little. His grin is pure trouble, but there's a softness under it—like he's already a little undone just by the idea.

You lift your eyebrows and gesture meaningfully to the crew bustling around you. "Maybe the fact that we're not exactly in private?"

Pedro huffs a laugh, warm breath fanning across your cheek as he leans even closer, almost brushing his nose against yours. "They're busy," he says lightly, voice dipped in mischief. "We’re invisible. Ninjas. Plus, you look kiss-starved. I'm trying to help."

You squint at him, feigning deep suspicion. "You're a terrible influence."

"You say that like it's a bad thing," he teases, tipping his forehead briefly against yours. "C'mon. Quick one. Right here. I dare you."

You giggle, shoving gently at his chest with one hand, though you don't actually push him away. He's just so there, warm and teasing and wearing that stupidly soft hoodie you love, glasses slipping down his nose—

"Jesus Christ, look at 'em," Jensen's voice cuts in, dry and gruff, but unmistakably amused.

You both jerk back instinctively, laughing as you turn to find Jensen standing a few feet away, arms crossed, shaking his head like he's witnessing a public indecency.

"This," he announces, addressing a cluster of PAs as if delivering important news, "is what we're up against. No self-control. Negative productivity. Someone get a hose."

Pedro flashes him a dazzling smile, absolutely no shame in sight. You hide your face against Pedro's shoulder, laughing so hard your sides hurt.

"Jealousy's an ugly color on you, Ackles," Pedro calls out, voice light, a wicked little glint in his eye.

"I'm not jealous," Jensen fires back immediately, smirking. "I'm concerned. And mildly nauseated. Pretty sure I need eye drops."

That earns a ripple of laughter from the crew.

You lift your head just enough to catch Pedro's grin—lazy, crooked, impossibly fond—and without thinking, you press a kiss to his cheek, quick and soft.

The entire crew erupts in good-natured groans and wolf whistles.

Pedro only chuckles, adjusting his arm to pull you closer like he has no plans of letting you go anytime soon. You settle back against him, your hand finding his again easily, twining your fingers together.

Let Jensen roll his eyes and the crew make their jokes. You wouldn't trade this for anything.

A little later, Jensen who is still lingering nearby, raises his voice just enough to make sure you both hear him. "Five bucks says you two can't go five minutes without touching each other."

A few crew members immediately start laughing, some even pulling out their phones to set timers like this is the best entertainment they're gonna get all day.

Pedro lifts his head lazily, smirking over at Jensen. "Five minutes? That's insulting," he says, mock-offended. "You wound me, man."

"You wound me," Jensen mutters. "With your excessive cuddle agenda."

You stifle a snort against Pedro's shoulder. "I mean..." you mutter under your breath, enough that a few nearby catch it and crack up.

"All right, fine," Pedro grumbles, holding up both hands like he's surrendering. "Five minutes. No touching. Bring it."

He carefully detangles himself from you—moving your legs off his lap, dropping his arm from your waist, leaning back in the chair like he's totally unbothered.

For about thirty seconds.

You both sit there, pretending everything is normal. Pedro tries to focus on his phone again. You pick at a loose thread on your sleeve. Someone coughs pointedly. A timer beeps once.

You sneak a glance at Pedro—and catch him already staring at you over the rim of his glasses, smirking. The second your eyes meet, he cracks first—leaning sideways to bump his shoulder deliberately against yours.

"Oops," he says, completely deadpan. "Guess I lose."

The crew roars with laughter as Jensen throws his arms up. "I knew it!" he crows, pointing at you both. "Absolutely hopeless. Un-coachable. Can't even run drills."

Pedro just shrugs, tugging you back into his side like it was inevitable. "Yeah, well," he murmurs near your ear, voice softer now, "worth it."

You smile into him, your heart feeling so ridiculously full you're not sure how you're supposed to film anything after this.

Not that you're in any rush to move.

A PA walking by slows just long enough to throw a look at you two, then smirks. "Bet you five bucks he knows her coffee order and her hangover cure."

Pedro doesn't miss a beat. "Cold brew with oat milk, extra ice. And a greasy egg sandwich with hot sauce, plus Gatorade—blue, not red."

Then, with a straight face: "And she once cried during a Shrek rewatch, so don't let her pretend she's tough."

You gasp, scandalized. "That was one time!"

Pedro just smiles smugly. "You sobbed when Donkey sang. There were witnesses."

You burst into laughter, covering your face as the crew around you loses it. Jensen groans like he's just been personally attacked. "Oh my god, make it stop. I'm gonna need therapy after this." He clutches his water bottle dramatically to his chest.

Then he adds, deadpan: "And if anyone brings a boombox and plays ‘Accidentally in Love,’ I’m walking."

The PA, already walking away, calls over her shoulder, "See? Told you. Pay up."

Pedro presses a kiss to your temple like he just won a bet himself. You're still giggling, shaking your head, eyes bright, cheeks warm.

And yeah, maybe you did cry during Shrek. But you also got Pedro to admit he's memorized your coffee order, your hangover routine, and your emotional weak spots.

Which, honestly? Feels like a win.

[iamquiantrelle]

BLOOD OATH (chapter 4) • iamquaintrelle

# pairings: mob!lewis hamilton x black reader (☔️⚡️)

# tags: @queenshikongo3 @peyiswriting @yeea-nah @ggaslyp1 @pickingupmymercedes @donteventry-itdude @snowseasonmademe @szariahwroteit @amirawrah @beauty-gurl @jessnotwiththemess @sailurmewn @lewismcqueen @purplerain-94 @vintagesoul-01 @aykxz98 @thepointlessideas @lostennyc @saintslewis @cocobutterqwueen @purplelewlew @imjustheretomanifest @a-moment-captured @mauvecherie-writes @httpsserene-main

# wc: long af...

# summary: A marriage of convenience between crime families was supposed to be simple. No one mentioned it would be this complicated...or this deadly. series masterlist

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Sunlight flooded the room in bright, unforgiving streams when you finally opened your eyes. You blinked at the bedside clock, the digital numbers momentarily refusing to make sense. 10:47 a.m. Impossible. You never slept past seven, a lifetime of your father's strict schedules and your mother's quiet insistence on proper appearances having trained you out of such indulgence years ago.

The absence beside your bed registered next—no wrinkled bulldog face greeting you with expectant eyes, no impatient snuffling demanding your attention. For seven consecutive mornings, Roscoe had appeared in your room like clockwork, his canine precision more reliable than any alarm. His absence felt strangely significant, another routine disrupted in a house where control and predictability reigned supreme.

Memories from the previous night flooded back as you pushed yourself upright—the shattering glass that had woken you, Lewis's uncharacteristic rage, blood dripping from his split knuckles into ice water turned pink. The kidnapping attempt. Suarez's operative infiltrating the house to reach your suite. The discovery of betrayal from within Lewis's organization, someone trusted enough to provide access codes and patrol schedules.

The Geneva trip, accelerated to tonight rather than next week.

You moved with practiced ease despite the late hour, selecting clothes appropriate for travel yet versatile enough for whatever situations might arise—dark jeans, a cashmere sweater in deep burgundy, boots with hidden compartments where a ceramic blade could be secured if necessary. Practicality disguised as style, preparation masked as fashion choices. In your world, even wardrobe decisions carried strategic implications.

The house felt different as you descended the main staircase—additional security personnel stationed at intervals, faces you didn't recognize mixed with the usual guards. The controlled chaos of crisis response operated beneath a veneer of normalcy, like watching blood spread beneath skin without breaking the surface.

Jensen stood in the entrance hall, directing a team of men unloading equipment from large metal cases—tactical vests, communication devices, and an array of weapons that would have been impressive even by your father's standards. The conversation halted momentarily as you passed, Jensen acknowledging you with a respectful nod before continuing his instructions in lowered tones.

You caught fragments as you moved past—"perimeter reconfigured," "additional scanners," "rotating protocols"—the language of security being reinforced, of vulnerabilities being eliminated. The intrusion had wounded Lewis's pride as much as it had threatened your safety; the response would be proportionate to both concerns.

Lewis's office door stood partially open, light spilling into the hallway. You hesitated briefly before knocking, the events of last night having shifted something fundamental in your relationship that hadn't yet found its proper balance.

"Come in." His voice sounded rougher than usual, fatigue eroding the edges of his usual control.

The sight that greeted you was so unexpected that it momentarily halted your stride. Lewis sat on the edge of his desk—not behind it in his usual position of authority—dressed in gray sweatpants and a simple black t-shirt that revealed the full extent of tattoos normally hidden beneath bespoke tailoring. The casual attire humanized him in ways that were strangely more intimate than if you'd seen him undressed. This was Lewis with his armor removed, the carefully constructed image of power deliberately set aside.

Dark circles shadowed his eyes, his normally immaculate braids slightly mussed, as if he'd been running his hands through them repeatedly. The knuckles you'd bandaged last night were now properly wrapped, though spots of blood had seeped through the white gauze like morse code transmitting messages of violence.

"You didn't sleep," you observed, closing the door behind you.

The ghost of a smile touched his lips, there and gone so quickly it might have been imagined. "Observant as always."

"Difficult not to be when you look like something Roscoe dragged in from the garden."

The unexpected teasing drew a flicker of genuine surprise across his features, followed by something that almost resembled amusement. "I've had more restful nights," he acknowledged, studying you with that intense focus that somehow felt more penetrating without his usual formal attire creating distance.

"How did you sleep?" he asked, the casual question carrying more weight than it would have in normal circumstances.

"Apparently too well," you replied, gesturing toward the ornate clock on his office wall that confirmed the late hour. "Why didn't anyone wake me? We're leaving tonight, and there must be preparations—"

"I gave explicit instructions not to disturb you," Lewis interrupted, his tone matter-of-fact rather than defensive. "Someone tried to kidnap you last night. I figured rest might be prudent before we uproot to Geneva."

"Fair point," you conceded, unable to keep a touch of sarcasm from your voice. "Though typically when someone tries to kidnap me, sleeping in feels rather low on the priority list."

"Typically?" Lewis raised an eyebrow. "These attempts happen with such regularity that you've established protocols?"

"Figure of speech," you clarified, though the Ricci family did, in fact, have specific procedures for various threat levels and kidnapping attempts. Your father had drilled them into all his children from an early age—the macabre equivalent of other families' fire evacuation plans.

Lewis studied you for a moment longer before beckoning you closer with a subtle gesture. You moved toward him without hesitation, curious about this more casual version of your husband and what had prompted the summons.

He reached out when you drew near, his hands settling lightly on your upper arms in a touch that wasn't quite an embrace but far more intimate than any previous contact between you. The unexpected physical connection sent a current of awareness through your body, goosebumps rising beneath the soft fabric of your sweater. This close, you could detect the subtle notes of his cologne—sandalwood and something darker beneath, expensive but not ostentatious, like everything else about Lewis Hamilton.

"Lorenzo Bianchi is dead," he said without preamble, his eyes fixed on yours to gauge your reaction.

The news wasn't surprising—you'd heard him order the execution yesterday in the car—but the confirmation still carried weight. Another piece removed from the chessboard, the game advancing with Lewis's precise strategy.

"Confirmed?" you asked, practical rather than shocked.

Lewis nodded once, appreciation for your directness evident in his expression. "This morning. Clean execution, no witnesses, no traces back to us. Martinelli has received his warning and appears to be reconsidering his alignment with Suarez."

"How did Martinelli take it?" The question was relevant to your safety as much as to business operations—allies frightened into submission often proved more dangerous than open enemies.

"With appropriate recognition of the consequences," Lewis replied, his thumb moving almost unconsciously against your arm in a small circular motion that was oddly comforting despite the subject matter. "His response suggests that he wants neutrality moving forward rather than continued opposition."

"Smart choice," you noted. "Though Suarez is unlikely to be as easily convinced."

"Suarez is a different problem entirely," Lewis agreed, something cold flickering in his eyes. "One that requires more comprehensive measures."

This reminded you of discussions in your father's study, tactical evaluations of threats and necessary responses, except Lewis approached such matters with calculated precision rather than explosive reaction. Different methods, same lethal results.

Without releasing you, Lewis reached across to open a desk drawer with his free hand, extracting a small matte black Glock. The weapon was compact but deadly, a professional's choice rather than a showpiece.

"You know how to use this." Not a question but a statement of fact, his tone reflecting confidence in your capabilities.

You nodded anyway, familiar with firearms since your early teens when your father had insisted all his daughters learn to protect themselves. "Since I was fourteen."

Lewis extended the gun toward you, handle first. "Keep this on you at all times," he instructed, his voice leaving no room for discussion. "It's registered under a clean identity, untraceable. The safety features are minimal—it will fire if you need it to, without complication."

You took the weapon, its weight familiar in your palm. Your father had given you your first gun on your sixteenth birthday—a delicate silver .22 with pearl inlay that looked more decorative than deadly. This was its opposite—purely functional, designed for one purpose without pretense or embellishment.

"The house has been secured, but until we identify the source of the breach, assume nowhere is completely safe," Lewis continued. "Naomi will remain your primary security detail, but this—" he nodded toward the gun, "—provides insurance no bodyguard can offer."

"Thank you," you said simply, appreciating both the practical protection and the respect implied by the gesture. Lewis wasn't attempting to shield you from danger through ignorance, but empowering you to participate in your own defense—another subtle distinction from your father's more paternalistic approach.

Lewis didn't immediately release the gun, his hand still wrapped around yours, creating a connection both literal and symbolic—shared danger, shared responsibility, shared understanding of the world you both inhabited. Your eyes met over this physical bridge, something unspoken passing between you that transcended the practical aspects of the moment.

For the first time, you noticed flecks of amber in his dark irises, visible only at this closeness. The observation felt strangely intimate, like uncovering another secret carefully hidden beneath Lewis's controlled exterior.

The moment stretched, tension building not from awkwardness but from something more complex—recognition, perhaps, of shifting boundaries, of territory being explored beyond strategic alliance into something neither of you had fully anticipated.

A knock at the door broke the spell, Naomi's voice calling through: "Lewis, you need to see this. The surveillance footage from the east entrance shows something interesting."

Lewis didn't immediately respond, his eyes still holding yours, hand still connected through the weapon between you. "One minute," he finally called, not looking away.

Then he did something so unexpected it momentarily stopped your breath. Leaning forward slightly, he pressed his lips to your forehead—a gesture too deliberate to be casual, too restrained to be passionate, yet somehow more meaningful than either extreme would have been.

The contact lasted only seconds before he withdrew, releasing the gun fully into your possession as he straightened. Without another word, he moved past you toward the door, the familiar mask of controlled power sliding back into place despite the incongruity of his casual attire.

You remained motionless for a moment after he'd gone, the ghost of his lips still warm against your skin, the weight of the gun in your hand a tangible reminder of danger and protection inextricably linked. Like everything in your world, intimacy and violence existed side by side, neither fully separate from the other.

Carefully, you secured the weapon in your waistband, adjusting your sweater to conceal its presence. Another layer of protection, another secret carried beneath the surface. In many ways, it felt more natural than the diamond ring on your finger—deadly practicality over decorative symbolism.

The unexpected kiss lingered in your thoughts, not because it represented romantic development, but because it suggested trust developing in a world where trust was the rarest and most valuable currency of all. You slipped the gun from your waistband briefly to check the magazine and chamber with practiced movements—fully loaded, one in the chamber, ready for immediate use. Just like you. No longer merely a Ricci daughter or Hamilton wife, but something evolving into its own dangerous identity.

You slid the gun back into place and moved toward the door, ready to prepare for Geneva and whatever awaited there. The game continued, the stakes escalating, the players adjusting strategies with each new development.

And you, once merely a piece to be moved across the board, were increasingly becoming a player in your own right.

*****************************************************

Back in your suite, you paced the length of the bedroom, phone pressed to your ear as Sophia's indignant voice filled the space. The conversation with your sisters had started with concern about your safety wrapped in complaints about canceled plans and was rapidly evolving into the particular brand of guilt only younger siblings could perfect.

"This is complete bullshit," Sophia declared, her frustration practically vibrating through the phone. "We've been planning this London trip for a week. Maria already bought new clothes, and Gabriella rescheduled three different appointments."

"I know, and I'm sorry," you replied, keeping your tone measured despite your own frustration. "But circumstances have changed. It's not safe right now."

"Since when has 'not safe' ever stopped a Ricci from doing anything?" Sophia challenged, the eye roll practically audible in her tone. "Papa taught us to move through danger, not hide from it."

You pinched the bridge of your nose, weighing how much to reveal versus how much to conceal. The delicate balance of big sister responsibilities—protect them from unnecessary worry while not treating them like children who couldn't handle truth.

"This isn't standard business danger, Soph. Someone breached Lewis's security last night." The partial truth, enough to convey seriousness without sending your sisters into panic. "We're relocating temporarily while the situation is handled."

"Relocate to where?" Maria's more practical voice cut in, suggesting Sophia had put the call on speaker without warning—typical of your youngest sister's disregard for privacy.

"Can't say over the phone," you replied, caution ingrained by years of your father's paranoia about communications. "But I'll let you know when it's safe to visit. It won't be long."

"So we're just supposed to sit here in New York while you're off playing international crime wife?" Sophia's dramatic flair hadn't diminished with distance. "This wasn't the deal when you got shipped off to London."

"I wasn't 'shipped off,'" you corrected automatically, though the description wasn't entirely inaccurate. "And yes, for now, that's exactly what you're supposed to do. Listen to Papa's security team, stay within protected areas, and wait for my call."

Gabriella's calm voice joined the conversation, the voice of reason among your sisters as always. "She's right, Soph. If Lewis's security was breached, that's serious. Better to delay than walk into a situation."

Sophia made a disgusted sound. "Fine. But you owe me for this disappointment."

You recognized the negotiation opening for what it was—Sophia's transition from outright refusal to bargaining phase. "What exactly do I owe you?"

"That Birkin bag I showed you last week. The green one."

"A thirty thousand dollar bag for postponing a trip?" You couldn't help but laugh. "Your extortion skills need work."

"Twenty thousand with the discount Papa's friend could get," Sophia countered. "And I've been wanting it forever."

"Ten thousand maximum, and you follow all security protocols without complaint until this is resolved," you countered, falling into the familiar rhythm of sisterly negotiation.

"Fifteen, and I want it in the special edition leather."

"Twelve, standard leather, and you stop interrogating Papa's guards about my situation. They have actual work to do besides satisfying your curiosity."

A pause, then a reluctant sigh. "Fine. But I want it by my birthday."

"Done," you agreed, knowing the bag was a small price for your sister's cooperation and safety. "Now put Maria back on."

As you shifted into more practical conversation with your middle sister about security arrangements and family matters, movement caught your peripheral vision. The connecting door between your suite and Lewis's—a door that had remained firmly closed since your arrival in London—stood slightly ajar, a sliver of the adjoining room visible through the gap.

Words died in your throat as Lewis came into view, back turned toward the door, clearly in the process of changing clothes. He pulled his t-shirt over his head in a smooth motion, revealing a canvas of muscle and ink that momentarily short-circuited your thoughts. Unlike the decorative softness of mobsters from your father's generation, with their espresso-paunches and gold chain necklaces, Lewis's body was a functional weapon—all lean sinew and defined strength without unnecessary bulk.

Tattoos covered his torso in strategic patterns—a large compass design centered on his chest, its intricate detail suggesting meaning beyond mere decoration. A rose bloomed along his left side, its thorny stem wrapping around his ribs like a warning. A huge cross cascaded down his spine, religion and art intertwined in permanent ink.

"Hello? Are you still there?" Maria's voice suddenly pierced your focus, jarring you back to the phone conversation you'd completely forgotten.

"Sorry, got distracted," you managed, quickly moving to close the connecting door with as little sound as possible. "What were you saying?"

"I was asking when you think we might actually get to visit," Maria repeated, suspicion coloring her tone. "What was so distracting?"

"Just security staff needing confirmation on something," you lied smoothly, turning your back on the now-closed door. "And I'm not sure about visit timing yet. I'll call you from... where I'm going... once we're settled."

The conversation wrapped up with the usual sisterly threats of bodily harm if you didn't call regularly, promises to keep them updated, and Sophia's final reminder about her bag—"Green, special edition, size 30, and I'll send the exact reference number to make sure there's no 'confusion'."

You set the phone down after hanging up, your mind returning unbidden to the glimpse of Lewis through the door. The sight shouldn't have affected you as it did—you'd seen shirtless men before, had even had a few lovers during college, but something about the unexpected vulnerability of Lewis, seeing the man beneath the tailored suits and controlled exterior, stirred something complicated in your chest.

The connecting door's sudden accessibility raised questions as well. Had it been unlocked all along, or was this a recent development? Another boundary shifting in the wake of last night's events, perhaps—security considerations trumping privacy concerns. The thought of Lewis having access to your bedroom at any time should have been unsettling, yet somehow wasn't, which was potentially more disturbing than the access itself.

You returned to packing methodically, selecting clothes appropriate for Geneva's early autumn climate along with a few pieces elegant enough for whatever business functions Lewis might need you to attend. The Glock he'd given you was carefully wrapped in a silk scarf and tucked into a hidden compartment in your luggage—easily accessible but not immediately visible.

A knock on your door interrupted your thoughts. "Yes?" you called, closing your suitcase with a decisive click.

Lewis pushed the door open slightly, his head appearing in the gap. "May I come in?"

"Of course," you replied, straightening as he entered the room fully.

He'd changed into dark slacks and a charcoal sweater that somehow looked both casual and expensive, the sleeves pushed up to reveal the intricate tattoos covering his forearms. The outfit was a middle ground between the formal suits he typically wore and the unexpectedly revealing sweatpants from earlier—comfortable but still controlled, like Lewis himself.

"Almost ready?" he asked, eyes scanning the packed luggage at the foot of your bed.

"Just about. Waiting for my passport from Naomi—she's adding the Swiss visa."

Lewis nodded, moving further into the room with his characteristic measured grace. "The jet's being prepared. We should be wheels up by seven, arrival in Geneva around eleven local time."

"And your meeting is tomorrow?" you asked, recalling fragments of information gathered over the past week.

"Afternoon, with Augustus Mueller. He heads the digital currency department at Banque Privée Genève." Lewis leaned against the bedpost, his posture more relaxed than usual though still carrying that coiled readiness that never fully left him. "I've been trying to secure accounts there for years. They've finally agreed to a formal meeting."

"They've made you wait that long?" you asked, genuine surprise coloring your tone. Most financial institutions fell over themselves to accommodate clients with Lewis's resources, regardless of how those resources were acquired.

A hint of that rare smile touched his lips. "Swiss bankers are the original assholes of the financial world. They make you prove your worth before deigning to take your money." The light profanity and touch of humor felt unexpectedly intimate—another glimpse behind the carefully constructed facade. "Three years of negotiations to get a meeting that should have happened in three weeks."

You couldn't help the small chuckle that escaped you. "Impressive patience on your part."

"Strategic necessity," he corrected, though amusement lingered in his expression. "Their security protocols are worth the wait. Once established, the accounts will provide protection beyond what any other institution can offer."

You nodded, understanding the value of such banking relationships in your world. The right financial infrastructure could provide protection more effective than armed guards—money properly secured was power properly preserved.

"I've made additional arrangements for Geneva," Lewis continued, something shifting in his tone that caught your attention. "Given the circumstances, I thought it appropriate to adjust our itinerary."

"In what way?" you asked, curiosity piqued by his suddenly careful phrasing.

"We need a legitimate reason to remain in Switzerland while certain situations develop," he explained. "A proper honeymoon provides perfect cover while allowing us to remain close to banking operations."

Honeymoon.

The word hung in the air between you, loaded with implications that had nothing to do with security protocols or business strategy.

Lewis watched your reaction with careful attention, reading the momentary unease that you couldn't quite mask. "Not like that," he clarified quickly, then with unexpected hesitation added, "...unless?"

"Unless?" you echoed, eyebrow rising in genuine surprise at the uncharacteristic ambiguity from someone typically so precise in his communication.

The question drew a genuine chuckle from Lewis—not the controlled almost-smile you'd grown accustomed to, but actual amusement that transformed his severe features. The sound was rich and unexpectedly warm, like discovering a rare instrument could produce music when you'd only ever heard it used for formal announcements.

You found yourself smiling in response, oddly pleased to have elicited such a reaction. It was then you noticed his dimples—those small indentations that appeared only with genuine smiles, a detail you'd intellectually registered when first meeting him but hadn't truly seen in action until this moment. When had that feature become so attractive? The shift in your perception was subtle but undeniable, like suddenly noticing a painting's details after passing it daily.

Lewis scratched his beard thoughtfully, head tilting slightly as he studied you. "Never mind on that," he said, though the amusement hadn't fully left his eyes. "But I thought you might appreciate some time to relax."

"I wouldn't mind that," you admitted, surprised by your own sincerity. The idea of breathing space, even within the constraints of your complicated situation, held unexpected appeal.

He nodded, gaze sweeping around your room as if mentally cataloging its contents. "I'll let you finish packing, then."

"Okay."

Another moment of charged silence stretched between you, neither entirely comfortable nor precisely uncomfortable—a space of possibility neither of you seemed quite ready to define. Then Lewis turned, crossing to the door in a few measured strides and pulling it closed behind him with a soft click.

You released a breath you hadn't realized you were holding, the oxygen leaving your lungs in a rush that left you slightly light-headed. The conversation replayed in your mind, focusing on that single word—"unless"—and the implications that hung unspoken behind it.

Had Lewis Hamilton, your strategic husband of calculated precision, just implied interest in consummating your marriage of convenience? Like everything about Lewis, it had been carefully calibrated—an opening created without pressure applied, a possibility presented without expectation attached.

More surprising than his implied interest was your own reaction to it—not revulsion or even reluctance, but a complex mixture of curiosity and something warmer that you weren't entirely prepared to examine. The memory of his shirtless form seen through the doorway resurfaced.

You moved to the window, gazing out at the manicured grounds of the estate while your thoughts reorganized themselves around this new development. Marriage in your world had always been primarily strategic—emotional connection an added bonus. You'd entered this arrangement fully expecting a business partnership, perhaps eventually a friendship of mutual respect.

The possibility of genuine attraction hadn't factored into your calculations, yet here it was, introducing a variable you hadn't prepared for. Not unwelcome, but certainly interesting.

*******************************************************

The private jet hummed around you, its engines a steady drone that matched the circular pattern of your thoughts as you stared out the window at darkness punctuated by occasional city lights below. Across the aisle, Lewis worked steadily on his laptop, the blue glow casting shadows across the angles of his face, emphasizing the controlled focus you'd come to recognize as his default state.

Two hours into the flight to Geneva, and the conversation from your bedroom still circled your mind like a persistent melody—that single word "unless" and all it implied hanging in the air between you even now. Not that Lewis showed any sign of it. Since boarding, he'd been courteous but professional; the momentary crack in his composure sealed as if it had never existed.

You took another sip of the excellent red wine the flight attendant had poured before discreetly retreating to the forward cabin, leaving you and Lewis alone in the main cabin's luxurious privacy. The alcohol warmed your throat but did nothing to quiet your thoughts about what Lewis had been suggesting in your bedroom.

Sex. Fucking. Consummating a marriage that existed on paper but had yet to become physical reality.

It wasn't that the idea itself was disturbing. Lewis was objectively hot—that glimpse of his tattooed torso through the doorway had confirmed what his tailored suits had merely suggested. But the implications of crossing that particular line felt more significant than a simple physical act. Sex changed things, complicated arrangements that functioned perfectly well without such entanglements.

Lewis had been nothing if not respectful of boundaries since your arrival in London. Every interaction had maintained careful distance, every conversation balanced between professional and personal without tipping decisively toward the latter. Even his suggestion had been presented as possibility rather than expectation—a door opened but not insisted upon.

Your mother's words from years ago surfaced in your memory: "Men in our world handle danger in predictable ways—with violence, with alcohol, or with sex. Sometimes all three in sequence." She'd been explaining your father's particularly aggressive bedroom demands after narrowly escaping a federal investigation, her matter-of-fact acceptance of his behavior part of the unspoken contract of their marriage.

Perhaps Lewis was simply experiencing the natural male response to threats and violence—physical desire as a release valve for tension. The kidnapping attempt, the betrayal from within his organization, the complications with Suarez—enough pressure to drive any man toward basic outlets for stress. Sex as a biological need rather than an emotional connection.

You'd been aware of your father's numerous mistresses since adolescence, had seen the knowing glances between your mother and his guards when he'd stay out late on certain nights. Not that he'd been disrespectful enough to bring evidence home, but the pattern had been clear enough to recognize even before you understood its mechanics. Men had urges, had needs—Ricci daughters were taught this reality early, prepared for the inevitability of husbands who would seek physical satisfaction beyond marriage beds while expecting absolute fidelity from their wives.

Maybe Lewis, for all his controlled distinction from men like your father, was ultimately driven by the same basic male programming. The timing certainly aligned with your mother's warnings about danger heightening sexual impulses. The breached security, the blood-spotted bandages on his knuckles—violence already engaged, perhaps sex naturally following in the cycle your mother had described.

You glanced at him across the aisle, studying his profile as he focused on whatever complicated financial maneuvers filled his screen. Nothing in his demeanor suggested a man consumed by sex. If it was indeed on his mind, he concealed it with the same precision he applied to all potentially compromising emotions.

The question that kept circling back wasn't whether Lewis wanted sex—his "unless" had made that possibility clear enough—but whether you did. And if so, what it would mean beyond the obvious physical consequences.

You weren't naive about sex. College had provided opportunities for exploration before your father's reputation inevitably scared away potential partners. You understood the basics, had even enjoyed some wildness on occasion, but you had always maintained emotional distance.

Sex with Lewis would be something else entirely—crossing a threshold that couldn't be uncrossed, creating connection where strategic distance might be safer. Yet the prospect wasn't without appeal. That glimpse of his body, the rare genuine smile with those dimples, the focused intensity that characterized everything he did—

"You're thinking very loudly," Lewis observed without looking up from his screen, his voice startling you from your thoughts.

"Excuse me?" you replied, caught off-guard by the sudden break in silence.

Now he did look up, those dark eyes finding yours with practiced precision. "Your expression. It's quite... concentrated. Like you're solving a complex equation."

You couldn't help the slight smile that tugged at your lips. "Something like that."

"Care to share the problem? I'm reasonably good with difficult calculations." The hint of dry humor was becoming more frequent in his interactions with you.

"Just processing everything," you replied, deliberately vague. "It's been an eventful twenty-four hours."

Lewis closed his laptop, giving you his full attention. "That's an understatement. How are you handling it? The attempt was directed at you specifically."

"I've had kidnapping threats before," you reminded him. "The Ricci name comes with certain occupational hazards."

"There's a difference between abstract threats and someone physically breaching security to reach your bedroom," Lewis pointed out. "Most people would find that deeply disturbing."

"I'm not most people," you echoed his own words from earlier with deliberate parallelism.

That almost-smile appeared briefly. "No, you certainly aren't. But the question still stands."

You considered how to respond honestly without revealing the actual direction of your thoughts. "I'm more concerned about what it represents than the attempt itself. Suarez has connections inside your organization—that's the disturbing part."

Lewis nodded. "We're making progress identifying the source. The operative who died had communications that point toward specific personnel. It's being handled."

The clinical phrasing couldn't quite disguise what "being handled" likely meant—interrogations considerably more thorough than what had left Lewis's knuckles bloody, followed by disposal methods that would leave no evidence for authorities to find.

"How extensive do you think the breach is?" you asked.

"Limited but strategically placed," Lewis replied, his expression hardening slightly. "Someone with access to security protocols but not operational details. Which narrows the field considerably."

"Then there's hope your Geneva banking connections haven't been compromised?"

"The compartmentalization should have protected that information, yes." Lewis leaned back in his seat, an uncharacteristically casual posture that suggested growing comfort in your presence. "Mueller doesn't know about Suarez or Bianchi. To him, we're simply a wealthy couple looking to establish private accounts for legitimate business interests."

"With a honeymoon cover story," you added, deliberately addressing the elephant that had followed you onto the plane.

Something flickered in Lewis's expression—surprise at your directness, perhaps, or appreciation for not dancing around the subject. "Yes. It provides legitimate reason for an extended stay if needed."

"Practical," you acknowledged, holding his gaze. "Though complicated."

"Most effective strategies involve some level of complexity," Lewis replied, his tone carefully neutral despite the weight of unspoken meaning beneath his words. "The question is whether the advantages outweigh potential complications."

"And what's your thoughts on that particular equation?" you asked.

Lewis studied you for a moment, his expression revealing nothing of his thoughts. "I think it depends entirely on mutual agreement about desired outcomes and acceptable risks."

"Very diplomatic," you observed with a hint of genuine amusement.

Something like self-awareness crossed his features. "Occupational hazard. Precision in communication prevents misunderstandings with potentially significant consequences."

"Then let me be precise," you said, setting your wine glass down decisively. "Earlier, in my bedroom, you had an implied question. I'd like clarity on what exactly you were suggesting."

The directness clearly caught him off-guard, that rare unguarded expression briefly crossing his features before control reasserted itself.

"I was saying that our marriage could potentially incorporate additional aspects if mutually desired," Lewis replied after a moment, his phrasing still careful but considerably more direct than before. "Not as requirement or expectation, simply as... an option available should preferences align."

"Sex," you translated bluntly. "You were asking if I might be interested in having sex with you."

Lewis's eyebrow raised slightly at your candor, but he didn't flinch from it. "Yes. Though with more emphasis on choice and timing being entirely on your terms."

"I appreciate the honesty," you said. "And the emphasis on choice."

"Your father made clear from the beginning that certain traditional expectations wouldn't be part of our initial arrangement," Lewis explained, his tone matter-of-fact rather than defensive. "I've respected those parameters and will continue to do so unless you indicate otherwise."

The information was new—your father negotiating sexual boundaries on your behalf without your knowledge, Lewis accepting limitations that men of your father's generation would have considered insulting to their masculinity. Another unexpected dimension to an arrangement that continued revealing new facets with each passing day.

"And yet you made the suggestion," you observed, not accusatory but curious about the shift.

Something almost like vulnerability suddenly crossed Lewis's features. "Circumstances change. Relationships evolve. What begins as purely strategic can develop into something else when people work closely together."

"My mother always said men in our world have predictable responses to danger," you said, deciding honesty deserved equal honesty in return. "Violence, alcohol, or sex—usually in that order."

Understanding registered in Lewis's expression. "You think my suggestion was just a response to a threat."

"The timing fits with her theory," you added. "Less about me specifically and more about male needs after danger triggers certain responses."

Lewis considered this, his expression thoughtful rather than offended. "There's likely some truth to that observation as general pattern. Stress and danger do trigger certain biological responses." He met your eyes directly. "But I'd like to think I'm capable of distinguishing between chemical reactions and genuine interest."

"And which category did your suggestion fall into?" The question was bold, but the conversation had already crossed into territory where traditional caution seemed unnecessarily limiting.

"Both, if I'm being entirely honest," Lewis replied after a moment, the admission clearly costing something in terms of his usual controlled presentation. "The danger certainly heightened awareness of mortality and corresponding impulses. But those impulses were directed specifically toward you for reasons beyond mere proximity or convenience."

It was perhaps the most revealing statement he'd made since your marriage—acknowledgment of genuine attraction rather than strategic consideration alone, of personal desire beyond contractual arrangement.

"I see," you said simply, processing this new information and its implications for your evolving relationship.

"My suggestion wasn't made with an expectation of immediate response," Lewis added, apparently sensing your need for space to consider. "Geneva provides the opportunity, but creates no obligation whatsoever. We have more immediate concerns to address regardless."

The statement offered graceful retreat from territory that had perhaps been explored further than either of you had initially intended.

"Mueller's banking connections being primary among them," you agreed, accepting the shift back to business.

Lewis nodded, reaching for his laptop again though not immediately opening it. "Get some rest if you can. We land in just over an hour, and tomorrow will likely be demanding."

You recognized the gentle conclusion to a conversation that had revealed more than perhaps either of you had planned. "Good advice. I think I will."

As you reclined your seat and closed your eyes, not actually expecting sleep but welcoming the opportunity to process without observation, you found your thoughts considerably clearer than before the conversation. Whatever developed between you and Lewis, at least it would be based on direct communication rather than assumption or manipulation.

*******************************************************

Geneva greeted you with crisp autumn air. Lewis's security team had traveled ahead, establishing protocols before your arrival, so when you emerged from customs, the transition was seamless—black Mercedes waiting, driver holding a discreet sign, no names required.

The city gleamed under moonlight as you were driven from the airport—old money and new power coexisting in architectural harmony, the lake reflecting lights like scattered diamonds across its surface. Everything pristine, everything controlled, everything operating according to precise rules that were never overtly stated but universally understood.

Lewis spent the drive exchanging texts with his advance team, the blue glow of his phone illuminating his profile in brief flashes as you gazed out at the passing scenery. Despite the eleven p.m. arrival, he looked unfazed by travel—the same controlled composure he maintained regardless of circumstances. You wondered, not for the first time, what it would take to truly disrupt that legendary control. The bloodied knuckles had been one glimpse. Perhaps there were others to discover.

The hotel—a discreet five-star establishment that catered to wealth that preferred anonymity—welcomed you with the particular deference reserved for guests who paid in cash and required no credit check. The lobby was a study in understated luxury, nothing so gauche as gold fixtures or other displays, just perfect proportions and materials that whispered rather than shouted their quality.

"Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton," the concierge greeted you, his English impeccable, his eyes professionally warm without being presumptuous. "Welcome to La Réserve. We've been expecting you."

Lewis placed a protective hand at the small of your back as you were escorted to a private elevator—a gesture that could have been performative for watching eyes but felt oddly genuine in its subtle pressure. The flight had shifted something between you, the direct conversation about potential consummation of your arrangement clearing air that had grown increasingly charged with unspoken possibilities.

The penthouse suite occupied the building's entire top floor, its windows offering panoramic views of the lake and mountains beyond. A security sweep had already been completed, Jensen nodding confirmation to Lewis as you entered, before discreetly retreating with the remaining hotel staff. Within moments, you were alone in the expansive space, the door closing with a soft click that emphasized the sudden privacy.

You moved further into the suite, noting the elegant furnishings, the fresh flowers arranged with Swiss precision, the bottle of Dom Pérignon chilling in a silver bucket—all the expected luxuries for guests of your presumed status. What caught your attention, however, was the bedroom visible through open double doors—specifically, the single king-sized bed that dominated the space.

One bed. Not the two you'd anticipated based on your careful maintenance of separate sleeping arrangements in London.

Lewis followed your gaze, a momentary frown crossing his features as he registered the same detail. Without comment, he moved to the house phone, dialing with controlled precision.

"This is Hamilton in the penthouse," he said when someone answered, his tone polite but carrying that edge of authority that expected immediate resolution. "There seems to be a misunderstanding regarding our accommodation requirements."

You couldn't hear the response, but Lewis's expression tightened incrementally as he listened.

"I specifically requested a two-bedroom suite or connecting rooms," he continued. "This arrangement wasn't part of our agreement."

Another pause, longer this time, his fingers tapping a controlled rhythm against the polished desk surface—the only visible indication of his displeasure.

"Until Monday?" he repeated, glancing in your direction with a question in his eyes. "That's four nights."

You moved closer, the telephone exchange now audible as you approached—a professionally apologetic voice explaining that the hotel was fully booked due to an international banking conference, that no other suites were available until early next week, that they deeply regretted the inconvenience but could offer no immediate solution beyond a substantial rate reduction for the trouble.

"It's fine," you said, the decision made with practical ease. After all, it was hardly the most complicated situation you'd navigated in recent weeks. "We can manage."

Lewis studied you for a moment, clearly gauging the sincerity of your acceptance before returning to the call. "Thank you for checking. We'll make the current arrangement work." He paused, listening to further apologies. "Yes, that rate adjustment would be appropriate. Thank you."

He replaced the receiver with the same careful control he applied to all movements, turning to face you fully. "I apologize for the mixup. I was very specific about our requirements when making the arrangements."

"It's not a problem," you assured him, moving toward your luggage to unpack essentials. "We're adults, not teenagers at prom. I think we can handle sharing a bed for a few nights."

"I'll take the couch," Lewis said immediately, nodding toward the living area with its admittedly luxurious sofa. "You take the bedroom."

The offer was entirely expected—the gentlemanly solution to an awkward situation, precisely what etiquette demanded from a man of his position. But something about the automatic distancing struck you as unnecessary after the directness you'd established on the plane. If anything, the separate spaces in London now seemed like artifice maintained out of habit rather than necessity.

"Don't be ridiculous," you replied, moving to the bed and grabbing one of the many pillows from its elaborate arrangement. You placed it lengthwise down the center of the mattress, creating an improvised boundary. "There. Now we have space."

Lewis stared at your solution for several beats, something unreadable passing behind his eyes. "Interesting," he finally said, the single word carrying layers of potential meaning.

"Practical," you corrected, though you couldn't quite suppress the small smile that tugged at your lips. "And considerably more comfortable than that couch."

Something that might have been amusement flickered across his features—there, then gone, controlled as always but not completely extinguished. "Practicality does appear to be a shared value."

You grabbed necessities from your suitcase—silk pajamas, toiletries, the small handgun Lewis had given you earlier that day—and moved toward the bathroom. "I'm going to shower and change. It's been a long day."

Lewis nodded, already turning his attention to his own luggage. "Take your time. I have calls to make regarding tomorrow's meeting anyway."

The bathroom was a marble-clad sanctuary larger than some New York apartments, with a rainfall shower and a soaking tub positioned to capture views of the mountains through privacy glass. You turned the water as hot as you could stand it, letting steam fill the space as you stripped away clothes that carried the staleness of travel and the weight of the day's tensions.

As water sluiced over your skin, you found your thoughts drifting to the man in the next room and the strangeness of your evolving situation. Not just the marriage itself—though that remained surreal enough, but the unexpected developments within it. From strategic arrangement to potential partnership to whatever liminal state you now occupied, with shared beds and direct acknowledgment of possibilities.

The pillow barrier was childish, perhaps, a symbolic division that would do nothing to address the actual complexities between you. But symbols mattered in your world. They established boundaries and expectations, created frameworks within which negotiations could occur. The barrier wasn't about physical separation so much as psychological space—acknowledgment that whatever might eventually develop between you would happen by choice rather than circumstance.

You emerged from the bathroom wrapped in one of the hotel's robes, hair damp and curling around your shoulders, to find Lewis speaking quietly into his phone near the windows.

He ended the call as you approached, tucking the phone away with practiced ease. "Everything alright?" he asked, his eyes making a quick assessment that felt professional rather than invasive.

"Fine," you assured him, gesturing toward the bathroom. "All yours. There's enough hot water for a small army."

Lewis nodded, gathering his own necessities before disappearing into the steamy bathroom. The door closed with a decisive click, leaving you alone in the suite with thoughts that refused to settle into orderly patterns.

You changed quickly into silk pajamas after blow drying and wrapping your hair. The gun went under your pillow, old habits from the Ricci household transferring seamlessly to this new context. In your world, weapons during sleep were as essential as teeth brushing before bed—just another routine of self-preservation.

You'd just settled on your side of the pillowed barrier, checking emails on your phone, when Lewis emerged from the bathroom. Unlike your robe-wrapped transition, he was already dressed for sleep—dark pants that might have been either expensive loungewear or athletic gear, and a simple white t-shirt that did nothing to disguise the muscular definition beneath. More tattoos were visible now—the intricate linework extending down both arms in patterns too complex to decipher from a distance.

He paused briefly, taking in your position on the bed, before moving to his own suitcase to secure something inside, likely a weapon similar to the one beneath your pillow.

"Jensen reports no unusual activity around the hotel," he said, the security update offered as neutral conversational territory. "Additional personnel are stationed on the floor below and in the lobby. Naomi will join us for breakfast to review tomorrow's schedule."

Lewis settled on his side of the barrier, his movements economical as he arranged himself against the headboard, close enough for conversation but carefully observing the boundary you'd established. The king-sized bed was large enough that you weren't truly crowded, yet the awareness of his presence carried a charge that made the space feel more intimate.

"May I ask you something?" you said, curiosity overriding caution.

"Of course." His tone suggested openness, though his posture remained carefully controlled.

"The tattoos," you gestured toward his arms and what was visible of his chest beneath the white shirt. "They're more extensive than I realized. Do they have significance?"

Lewis glanced down at his forearms, as if briefly seeing them through your eyes rather than his own accustomed perspective. "Most have specific meaning, yes. Milestones, reminders, certain principles I choose to keep literally close."

"The compass?" you asked, recalling the design you'd glimpsed through the connecting door.

"Direction," he replied after a brief hesitation, one hand unconsciously moving to his chest where the tattoo lay beneath fabric. "A reminder to maintain course regardless of external pressures or distractions."

"And the rose?" The question pushed further into personal territory, acknowledgment that you'd seen more of him than perhaps he'd intended through that partially open door.

Something shifted in his expression—surprise giving way to understanding. "The connecting door," he said, neither accusatory nor embarrassed. "I didn't realize it had opened."

"Just a glimpse," you clarified, not wanting him to think you'd been deliberately watching. "While talking to my sisters."

Lewis nodded, accepting this without apparent concern. "The rose represents beauty with defense—thorns necessary for survival in hostile environments." His hand moved to his side where you'd seen the flower design wrapping around his ribs. "Beauty alone is vulnerability; defense alone is isolation. The combination creates sustainable strength."

The philosophy revealed more about Lewis Hamilton than perhaps he intended, values encoded permanently in skin, carrying meaning beyond mere decoration. Not the crude symbology of traditional mobsters with their misspelled Latin phrases and religious iconography.

"Do you have any?" he asked, turning the question back to you with genuine curiosity. "Tattoos?"

You shook your head. "My father considers them common—beneath a Ricci's dignity. My sisters and I were forbidden from getting any."

"And now?" Lewis raised an eyebrow. "Your father's prohibitions no longer apply to your choices."

The simple observation carried more weight than its surface suggestion about body art—acknowledgment of your shifting status from daughter under paternal authority to wife with autonomy within new parameters. The transition was still ongoing, boundaries still being established between old identity and new reality.

"I haven't given it much thought," you admitted. "There's been rather a lot happening lately."

That almost-smile appeared briefly. "Fair point."

Silence settled between you—not uncomfortable but charged with awareness of the unusual intimacy of your position. Two people legally married yet practically strangers, sharing a bed divided by pillows rather than walls, navigating territory neither had fully anticipated when signatures formalized your union.

"We should get some rest," Lewis said finally, reaching for the lamp on his bedside table. "Tomorrow's meeting with Mueller will require focus."

"Of course," you agreed, settling further beneath the covers on your side of the barrier.

Lewis turned off his light, the room plunging into near-darkness broken only by city glow through partially drawn curtains. You followed suit, switching off your own lamp and adjusting to new shadows in unfamiliar space.

For several minutes, silence reigned, broken only by the distant sounds of occasional traffic below and the subtle rhythm of two people breathing in careful awareness of each other's presence. Despite exhaustion from travel and the day's tensions, sleep remained elusive—too many unprocessed thoughts circling your mind.

"Lewis?" you said quietly, uncertain if he was still awake.

"Yes?" His response came immediately, suggesting he'd been equally unable to find sleep.

"Thank you for being direct on the plane. About everything."

The darkness concealed his expression, but his voice carried a warmth rarely present in daylight conversations. "Directness seems to work well between us. Better than alternatives."

"It does," you agreed, finding unexpected comfort in this simple shared understanding.

Another silence, this one softer somehow, settled between you. Just as sleep began to pull at the edges of your consciousness, Lewis spoke again, his voice low in the darkness.

"For what it's worth, I respect the barrier. Both what it represents and what it potentially allows."

The statement carried layers of meaning—acknowledgment of boundaries established and possibilities left open, respect for choice without presumption of outcome. It was perhaps the most perfectly calibrated communication yet from a man who specialized in precise calculation.

"I know," you replied simply, the words carrying more certainty than you'd anticipated. Whatever else remained uncertain between you, Lewis's respect for your autonomy had been consistently demonstrated through actions rather than merely words.

Sleep claimed you shortly after, the strange intimacy of shared space somehow less disruptive than expected. Your last conscious thought was recognition that danger and desire continued their parallel trajectories in your new life—both requiring careful navigation, both carrying potential for either destruction or something unexpectedly valuable.

Tomorrow would bring Mueller and banking arrangements and the continued strategic dance of your unconventional marriage. But tonight, for the first time since arriving in London as Lewis's wife, you slept without Roscoe's watchful presence or security personnel patrolling outside your door—just the measured breathing of the dangerous, controlled man beside you, separated by pillows but increasingly connected by something neither of you had fully anticipated when signatures sealed your arrangement.

*************************************************

Consciousness returned in layers, warm and hazy around the edges as morning light pressed against your closed eyelids. Something felt different—the weight of covers, the texture beneath your cheek, the subtle rhythm against your ear that wasn't quite the sound of your own heartbeat.

You opened your eyes to find yourself not on your designated side of the bed, the carefully arranged pillow barrier long abandoned during the night. Instead, you were curled against Lewis's side, head resting on his chest, one arm draped across his torso in unconscious intimacy that sent a jolt of surprise through you.

You jerked upright, disoriented by the unexpected closeness, only to hear Lewis's voice—deeper, slightly rough with sleep, yet still carrying that fundamental control that never quite left him.

"Don't worry about it," he murmured, making no move to shift away despite your sudden movement.

Your eyes found his, one arm casually positioned behind his head as he regarded you with surprising nonchalance given the circumstances. No sign of discomfort or awkwardness, just calm acceptance of waking to find his strategic wife cuddled against him like a lover.

"I'm sorry—" you began, embarrassment heating your cheeks.

"Don't," he interrupted gently. "It's fine. You talk in your sleep sometimes... did you know that?"

Embarrassment deepened, your mind racing through potential revelations you might have unknowingly shared while unconscious. Growing up in a household where information was currency and vulnerability was weakness had made you pathologically private, even in sleep.

Lewis's expression softened, a hint of amusement warming his usually reserved features. "It wasn't anything serious. You didn't reveal anything vital to destroy an empire, if you're worried about that."

You couldn't help but return his half-smile, surprised by the light-hearted reference to your shared world of secrets and power. "Good to know my subconscious isn't committing treason."

A low chuckle rumbled through his chest, the sound still touched with sleep. "Sounded like you had a nightmare... so I pulled you closer to me."

You furrowed your eyebrows in confusion, the statement so at odds with the controlled, calculated man you'd come to know. Lewis, deliberately drawing someone closer during vulnerability rather than maintaining careful distance? The revelation felt more intimate than the physical closeness itself—a glimpse behind carefully constructed walls that few were likely permitted.

"Come 'ere," he said, the words carrying the unmistakable weight of command despite their quiet delivery, brooking no argument or hesitation.

You found yourself complying without conscious decision, moving closer until you were near but not quite touching as you had been moments before.

"More," Lewis prompted, a teasing lilt warming his voice that you'd never heard before—playfulness from the man who approached even casual conversation with strategic precision.

Drawn by something that felt like gravity, you shifted until your head rested in the crook of his arm, the position deliberate rather than accidental this time. His arm wrapped around you with surprising naturalness, hand settling against your upper arm with gentle pressure as his other arm completed the embrace.

You inhaled deeply, his scent filling your senses—that expensive cologne now mingled with the warmth of sleep, creating something more intimate than the carefully curated presentation he maintained in public. The combination was unexpectedly appealing, triggering responses you hadn't anticipated when placing that now-forgotten pillow barrier between you.

Lewis sighed, the sound carrying contentment rather than resignation. "I enjoy cuddling," he revealed, the simple admission somehow more surprising than if he'd confessed to complex criminal operations.

The idea of Lewis Hamilton—the dangerous, controlled crime lord who ordered executions between wine selections—being someone who "enjoyed cuddling" created cognitive dissonance so profound it almost made you laugh. Yet here was evidence in the form of strong arms holding you with gentle but definite intention, his body relaxed against yours in a way that suggested genuine comfort rather than strategic performance.

"Your skin is so soft," he murmured, his voice dropping to a lower timbre that sent an involuntary shiver through you. His hands skimmed delicately over your arms, the touch light but deliberate, somewhere between affection and assessment.

The observation immediately transported you back to your conversation on the plane. His tone carried the same quality now, appreciative without demanding, noting without claiming.

"Thank you," you replied, the response automatic though hardly adequate for the complex moment unfolding between you.

"You're welcome," Lewis said simply, seemingly content with both your response and the continued physical contact that neither of you appeared inclined to end.

Silence settled comfortably around you, allowing space to absorb the strangeness of this new intimacy—strategic partners becoming something less defined yet more connected, the carefully maintained distance of previous days giving way to whatever this tentative embrace represented.

You listened to birds calling outside the windows, watched as early sunlight strengthened across the room. Lewis's heartbeat maintained its steady rhythm beneath your ear, his breathing even and calm as if this level of physical closeness were commonplace between you rather than unprecedented.

"I've been attracted to you since our first meeting," Lewis said finally, his voice quiet but clear in the morning stillness. "Not just for strategic advantage or family connection, though those factors were certainly relevant to the arrangement."

The revelation caught you by surprise, though in retrospect, it shouldn't have. Lewis approached most matters with calculated precision—once a decision was made to address a topic, he did so without unnecessary pretense.

"Your father showed me the notes," he continued, his hand still moving in gentle patterns against your arm. "The ones Suarez sent with his flowers. The presumption, the crude possessiveness disguised as courtship. It was... illuminating."

You stiffened slightly at the mention, unaware that Lewis had seen the messages the Cuban had sent—increasingly threatening "romantic" overtures your father had apparently shared during negotiations without your knowledge.

"I didn't realize," you said, uncertain how to feel about this exchange of information about you without your participation.

"Your father wanted me to understand what I was potentially standing against," Lewis explained, sensing your discomfort. "Though I suspect his intent was more to gauge my reaction than out of concern for your feelings about Suarez's attention."

The assessment aligned with your understanding of your father's methods—using information as both test and manipulation, revealing vulnerabilities to assess responses rather than from genuine concern.

"What was your reaction?" you asked, curious despite yourself about how Lewis had responded to seeing another man's presumptuous advances.

His arms tightened fractionally around you, the only indication that the memory triggered something less controlled than his usual presentation. "Professional outwardly. Your father needed to see reasoned strategic assessment, not emotional response."

"And inwardly?" you pressed, somehow knowing there had been more beneath the surface.

Lewis was quiet for a moment, his thumb tracing small circles against your shoulder as he considered his answer. "Inwardly, I found myself... unexpectedly territorial about someone I hadn't yet met. It wasn't strategic. It was visceral."

The admission carried weight beyond its simple words—Lewis acknowledging emotional response that transcended calculated advantage, revealing layers beneath controlled exterior that few likely witnessed.

"Seeing you bandage my hand that night after the intruder," he continued, his voice taking on a quality you hadn't heard before, "watching you think through strategic countermeasures when most would have been focused solely on the danger... it did something to me."

His hand moved from your arm to your shoulder, then traced a path down your back with deliberate slowness, the touch firm enough to be intentional but gentle enough to allow withdrawal if unwanted. "Your intelligence, your composure under pressure, the way you see through performances to underlying motivations—those qualities are intriguing beyond any physical attraction, though that certainly exists as well."

His hand continued its careful exploration of your back, not straying beyond appropriate boundaries but making its awareness of your body unmistakably clear.

"I'm not going to push," Lewis said, his voice carrying absolute certainty. "That isn't how this works between us. But I find myself... anticipating possibilities. Savoring moments like this in the interim."

His hand stilled against your lower back, pressure firm but not restrictive. "Imagining what it might be like to hear you, to feel you... to watch you come apart before pulling you back together." The statement was delivered with the same measured control as business assessments, yet carried heat beneath its precision. "But patience has always been among my stronger qualities."

As if to emphasize this point, his hand lifted from where it had been creating distracting patterns against your body, the withdrawal of contact almost as potent as its application had been.

You glanced up, needing to see his expression, to read whatever might be visible in features that typically revealed only what he deliberately allowed. You found his eyes already watching you, intense focus softened by something that might have been genuine affection. His lower lip was caught briefly between his teeth—a rare display of even minor loss of control that drew your attention with unexpected force.

"Yes, babygirl?" he asked, the unexpected nickname sending a jolt of something electric through your nervous system.

The term of endearment—possessive yet affectionate, dominant yet caring—highlighted how rapidly territory was shifting between you. From Mrs. Hamilton to given name to this new designation in the span of weeks, each step changing the landscape of your arrangement in ways neither of you had fully anticipated.

Your eyes dropped briefly to his lip, still caught between teeth in uncharacteristic display of actual human impulse, before returning to meet his gaze directly. "You said you liked control," you reminded him, referencing the conversation in your father's garden where he'd first alluded to preferences that transcended business interactions.

"I do," Lewis confirmed, something darkening in his expression that wasn't quite dangerousness but carried similar intensity. "In certain contexts, control is... essential to my satisfaction."

The deliberate phrasing didn't disguise the fundamental meaning—Lewis preferred dominance in sexual encounters, requiring surrender from partners in ways that aligned with his carefully controlled approach to all other aspects of his existence.

"It's not about degradation or inequality," he clarified, reading potential concern in your expression. "It's about trust. About someone choosing to surrender control rather than having it taken. About creating space where submission becomes strength rather than weakness."

The philosophy revealed more than perhaps he intended—values that extended beyond bedroom preferences into fundamental worldview, approach to power that differed from men like your father who equated dominance with negation of others' agency.

"I would never do anything you wouldn't like," Lewis continued, his tone carrying absolute certainty. "That's not the point of control. It's about maximizing pleasure through structure and boundaries, not imposing unwanted experience."

The detailed explanation was both reassuring and intriguing, the implications of what such dynamic might entail in practice rather than theory.

"How would I know if I like it?" you asked, the question emerging from genuine curiosity rather than challenge or evasion.

Instead of answering directly, Lewis's expression shifted into something that could only be described as smugly confident—a smile that contained certainty born of experience rather than mere theory. The expression was so unlike his usual controlled presentation that it caught you off-guard, revealing yet another facet of the increasingly complex man whose ring you wore.

Before he could respond verbally, a sharp electronic tone cut through the moment—his phone signaling priority communication that couldn't be ignored regardless of personal preference. The sound broke the intimate bubble that had formed around you, reality reasserting itself with typical inconvenient timing.

Lewis sighed—a rare display of actual frustration—before reaching for the device on his nightstand. "Hamilton," he answered, professional mask sliding seamlessly back into place despite the lingering effects of your conversation.

You shifted away, using the interruption as opportunity to collect thoughts scattered by the unexpected intimacy. Whatever had been developing between you would need to wait—business calling as it always did in your world, possibilities deferred but not forgotten as you both returned to the roles that had brought you together initially.

Strategic partners first and foremost, regardless of what else might be evolving beneath that fundamental arrangement.

Lewis's expression hardened as he listened to whoever was on the other end of the call, the intimate warmth from moments ago replaced by the calculated focus of a man handling business complications. "Send me the details. I want the complete file before the meeting," he instructed, rising from the bed in a single fluid movement. "And double the surveillance on Mueller's associates. If he's meeting with Castellano's people, I want to know why."

You slipped from the bed as well, giving him privacy for the call while gathering clothes for the day. The transition felt abrupt but familiar—moments of personal connection inevitably interrupted by business demands, the constant rhythm of life in your world. That fundamental reality hadn't changed with marriage, just the specific players and territories involved.

"Bloody hell." Lewis ended the call with terse efficiency, setting the phone down with controlled precision that didn't quite mask the tension radiating from him. He turned to find you watching him, his expression softening fractionally when your eyes met.

"Problem?" you asked, practical rather than disappointed about the interrupted moment.

"Potential complication," he clarified. "Mueller's been meeting with representatives from a rival banking group with connections to certain Italian interests in Milan."

The careful phrasing didn't disguise the actual concern—potential compromise of your banking arrangements through competing criminal organizations. The Swiss financial world operated within careful parameters, maintaining neutrality while still facilitating transactions other institutions wouldn't touch. Loyalty wasn't guaranteed to the highest bidder, but alliances shifted based on calculated advantage.

"Castellano?" you asked, the name triggering recognition. "As in Giovanni Castellano?"

Lewis raised an eyebrow, clearly surprised by your familiarity with what should have been an obscure connection. "You know the family?"

"My father considered an alliance with them three years ago," you explained, memories surfacing of overheard conversations and files you weren't supposed to access. "The negotiation broke down over territorial disputes in Newark."

Lewis's expression shifted from surprise to something closer to genuine appreciation. "That information wasn't in your father's briefing materials about your family connections."

"It wouldn't be," you acknowledged. "The discussion never reached formal negotiation stage. But I remember my father mentioning their Swiss banking arrangements were particularly sophisticated, especially regarding digital assets."

Lewis studied you with renewed intensity, that focused assessment that made you feel simultaneously examined and valued. "The Castellanos have been strengthening their European operations, particularly in fintech. If they're meeting with Mueller before our appointment—"

"They could be positioning to block our access," you finished, mind already analyzing potential countermeasures. "Or at minimum, raising Mueller's expectations regarding compensation for his services."

Lewis nodded, something like genuine partnership passing between you—shared understanding of the complex chess game your world operated within, mutual recognition of threats and opportunities without need for simplified explanation.

"I need to make some calls," he said, reaching for his phone again. "The meeting's been moved up to eleven rather than afternoon—Mueller's office 'apologizes for any inconvenience' but claims scheduling conflicts."

"Convenient timing," you observed dryly. "Almost as if someone wanted to limit our preparation."

"Exactly." Lewis was already scrolling through contacts. "This changes our approach. Instead of separate meetings, I want you with me for the Mueller discussion."

The statement caught you by surprise—not because of inclusion itself, which aligned with your emerging role in his operations, but because of its implications for strategy. "You want to present unified front rather than using me as unexpected asset later?"

Lewis paused, giving you his full attention despite pressing concerns. "I want Mueller to understand exactly what he's dealing with—not just another criminal with money to hide, but a partnership with complementary capabilities. Your understanding of the Castellano connections creates leverage we didn't know we had."

The assessment was both practical and oddly gratifying—recognition of value beyond decorative accessory or symbolic alliance. "What's our angle, then? Good cop, bad cop? Sophisticated couple? Business partners?"

Lewis considered this, his expression thoughtful despite the time pressure. "Executive team, I think. Professional, knowledgeable, with clear division of expertise but unified direction." His eyes held yours with unwavering focus. "No pretense of traditional marriage roles—Mueller needs to see you as equal strategic partner, not wife along for decorative purposes."

The approach differed markedly from how your father would have positioned you in similar circumstances—as silent ornament whose occasional intelligent comment would surprise by contrast with assumed decorative function. Lewis was suggesting something fundamentally different.

"I'll need information on what we know about Mueller's digital banking operations," you said, mind already shifting to practical preparation. "And the specific services we're seeking from his institution."

Lewis nodded, reaching for his laptop. "I'll have Claire send the complete file immediately. We have just over two hours before we need to leave for the meeting."

The next ninety minutes passed in focused preparation—files reviewed, strategies discussed, contingency plans established for various potential complications. The intimate moment from earlier remained unacknowledged but not forgotten, its implications temporarily set aside rather than dismissed as you both channeled energy into the immediate challenge.

You emerged from the bathroom dressed for battle in your own way—charcoal pencil skirt and burgundy silk blouse that managed to be simultaneously professional and striking, heels adding height without sacrificing mobility should circumstances require quick exit. Not dramatically different from your usual business attire, but selected with particular attention to the impression it would create on Swiss bankers with traditional expectations constantly at war with reality of their clientele.

Lewis looked up from his laptop as you entered, his eyes making a quick but thorough assessment. "Perfect," he said simply, the single word carrying more weight than elaborate compliment.

He had transformed as well—the relaxed, cuddling man from earlier morning completely replaced by the dangerous, controlled crime lord his reputation described. His suit was flawlessly tailored black with subtle gray pinstripe, white shirt providing stark contrast to the deep blue tie secured with mathematical precision. The tattoos were once again hidden beneath formal armor, the only hint of their existence the edges visible at his wrists when his cuffs shifted and the markings on his hands.

"Mueller has particular views about appropriate business attire," Lewis explained, making a final adjustment to his tie. "Traditional to the point of anachronism. It's one battle not worth fighting if we want his cooperation."

You nodded, understanding the strategic concession. In your world, adapting to certain expectations created space to challenge others more central to your objectives. Conformity in surface matters often facilitated deviation in more substantial ones.

"The car will be ready in twenty minutes," Lewis continued, closing his laptop with decisive click. "Naomi and Jensen are already downstairs coordinating security for the route."

"What about the gun?" you asked, pointing to the Glock still sitting on the nightstand. "I'm guessing Swiss bankers aren't big fans of armed clients, no matter how nicely we dress."

Lewis's mouth quirked up slightly. "Jensen took care of it. Apparently 'clients of Mueller's particular specialization' get diplomatic courtesy for their security measures."

You couldn't help but smile at the delicate phrasing—"clients of particular specialization" instead of just saying "criminals with enough money." The Swiss had turned discretion into an art form long before modern organized crime even existed.

Lewis moved closer, near enough that you caught his cologne but not so close it felt like he was crowding you. "There's something else you should know before we meet Mueller," he said, his tone more serious now.

"What is it?" you asked, immediately on alert.

"Mueller's got this thing about marriages in our world," Lewis explained. "He sees them as proof of stability and succession planning. His best deals go to clients whose family setup looks like it'll last."

That made immediate sense. "So our honeymoon cover actually serves a real business purpose."

Lewis nodded. "Exactly. Mueller likes dynasty-building—banking relationships that'll continue through generations instead of ending when one person dies or goes to prison."

"So he'll be sizing up our marriage as much as our business," you translated. "Looking for signs we're actually partners and not just a convenient alliance."

"Yes," Lewis confirmed. "Which means we need to... perform a bit differently than your standard business meeting."

The meaning was clear—to convince Mueller, we'd need to show a connection beyond just strategic arrangement, suggesting something with a future. Not fake romance exactly, but definitely showing a united front beyond just business.

"So we need to act like a real couple, not just business partners," you clarified. "What, should I call you 'darling' while we talk about blockchain?"

That drew another brief smile from him. "Nothing that over-the-top. Just... being comfortable around each other. Familiar with each other's movements. The little tells of people who actually share a life, not just a business card."

The irony wasn't lost on you, given how this morning you'd woken up cuddled against him after crossing the pillow barrier in your sleep.

"I think we can handle that," you said, feeling oddly confident about this particular act. The pillow barrier had been abandoned in more ways than one, making space for whatever was developing between you.

Lewis studied you a moment longer, as if checking that you were really okay with this. "Good. But if anything crosses a line you're not comfortable with, just say 'Geneva protocol' and I'll back off immediately."

That consideration—setting up a safety word for something as simple as physical closeness—told you volumes about Lewis's approach to your partnership. Consent mattered to him in ways that stood out among powerful men, creating a foundation of respect regardless of strategic needs.

"I appreciate that," you said sincerely. "But I don't think it'll be necessary."

Lewis nodded, accepting your word without pushing. "We should head downstairs. Naomi will want to brief us on security before we leave."

As you gathered your things, you caught Lewis watching you with an expression that wasn't entirely professional. The look disappeared quickly as his usual control took over, but that brief glimpse confirmed what your morning conversation had established—Lewis was interested in you beyond just strategic advantage, creating possibilities neither of you had expected when you signed those marriage papers.

Those possibilities would have to wait, though. Mueller and his banking empire came first—another move in the complex game that defined your shared existence, another piece on the international chessboard of power and influence.

You followed Lewis toward the door, mentally reviewing key points from the files while thinking about how to show the right level of marital connection that Mueller would expect. The double performance felt strangely fitting—operating on multiple levels at once had always been a survival skill in your world.

At least with Lewis, you weren't carrying the strategic burden alone. For the first time in your experience with powerful men, you had a partner who saw your mind as an asset rather than an inconvenience, who treated you as an equal player instead of just decoration.

Whatever else might develop between you—whatever that heated look and your morning conversation might lead to—that fundamental respect created a foundation unlike anything you'd experienced in your father's world of traditional power structures.

The thought brought an unexpected warmth as you stepped into the elevator beside Lewis, his hand resting briefly at the small of your back in a gesture that could have been just for show but somehow felt more genuine than calculation alone would explain.

****************************************************

Banque Privée Genève occupied a discreet limestone building that managed to project both historical gravitas and understated wealth without resorting to the ostentatious displays that characterized newer financial institutions. No gleaming steel and glass here, no modern architectural statements—just three centuries of accumulated power disguised as conservative respectability.

The car dropped you at a side entrance where private clients could avoid the public lobby, a concierge in impeccable formal attire greeting you by name without consulting any visible record. Such flawless execution spoke to thorough preparation—Mueller's operation had been studying you both well before your arrival.

"Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton," the man said with perfect Swiss precision—not too warm, not too distant. "Herr Mueller is expecting you. If you would follow me, please."

The corridors you traversed could have belonged to an exclusive museum rather than financial institution—antique furnishings that were clearly original rather than reproduction, oil paintings by masters whose works rarely appeared at public auction, display cases housing historical documents that traced the bank's lineage through European wars and financial crises it had weathered with characteristic neutrality.

Lewis walked beside you, close enough that your shoulders occasionally brushed—establishing the comfortable physical proximity your strategy required without overplaying the connection. His hand rested briefly at the small of your back as you entered an elevator requiring key card access, the touch feeling less calculated than previous similar gestures. Whatever was developing between you had begun bleeding through the performance, creating something that felt increasingly genuine despite its strategic foundations.

Mueller's office occupied the building's top floor, a space that managed to be both grand and understated—old money that had no need to announce its presence with flashy displays. The man himself embodied similar contradiction—mid-sixties with silver hair and patrician features, his suit so perfectly tailored it appeared molded to his frame.

"Mr. Hamilton," Mueller greeted, extending his hand with precisely calibrated pressure in the handshake. "A pleasure to finally meet in person after our extensive correspondence."

"The pleasure's mine," Lewis replied smoothly. "Thanks for accommodating our schedule change."

Mueller turned his attention to you, his assessment quick but comprehensive—taking in every detail from your carefully selected attire to the wedding band on your finger. "And Mrs. Hamilton. A delightful addition to our meeting. I was unaware you would be joining us today."

"My wife has a unique perspective on digital currency integration that's particularly relevant," Lewis explained, the word 'wife' somehow sounding natural in his British accent. "Her financial tech background has given our operations an edge I've come to rely on."

Mueller's eyebrows rose slightly, clearly reassessing initial assumptions about your presence. "How fascinating. The younger generation's embrace of technology provides critical advantage in evolving markets. Please, both of you, be seated."

The chairs positioned before Mueller's massive oak desk were deliberately placed, close enough to suggest unity between occupants while maintaining clear sightlines for all participants. You took your seat with practiced grace, crossing your legs at the ankle in the conservative posture your mother had drilled into you for such situations.

"I understand congratulations are in order," Mueller continued, gesturing toward your wedding rings. "A recent union, yes? You're in Geneva for your honeymoon, I'm told."

"Thank you," Lewis replied, his tone warming slightly. "Yes, we're combining business with pleasure while in Switzerland. Geneva has special significance for both our families."

The careful phrasing established both personal connection to the location and hint of generational ties, exactly the type of dynastic implication Mueller reportedly valued in clients. Your briefing materials had emphasized the banker's preference for family operations over individual entrepreneurs, his belief in bloodlines and succession as indicators of reliable long-term partnerships.

"The most successful unions in our world balance both practical alliance and personal compatibility," Mueller observed, his gaze moving between you with evaluative precision. "Particularly across traditional territorial boundaries. Quite progressive, bringing American and British operations together through marriage."

"The old geographical divisions don't really matter in digital markets anymore," you replied, joining the conversation naturally. "Strategic positioning across financial systems matters more than physical location now."

Mueller's attention sharpened at your contribution, his assessment visibly adjusting. "Indeed. A perspective many of my more traditional clients struggle to embrace." He leaned forward slightly. "Your father's operation maintains more conventional territorial focus, if I recall correctly."

The direct reference to your family connection confirmed what you'd suspected, Mueller had thoroughly researched both your backgrounds, understanding exactly what alliance your marriage represented. No point in pretense with someone so well-informed.

"My father's good at what he does within established boundaries," you acknowledged diplomatically. "Lewis and I see opportunities in pushing beyond them."

Lewis's hand moved to rest lightly on your forearm—a subtle gesture of approval that felt warmer than mere performance would justify. "Her insights on regulatory adaptations have already given us an edge in our European expansion. Especially with integrating blockchain and traditional banking systems."

The discussion shifted into technical territory—Mueller probing your combined knowledge of financial systems, testing both expertise and unity of vision through increasingly pointed questions. You and Lewis responded with natural coordination, each covering areas of strength while supporting the other's perspectives.

The banker's skepticism gradually transformed into genuine interest as the conversation progressed, particularly when you outlined how digital currency conversion could address traditional banking vulnerabilities.

"Your approach is more sophisticated than I anticipated," Mueller acknowledged, making notes in an actual leather-bound ledger rather than electronic device—old-school methods for old-school power. "Most clients in your... particular industry... focus exclusively on concealment rather than legitimate integration opportunities."

"Hiding money only works for so long in today's world," Lewis responded. "We're more interested in building systems that work across different regulatory environments, not just hiding assets."

"A longer-term perspective," Mueller noted with approval. "Generational thinking rather than quarterly objectives."

"Exactly," you confirmed, seeing the perfect opening to appeal to Mueller's known preferences. "We're building foundations that will last well beyond our lives."

Mueller's eyes moved meaningfully between you, the implication clear without being stated directly—foundations that included potential heirs, succession planning, dynasty-building that appealed to his traditional values despite your modern methodologies.

"I believe we can establish arrangements that would serve your particular requirements," he said finally, closing his ledger with deliberate precision. "Though certain additional verifications will be necessary before accounts can be fully activated."

"Of course," Lewis agreed easily. "We expected thorough due diligence. My team has prepared all the documentation you'll need."

Mueller nodded, apparently satisfied with both your professional presentation and the subtle but consistent indicators of genuine partnership. "Excellent. My assistant will coordinate the next steps with your team. I anticipate we can have preliminary accounts established within forty-eight hours, with full functionality following verification protocols."

The timeline was significantly accelerated from typical banking procedures—clear indicator that your combined approach had successfully convinced Mueller of your value as clients. Lewis's hand found yours briefly, a gentle squeeze communicating shared victory without need for words.

"We appreciate your efficiency," Lewis said, rising as Mueller did to indicate the meeting's conclusion. "And your flexibility regarding our accelerated timeline."

"Honeymooners should focus on pleasure rather than extended business negotiations," Mueller replied with surprising hint of warmth. "Geneva offers much to appreciate beyond banking facilities."

You stood as well, smoothing your skirt with practiced grace. "We're looking forward to exploring the city more once the business matters are settled."

Mueller extended his hand to you, the gesture conferring equal professional respect rather than merely ceremonial acknowledgment. "A pleasure, Mrs. Hamilton. Your contributions to today's discussion were most illuminating."

"Thank you," you replied, accepting the handshake with precisely the right balance of firmness and feminine grace your mother had taught you for dealing with the traditional European businessmen. "We look forward to a productive relationship with your institution."

The practiced phrases carried weight beyond their surface courtesy—establishing expectations for ongoing connection rather than merely transactional interaction. Mueller's approving nod suggested the message had been received exactly as intended.

Lewis's hand returned to the small of your back as you prepared to leave. Something was shifting between you with each such contact—boundaries slowly dissolving.

"One moment," Mueller said as you reached the door, his tone suddenly more cautious. "I should mention that an associate of yours is currently in the building. Giovanni Castellano arrived for his appointment earlier than scheduled. I believe you may know each other?"

The name hit you like an unexpected punch despite your earlier discussion of potential Castellano connections. Giovanni's presence immediately following your meeting couldn't be coincidence—the timing was too perfect to be anything but a deliberate power play.

Lewis's expression remained controlled despite the obvious provocation, only the slightest tightening around his eyes betraying his recognition of the competitive challenge. "We know each other," he acknowledged neutrally. "Though it's been a while since we've crossed paths directly."

Mueller's careful neutrality couldn't quite disguise his awareness of the underlying tension. Swiss banking thrived on maintaining relationships with competing interests, providing services to rivals without becoming entangled in their conflicts. "I mention it only as professional courtesy," he explained. "To avoid any... awkward encounters in the lobby."

"Appreciated," Lewis replied smoothly. "Though I don't have any problem greeting a colleague if needed."

The diplomatic phrasing barely disguised the underlying reality—neither man could afford to appear intimidated by potential confrontation, not with Mueller observing their respective responses. Backing down or avoiding contact would signal weakness neither could strategically afford.

"Your wife is welcome to make her own assessment," Mueller said, turning to you with a carefully neutral expression. "Given certain historical connections, I understand."

The reference to your father's previous negotiations with the Castellanos further confirmed your earlier suspicion—Mueller knew exactly who you were and what complex alliances your marriage represented. His seemingly casual mention of Giovanni's presence was actually calculated test of both your individual reactions and your unity as a couple.

"Family connections often go beyond business complications," you replied with the diplomatic smile your mother had perfected through decades of navigating your father's complex allegiances. "I'd be happy to say hello to Signore Castellano if we run into each other."

The response struck a perfect balance—acknowledging the relationship without overstating its significance, maintaining professional courtesy without suggesting actual alliance.

As if on cue, a knock at the office door preceded the entrance of Mueller's assistant. "Herr Mueller, Signore Castellano has arrived for his appointment," he announced.

"Thank you, Klaus," Mueller replied. "Please show him in. Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton were just leaving."

The timing couldn't have been more perfectly orchestrated if planned in advance—which, you suspected, it very well might have been. Mueller's seemingly coincidental scheduling created an opportunity to observe direct interaction between competing interests.

The door opened fully to reveal Giovanni Castellano in all his traditional Italian glory—Brioni suit in charcoal gray, Ferragamo shoes polished to mirror shine, gold Rolex peeking from beneath French cuffs secured with diamond links. At sixty-five, he remained handsome in that distinctly Mediterranean way that aged like fine wine—silver threading through still-thick black hair, lines around his eyes speaking of laughter rather than hardship, the overall impression one of vitality rather than diminishment.

His eyes widened slightly at the sight of you—genuine surprise not quite masked by practiced social grace. Then a smile spread across his features, transforming serious business demeanor into something warmer and distinctly more Italian in its expressiveness.

"Madonna mia," Giovanni exclaimed, spreading his arms in theatrical gesture of delighted surprise. "Piccolo fiore! Is it really you?"

The childhood nickname—bestowed during a summer gathering at your father's Hampton estate when you were barely ten—carried uncomfortable weight given your current position as another man's wife. Lewis remained perfectly still beside you, his physical presence somehow intensifying without any visible movement.

"Uncle Gio," you replied, using the familial designation despite lack of actual blood relation—the traditional form of respect in your world for older family associates. "What a surprise to see you in Geneva."

Giovanni moved further into the room, his attention focused entirely on you as if Lewis and Mueller had temporarily ceased to exist. "Look how you've grown, piccolo fiore. A woman now, and such a beautiful one." His eyes moved deliberately to your wedding ring, expression shifting toward something less warm. "Though I must say, I was disappointed to learn of your marriage. Especially to..." his gaze finally acknowledged Lewis's presence, "...someone outside our traditional circles."

The implied criticism—Lewis lacking proper Italian heritage—carried deliberate provocation beneath its surface courtesy. Giovanni had always been among the most traditional family leaders, placing enormous value on bloodlines and ethnic connections despite his organization's international operations.

"Lewis and I just click," you replied simply, stepping closer to your husband in a subtle but visible show of unity. "Some traditions are worth moving beyond."

Giovanni's expression registered both surprise and something closer to grudging respect at your direct response—clearly having expected the silent deference traditional wives displayed in your world. Lewis's hand settled at your waist in quiet show of support, the touch feeling protective without being possessive.

"Stefano was quite upset to hear the news," Giovanni continued, referencing his eldest son with deliberate emphasis. "He always had special fondness for you, piccolo fiore. Such a shame timing didn't align differently."

The implication was clear—your father's failed negotiations with the Castellanos might have resulted in very different marriage arrangement had circumstances developed differently. Stefano Castellano's "special fondness" had always left sour taste in your mouth—his attention during family gatherings carrying entitled presumption that had made your skin crawl even as a teenager.

"Please give Stefano my regards," you replied carefully, avoiding the implied romantic connection. "It's been a few years since we saw each other at my father's Christmas party."

"Too many years between our families," Giovanni agreed, his attention finally shifting more directly to Lewis. "Business complications create unnecessary divisions where alliances would be more productive. Wouldn't you agree, Mr. Hamilton?"

Lewis's expression remained controlled, his response measured. "Partnerships work when they're built on shared values. The right foundation matters for anything that's going to last."

The professional phrasing couldn't quite disguise the underlying message—some divisions existed for substantive reasons beyond mere territorial competition. Giovanni's smile tightened slightly, recognition flashing beneath practiced cordiality.

"Of course, of course," the Italian agreed with theatrical wave of his hand. "Values, traditions, foundations of family operations. Speaking of which," his attention returned to you, "we've been watching your family's recent developments with great interest. Particularly the expansion into new territories through... unconventional alignments."

The indirect threat was thinly veiled—surveillance of your family's operations wrapped in seemingly casual observation. Lewis remained outwardly relaxed beside you, though you could sense the heightened alertness.

"How nice of you to keep such close tabs on us," you replied, deliberately emphasizing the word 'close' to acknowledge awareness of the surveillance without showing concern. "Of course, Uncle Gio. Our families have always kept an eye on each other's activities."

Giovanni's eyes narrowed slightly at the subtle countermove—your acknowledgment transforming his implied threat into mutual observation rather than one-sided vulnerability.

"Indeed," he agreed after brief pause. "Family connections transcend temporary business complications. Speaking of family," his tone shifted toward seemingly casual inquiry, "how is your lovely sister Gabriella? She must be, what, twenty now?"

The question carried weight beyond surface curiosity—Giovanni's well-known preference for strengthening alliances through marriage making his interest in your unmarried sister's status unmistakably strategic rather than merely conversational.

"Nineteen," you corrected. "And doing great. She's actually mentioned wanting to spend some time in Milan. I think she's been texting with Marco fairly regularly."

The reference to Giovanni's younger son—dropped casually as if it wasn't calculated—landed exactly as intended. Giovanni's expression shifted toward genuine interest, business maneuvering temporarily superseded by parental curiosity.

"Marco? My Marco has been speaking with Gabriella?" The surprise seemed genuine rather than performative. "He didn't mention this development."

"Young people and their private communications," you replied with a conspiratorial smile.

The implication was masterfully structured—suggesting potential romantic interest between Giovanni's son and your sister without making claims that could be directly verified. The "connection" was technically true—Gabriella and Marco had exchanged a few text messages following a charity event both had attended—but substantially exaggerated in its significance.

Giovanni processed this information with visible calculation, his strategic mind already incorporating potential new alliance pathway into existing plans. Despite past differences with your father, the Castellano patriarch had always been among those who placed highest value on uniting powerful families through marriage especially those with strong Italian bloodlines on at least one side.

"How interesting," he said finally, his tone warming considerably. "Young people finding their own paths while still honoring traditional connections. Perhaps we should arrange a family gathering when you return from your... honeymoon." The slight pause before the last word carried clear acknowledgment that your current marriage represented obstacle to a potential Castellano alliance with your sister.

"That would be lovely," you replied with practiced social grace that committed to nothing concrete. "Once our current business matters are settled and we've returned to London, of course."

Lewis chose this moment to re-enter the conversation, his tone balancing professional courtesy with subtle assertion of position. "We shouldn't keep Signore Castellano from his appointment with Herr Mueller any longer. Banking matters wait for no one, as we've just discovered ourselves."

The gentle redirection was masterfully executed—acknowledging Giovanni's status while establishing clear conclusion to the unexpected encounter. Mueller, who had been observing the entire exchange with careful neutrality characteristic of Swiss bankers witnessing potential conflicts between valued clients, nodded in agreement.

"Indeed, schedules remain tight today," the banker confirmed. "Though this unexpected reunion has been most... illuminating."

The final word carried knowing weight, Mueller clearly cataloging the complex dynamics he'd just witnessed for future reference regarding all parties involved. In the Swiss banking world, such intelligence often proved as valuable as financial assets themselves.

"Of course, of course," Giovanni agreed, though his attention remained primarily on you rather than the men. "We mustn't delay important financial matters. But piccolo fiore," he stepped closer, taking your hand with old-world formality, "it truly warms my heart to see you again. You've grown into a magnificent woman, just as your mother once predicted."

The reference to your mother—subtle reminder of Giovanni's longstanding connections to your family that predated current business complications—created another layer of complexity.

"Thank you, Uncle Gio," you replied, accepting the hand clasp with appropriate respect for his age and status despite your marriage to someone he clearly viewed as competitor. "Please give my regards to Aunt Nina and the family."

"I shall, I shall," he promised, finally releasing your hand with reluctant formality. "And we will be watching your progress with great interest. Both of you," he added, finally acknowledging Lewis directly again. "The banking world presents unique challenges for newcomers to its particular traditions."

The subtle warning—Castellano connections potentially influencing your banking arrangements—hung in the air between you as Giovanni stepped back to allow your departure. Lewis's hand returned to its now-familiar position at the small of your back, the touch carrying more definite pressure than in previous similar gestures.

"Until next time, Signore Castellano," Lewis said with perfect professional courtesy that didn't quite mask the underlying steel. "I'm sure our paths will cross again soon enough."

"In our world, they always do," Giovanni agreed, the seemingly casual observation carrying weight of both promise and potential threat. "Safe travels, Signore e Signora Hamilton. Geneva can be treacherous for unwary visitors."

You maintained perfect composure as Lewis guided you from the office, the practiced social mask never slipping despite the multiple layers of threatening subtext beneath seemingly cordial exchange. Only once the elevator doors closed, leaving you momentarily alone in the confined space, did you allow yourself to exhale fully.

"Well," you said quietly, aware of potential surveillance even in private banking elevators, "that was unexpected."

"Was it?" Lewis asked, his voice equally low though his expression remained neutral for any watching cameras. "Mueller strikes me as someone who creates opportunities to observe client interactions rather than leaving such intelligence to chance."

"True," you acknowledged. "Though Giovanni's presence itself might have been a coincidence. The Castellanos have maintained Swiss banking relationships for generations."

Lewis's hand found yours, fingers interlacing with deliberate intent that felt more protective than performative now that you were beyond Mueller's direct observation. "There are remarkably few coincidences in our world, particularly involving banking arrangements and family rivalries."

The elevator reached the ground floor, doors opening to reveal the discreet private lobby where Mueller's special clients could exit without being seen. Lewis's security team waited with their usual vigilance, Jensen stepping forward immediately.

"Car's ready, sir," he reported crisply. "Route's secure, no unusual activity."

Lewis nodded, his hand still holding yours as you moved toward the exit. The touch felt different now—a connection born from navigating those tricky waters together rather than just putting on a show for watching eyes.

"Meeting with Mueller went well," Lewis told Jensen as you approached the waiting vehicle. "But we've got a complication with Castellano showing interest. Keep surveillance up until we're clear of the banking district."

Jensen took this with professional calm, already activating his comms to alert the others. "Understood. Adjusting now."

As the car door closed behind you, creating a bubble of privacy, Lewis finally let his controlled expression relax slightly. "You were amazing in there," he said quietly, genuine admiration in his voice. "Mueller was impressed by your technical knowledge, but how you handled Giovanni was something else."

The compliment felt different from the usual male appreciation focused on looks or charm—he actually recognized your strategic skills, and that hit differently.

"The 'Uncle Gio' thing definitely caught him off guard," you acknowledged, remembering the surprise on Giovanni's face. "He's used to throwing around family connections to intimidate people, not having it turned back on him."

"It divided his attention perfectly," Lewis added, clearly appreciating your tactical thinking. "He couldn't focus solely on competing with us anymore."

This felt like real partnership, not just an arranged alliance—recognizing how your different skills created something better than either of you could manage alone.

"Mueller will approve the accounts," Lewis said, shifting to practical matters. "Our unified front was exactly what he wanted to see."

"Funny how our honeymoon cover story actually served a real purpose," you noted with a touch of irony.

Something changed in Lewis's expression, shifting from purely professional assessment to something more personal. "Sometimes strategies work out better than we plan," he said quietly. "Creating value we didn't expect."

As the car moved through Geneva's elegant streets, Lewis's hand found yours again. The contact wasn't necessary for show anymore, but he maintained it anyway. Something was shifting between you with each moment like this—boundaries fading not through violation but through mutual recognition of a connection developing beyond what was in the contract.

The famous lake gleamed outside your window, mountains rising majestically in the distance, beauty that had witnessed centuries of alliances made and broken, while Swiss neutrality provided a safe harbor regardless of who won or lost. Your own situation seemed both significant and tiny against this backdrop—personal changes playing out where generations had navigated similar waters before you.

"I believe that calls for celebration," Lewis said once you'd returned to the hotel suite, loosening his tie with uncharacteristic casualness. "Mueller's approval typically takes weeks, not hours. And I still can’t get over the way you handled Giovanni. Brilliant."

The suite felt different somehow upon your return—the morning's unexpected intimacy having shifted your perception of the space. Lewis moved to the bar, selecting a bottle of champagne with the efficient precision you'd come to expect from him.

"Mueller definitely didn't expect us to tag-team him like that," you acknowledged, slipping off your heels with a sigh of relief. "Though I bet Giovanni showing up was Mueller's idea all along."

"No doubt," Lewis agreed, opening the champagne with a controlled pop. "Swiss bankers love to watch how their clients handle pressure. Two birds, one stone kind of thing."

He poured two flutes and handed one to you, his eyes warmer than usual. "To kicking ass in banking negotiations."

"And surprising the hell out of Italians," you added with a smile, clinking your glass against his.

The champagne was excellent—crisp and not too sweet. You moved toward the window, enjoying the view of Geneva while allowing yourself a rare moment to actually feel satisfied about something.

"That Castellano move was smart," Lewis said, joining you at the window. "Bringing up Gabriella and Marco was a nice touch too."

"Giovanni's always thought of himself as everyone's Italian patriarch," you explained, remembering summers where he'd dispensed unwanted advice to all the younger generation. "He can't resist the chance to play matchmaker, even when he's supposed to be threatening us."

Lewis watched you with that intense focus that still sent an unexpected warmth through you. "You know, most people would've gotten defensive when he brought up your marriage. But you turned it around on him completely."

The compliment felt different from the usual male appreciation focused on appearance. He actually respected your mind, and that hit differently than you expected.

"My mother would say I just applied her lessons on handling difficult men," you replied with a half-smile.

"She taught you well," Lewis said, that rare smile briefly appearing. "But I think you've got natural talent."

You settled onto the window seat cushion, relaxing in a way that would have been impossible in public. Lewis remained standing, still carrying that readiness that never fully left him.

"Do you ever actually relax?" you asked. "Even now, you look ready to take down a threat at any second."

Lewis considered this, his expression thoughtful. "Hard habit to break," he admitted. "Survival mode becomes your default setting after a while."

"Even with champagne and a win this big?" you pressed, sensing a rare opportunity to see behind his carefully maintained facade.

Something shifted in his expression—a decision to let you see a bit more than usual. "Especially after a win," he said quietly. "That's when you're most vulnerable. When you think you're safe... that's usually when everything goes sideways."

The insight felt personal rather than theoretical. You found yourself genuinely curious about the experiences that had shaped him, what had created both his controlled precision and those glimpses of warmth you'd been seeing more frequently.

"Sounds like you learned that the hard way," you observed.

Lewis moved to join you on the window seat, reducing the physical distance between you. "Yeah," he acknowledged, setting his champagne aside. "Experience is a hell of a teacher. Especially when the lessons involve blood rather than just bruised pride."

His simple statement carried the weight of history you'd only glimpsed in fragments. The scars on his knuckles and forearms told stories his carefully measured words typically concealed.

"I got too comfortable after some early successes," he continued, surprising you by elaborating without further prompting. "Let my guard down. Started celebrating before I should have. And it cost me... more than I was prepared to lose."

The clinical way he said it couldn't quite hide the emotion underneath—personal pain transformed into hard principles through self-discipline. For the first time, you wondered about Lewis's life before he became the powerful, controlled man you knew—what relationships he might have had, what connections might have been severed.

"I'm sorry," you said simply.

Lewis looked momentarily surprised by your response, as if he'd expected something more strategic. "It was a long time ago," he replied, though his expression suggested the impact hadn't faded with time. "Made me better at what I do now, anyway."

Even personal loss became strategic advantage with Lewis—pain recalibrated into useful principles. Yet this glimpse of vulnerability felt like trust extended rather than weakness revealed.

"To lessons learned," you said quietly, raising your glass.

Lewis's expression softened as he picked up his champagne to meet your toast. "And doing better with them going forward."

The conversation drifted to more practical matters—next steps with Mueller, security plans, how to handle the Castellanos. Yet that underlying current remained, your connection subtly transformed by this shared moment into something more substantial than professional alignment alone.

When Lewis's phone eventually interrupted with a call that couldn't be ignored, you felt an unexpected disappointment. The realization itself was surprising—that you'd started to value these quieter moments with him.

"I should take this," Lewis said, genuine regret in his tone as he checked the caller ID. "Claire wouldn't call unless it was important."

"Of course," you said, professional understanding replacing personal disappointment with practiced ease. "Business never waits. Mueller taught us that much today."

Lewis stood with his usual grace, but paused before moving away to take the call. In a gesture that felt both calculated and spontaneous, he leaned down and pressed a light kiss against your forehead—brief contact that felt warmer now that no one was watching to make it necessary.

"Thanks," he said simply. "For everything today."

Then he was moving toward the office space, already shifting into business mode as he answered Claire's call, transforming from briefly relaxed to fully operational despite the champagne and momentary lowering of guards between you.

You remained at the window, watching Geneva spread out before you while your thoughts circled this latest evolution in your relationship with Lewis. Not quite a traditional marriage, not merely a business arrangement, but something developing its own unique shape, a connection building itself rather than following any predetermined pattern.

The celebration had been brief but genuine, the victory truly shared. Whatever developed next would build on the foundation being established through moments like this—trust extended through both professional respect and personal confidence, understanding built through actually seeing each other rather than just the roles you played.

Your wedding ring caught the afternoon light as you finished your champagne, the diamond's sparkle a reminder of a binding that had begun as strategic necessity but was evolving into something neither of you had anticipated. Not quite love in the traditional sense, but a connection increasingly substantial beyond mere convenience.

Lewis's voice carried from the office, handling whatever complication Claire had identified with his usual efficiency. The sound reminded you of the reality underlying your shared existence—danger and strategy never truly gone.

.............tbd

[lila-lou]

✨Turning Heads - 4/5✨

Summary: You were just supposed to act. But from the moment Jensen Ackles knocks on your door, the lines start to blur. The chemistry is real, the scenes are intense—and he's... well, he’s married.

-requested-

Pairing: Jensen x Reader

Warnings: 18+ only! Smut, Language

Word Count: 4602

A/N: English isn’t my first language, please be lenient. DISCLAIMER: Everything is purely fiction. I do not intend to attack or hurt anyone. The story is, of course, entirely made up and meant for entertainment purposes. I love them all.

You stared at the ceiling, your body stretched across the bed, your mind still refusing to shut the hell up.

You had tried everything—reading, scrolling through your phone, even taking a long, hot shower to wash off the weight of the day. But none of it worked.

Because Jensen was still in your head.

You let out a sigh, rubbing your hands over your face.

Just then, your phone buzzed. You frowned, reaching for it off the nightstand. It was past midnight.

A single name lit up the screen. Jensen. Your breath caught slightly.

For a second, you just stared at it, your thumb hovering over the screen. You hesitated—then finally, slowly, you unlocked your phone.

Jensen: You up?

Your stomach flipped. Fucking shit. You stared at the message, your heart pounding. This was a bad idea. You knew it was a bad idea. But still, your fingers hovered over the keyboard. You exhaled sharply and, before you could overthink it, you typed back.

You: Yeah.

The response was instant.

Jensen: Can I call you?

Shit. This wasn’t just a late-night check-in. This wasn’t casual. This was something else. Your stomach twisted as your phone vibrated again—this time, an incoming call.

“…Hey”, you murmured, voice softer than you intended.

Jensen let out a slow breath on the other end. “Hey”.

Silence stretched between you for a long moment. Then, finally, he spoke again—his voice lower, rougher.

“I shouldn’t be calling”.

You swallowed. “Then why are you?”.

Another pause. Another slow inhale.

Then, quietly— "Because I can’t fucking stop thinking about you".

Your stomach dropped. You felt every nerve in your body go electric, your breath hitching slightly.

“Jensen—”.

“I know”m he cut in, voice tight. “I know”.

“I know”, he muttered again, his voice lower now, like he hated himself for even saying it out loud. “I know, alright? I just—fuck, I needed to hear your voice”.

Your chest tightened. He sounded… wrecked. Not just guilty, not just conflicted, but tortured.

You pressed your lips together, heart hammering. “Are you alone?”.

“Yeah”.

Something in you eased. You didn’t know why, but it did.

The silence between you was thick, heavy with everything neither of you was saying. You could hear Jensen’s breathing on the other end, slow and measured, like he was trying to keep himself under control.

"Can we… talk when I get back?".

Your breath hitched. It wasn’t an impulsive I need to see you, or a reckless I can’t stay away. No, this was something else. Something more deliberate. More dangerous.

You swallowed. “Jensen—”.

“I just mean—”. He cut himself off, inhaling sharply, then exhaled. “We work together. We have to work together. If we don’t figure this shit out now, it’s just gonna get worse”.

Your pulse pounded. “And what exactly is this shit?”.

Silence.

Jensen sighed, running a hand down his face. You could hear the frustration in the way he exhaled, in the way his voice came out strained. “Y/N…”.

You pressed your lips together, gripping your sheets tighter.

You could lie. You could pretend this was nothing, pretend you weren’t affected, pretend that what happened in that shower—on that table—wasn’t still running through your mind on a fucking loop.

Or… You could be honest.

You let out a slow breath. “Fine. We’ll talk”.

“Okay”.

That one word held so much weight.

Neither of you said anything after that, just listening to the other breathe, feeling the tension hang between you, unspoken but very much there. Finally, Jensen let out a breath. “Get some sleep, short stack”.

Your lips twitched despite everything. “You too”.

A pause.

Then, in a voice just a little too low, just a little too warm— “Night, sweetheart”.

Three days later, Jensen was back. You had known the moment he stepped on set, even before you saw him. The air just shifted.

But when you finally did see him—hair slightly tousled, dressed in full Soldier Boy gear, coffee in hand, joking easily with the crew—something felt… off.

He wasn’t cold. Wasn’t avoiding you. But he also wasn’t the same Jensen you had left on the phone three nights ago. He was distant. Not enough for anyone else to notice, but enough for you to.

And yet—he was watching you. All. The. Time.

You caught him more than once—his gaze flickering to you between takes, his jaw clenching slightly when you laughed with Antony, his fingers twitching at his sides during every single kiss.

Because today? Today was long. Nine full hours of shooting. No sex scenes, but plenty of kissing. And fuck, you felt it. Every time.

The first scene had been easy—just a quick, playful kiss, your character teasing Soldier Boy, pulling away with a smirk. But even then, Jensen’s grip on your hip had felt a little tighter than necessary, his lips pressing just a fraction too hard before he pulled away.

The second scene? Not so easy. Because it was longer. Messier.

Soldier Boy was supposed to slam you up against the wall—his favorite move, apparently—his hands gripping your waist, his mouth crashing into yours, the kind of kiss that left you breathless.

And fuck, Jensen felt different. His hands weren’t just acting. His lips weren’t just kissing—they were taking.

And the second Kripke yelled Cut!, he was already pulling back, already stepping away, already putting space between you. Like he was mad at himself.

By hour seven, the tension was suffocating. You were exhausted—mentally, physically, emotionally.

And Jensen? Jensen looked like he was about two seconds from either storming off set or dragging you into his trailer just to get this fucking thing over with.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he stayed in this weird middle ground—distant, careful, but still fucking watching you. And when Kripke finally called That’s a wrap for today!, you knew, it was time to talk.

Jensen went straight to his trailer. Not looking back. Not saying a word. Like he was waiting for you to follow.

You swallowed hard, hesitating for a second before sighing, rubbing your hands down your jeans, and finally moving.

You told yourself this was just a conversation. That nothing was going to happen. That this was just about getting on the same page.

But the second you knocked on his trailer door, you knew you were fucking lying to yourself. Because the door swung open fast—like he had been waiting—and there he was. Still in his Soldier Boy gear, hands gripping the frame, his whole body tense. And those green eyes? They were dark. Too dark.

Neither of you spoke. The air was too thick, too fucking charged. Then, Jensen exhaled sharply and stepped aside, jerking his head. “Get in”.

Your stomach flipped, but you stepped inside. The door shut behind you.

You swallowed, standing near the small couch while Jensen paced once, rubbing a hand over his jaw. He still hadn’t changed, still hadn’t even relaxed, like this conversation was the last thing he wanted but the only thing he needed.

“I’m trying real fucking hard to be smart about this”. His voice was low. Strained.

Your heart pounded. “Jensen—”.

He turned fast, eyes locking onto yours. “You can feel this”. It wasn’t a question.

Your breath hitched. You didn’t lie. “Yeah”.

His jaw clenched. “And you like it”.

You exhaled slowly. “Don´t you?”.

Jensen let out a bitter, humorless chuckle, shaking his head. “That’s the fucking problem, sweetheart”.

You swore you saw his hands twitch. Like he wanted to grab you. Like he couldn’t. Like he shouldn’t.

But before you could say anything—before either of you could figure out where the hell this was going— Jensen moved.

Not toward you. Not away. Just standing there, breathing hard, shaking his head. “This is a fucking disaster”.

You swallowed hard, the weight of everything pressing down on your chest. This wasn’t just some fleeting attraction—this was something dangerous. Something that could ruin him. Something that could ruin you.

And yet, even knowing that, even feeling the tension thrumming between you like a live wire, you still whispered— "I’m not expecting anything, Jensen".

His head lifted slightly.

You pressed your lips together, voice softer now. “And I sure won’t tell anybody”.

His jaw ticked.

You knew what he was thinking. Knew that somewhere in his mind, he was already worrying about the fallout—about what would happen if someone found out about the way he had looked at you, touched you, wanted you.

About what would happen if you told someone about him texting you in the middle of the night. About him getting hard in the middle of a fucking scene.

You weren’t stupid. Jensen had a lot to lose. And so did you.

His green eyes flickered, scanning your face, searching for something. Maybe reassurance. Maybe control. Maybe just a reason to stop this before it went any further.

But he didn’t find it. Because you weren’t lying. You weren’t expecting anything. You weren’t asking him to leave his wife, or to explain himself, or to promise you something he couldn’t promise.

Jensen’s throat bobbed slightly, his fingers twitching at his sides. Then, after what felt like an eternity, he snapped.

"Fuck".

The word came out rough, almost guttural, before he took a step toward you—too close, too deliberate. And then another. Until his chest was nearly brushing yours, until his hands were hovering at his sides like he was physically restraining himself. Until you were standing there, staring up at him, heart pounding, breath caught in your throat.

"You really think that’s the problem?", he murmured.

Your lips parted slightly. “What?”.

Jensen exhaled sharply, shaking his head with a bitter chuckle. “You think I’m afraid you’ll tell someone?”.

Before you could say anything, before you could even breathe, Jensen moved.

And then his lips were on yours. Hot. Demanding. There was no hesitation, no slow buildup—just pure, unfiltered need.

You barely had time to react before his hands were gripping your waist, lifting you like you weighed nothing, hoisting you up onto his desk with ease. Because you were so fucking small, and his back was already screaming after nine hours of bending down just to kiss you on set.

A low grunt left his throat as he settled between your legs, pressing his body into yours, his hands gripping the edge of the desk on either side of you.

“Shit”, he muttered against your lips, exhaling sharply. “I swear, you’re gonna put me in a fucking chiropractor’s office”.

You let out a breathy, nervous laugh, your fingers fisting in his shirt, holding on as your mind spun, while his hands were on your thighs, sliding up slowly, too slowly, like he was memorizing every inch of you.

Your breath hitched, and that—that—made him groan, deep and low in his throat, his fingers digging into your bare skin. “Tell me to stop”, he murmured against your mouth.

You swallowed hard. “Do you want to stop?”.

Jensen exhaled harshly, his forehead pressing against yours. “No”, he admitted, voice rough, strained. “I fucking don’t”.

So instead of stopping, you pulled him closer.

Your fingers fumbled desperately with the edges of his Soldier Boy suit, trying to yank the damn thing off while Jensen’s lips moved feverishly against yours. But fuck, it was impossible.

The thing was practically painted onto him—thick, armored, strapped in everywhere. It wasn’t just some jacket you could tug off between kisses.

Jensen let out a low, breathy laugh against your mouth when he felt you struggling, his hands gripping your thighs tighter. "Yeah, sweetheart", he muttered between kisses, voice dripping with amusement, "this thing doesn’t exactly just slip off".

You groaned in frustration, tugging at the material again anyway. "Then how the fuck do you get out of it?".

Jensen smirked against your lips, his teeth grazing your bottom lip before pulling back just slightly, his green eyes dark with something wicked. "You don’t", he rasped. "Not without a goddamn handler".

You pulled back just enough to gape at him. "You need help to get out of this?".

He smirked again, nodding, his hands still gripping your thighs, keeping you firmly right where he wanted you. "Usually", he admitted, voice low, rough. "You sure you wanna waste time on that?".

Your stomach flipped. Because the way he said it—like he was perfectly fine with just taking you right here, suit and all—made your thighs clench around his hips.

His hands spanned your waist so easily, his fingers nearly wrapping around your sides, like he could just pick you up and do whatever the fuck he wanted with you.

And the worst part? He wanted to.

"Shit", Jensen muttered, his forehead pressing against yours as he exhaled heavily. "You're so goddamn tiny".

You let out a breathy laugh, your hands already tugging his pants down just enough to free him. "And you're… fucking huge", you shot back.

Because even through his boxer briefs, his arousal was obvious. Thick, hard, straining against the fabric.

Jensen felt your hesitation. Felt the way your fingers faltered for a second, your thighs tightening around his hips.

His smirk deepened, one of his hands sliding up your side, his grip tightening just enough to make you squirm.

"That a problem, sweetheart?", he murmured, voice low, rough, teasing.

You swallowed hard, your breath unsteady, your fingers still gripping the waistband of his briefs.

Jensen snorted at your mumbled "Might be", shaking his head slightly as he pushed your dress up, his large palms sliding over your bare thighs.

The contrast between his rough, calloused hands and your soft skin sent a shiver up your spine, making your breath hitch.

"Not like you're a virgin", he murmured, his lips ghosting over your jaw, hot and teasing.

His fingers hooked into the sides of your panties, pulling them down slowly, deliberately, letting the cool air hit you.

"We’ll make it fit".

Your stomach flipped. Your nails dug into his biceps as he kissed along your jawline, slow and unbearably confident, his scruff scraping against your skin.

The size difference between you two was fucking ridiculous.

His hands completely swallowed your thighs, his body towering over yours, his broad shoulders making you feel even smaller beneath him.

And he knew it.

You could feel it in the way he touched you, in the way his grip tightened slightly, in the way he positioned you exactly where he wanted.

His breath was hot against your skin as he smirked. "You nervous, sweetheart?".

Your fingers tightened in his shirt, your heart pounding as his hand slid higher—closer. Instead of answering, you just tilted your chin up, meeting his gaze, your lips barely brushing against his.

Jensen exhaled sharply, reaching down to shove his boxers lower, freeing himself completely.

Reaching behind you, he grabbed a condom from the small box near the edge of his desk, ripping it open with his teeth like he had done this a thousand times before.

The sheer ease of it, the way he barely paused in his movements, sent a fresh wave of heat straight through you.

Jensen rolled the condom on quickly, his fingers steady, his chest rising and falling with measured breaths, like he was trying to control himself.

Then, without a word, his large hand came down to your knee, his thigh nudging it apart.

“Wider”, he murmured, his voice low, rough with something dangerous.

Your stomach flipped, heat pooling between your legs as you did as he said, parting your thighs even further for him.

Jensen’s lips parted slightly, his gaze flickering down as your dress rode up high enough to leave you completely bare before him.

“Fuck”, he muttered under his breath, shaking his head slightly. His hands braced against your thighs, his fingers flexing like he was holding himself back. Like the sight of you—so small beneath him, spread open, waiting for him—was testing every ounce of control he had left.

You swallowed hard, your fingers gripping the edge of the desk as your pulse raced.

Jensen inhaled sharply, forcing himself to breathe, his hands sliding up, gripping your hips, positioning you exactly how he wanted, before he dragged himself through your slick folds—just once, just enough to tease, to make you squirm.

A strangled whimper escaped you, your fingers digging into his forearms, and fuck, that sound nearly undid him. “Shit”, Jensen muttered under his breath, his jaw clenching as he lined himself up, the thick head of his cock pressing right against your entrance.

Just then, he eased inside.

Your mouth fell open, a sharp inhale slipping from your lips as the stretch burned in the best fucking way.

Jensen’s head tipped back immediately, a guttural groan leaving his throat, his fingers tightening so hard on your hips you swore you’d bruise. “Fucking shit”, he ground out, voice thick, wrecked.

You felt every single inch of him as he pushed in. Slow, deliberate, stretching you open with every inch, every shallow breath he took.

His head snapped back down. Because he needed to see your face. He needed to watch you as he bottomed out.

And the sight of you, eyes wide, lips parted, your breath stolen— It was the most beautiful fucking thing he had ever seen.

His fingers dug into your skin, his knuckles going white as he fully seated himself inside you, his breath coming out ragged. “You feel so fucking tight”.

Your nails scraped against his forearms, your thighs trembling slightly around his waist. You could barely breathe. You had never felt this fucking full.

Jensen let out a sharp exhale, rolling his hips once—just enough to make you gasp—before leaning in, his lips hovering just over yours.

His voice was low, rough, possessive. “You okay, sweetheart?”. His smirk told you he already knew the answer. But you still nodded, your breath shaky, your fingers gripping onto him like a lifeline.

Jensen hummed, his nose brushing against yours, his hands gripping your hips even tighter. “Good”, he murmured. “Because I’m not stopping”.

Right now, you didn’t care. You didn’t care that he was married. You didn’t care that he was older. You didn’t care that he was your colleague, your co-star, someone you had to see every fucking day. None of it mattered.

Because right now, you just needed this. Needed him.

Jensen felt it—the way you arched against him, the way your nails dug into his arms, the way you gasped his name as he started to move. And it wrecked him.

His hands tightened on your hips as he pulled back—just enough to leave you aching—before slamming back in, stretching you all over again.

You cried out, your head tipping back, your body barely able to keep up with the sheer force of him.

Jensen groaned, his forehead dropping against yours, his breath ragged. “Fuck, sweetheart”, he muttered, his voice thick, wrecked, filthy. “You take me so goddamn well”.

Your thighs trembled around his waist, your hands gripping onto his biceps like they were the only thing keeping you tethered to reality.

He set a ruthless rhythm, his grip bruising, his body dwarfing yours as he fucked you against the desk, each thrust knocking the air from your lungs.

Jensen’s breath was hot against your skin, his lips brushing over your jaw, your cheek, the corner of your mouth—but not quite kissing you. Not yet. Not until you broke.

His thrusts slowed, deepened, pressing into you with a purpose now—less frantic, less desperate, but still consuming.

Your fingers gripped at his shoulders, sliding up into his hair, tugging him closer, needing more.

And finally—finally—he gave it to you.

His lips crashed into yours, swallowing the soft gasp that escaped your throat, kissing you like he had been starving for it. His hands slid up, framing your face now, thumbs brushing over your cheekbones, his body pressing fully into yours, not leaving a single space between you.

Jensen groaned against your mouth, his pace slowing even more, like he was savoring this—like he wanted to remember every second, every sound, every way your body molded to his.

Your hands slid down, gripping onto his back, pressing your forehead against his, your breaths mixing, your bodies moving in perfect rhythm.

And for the first time since this started, it wasn’t just heat. It wasn’t just need. It was something else. Something neither of you could name. Something neither of you were ready to admit.

Jensen groaned, his fingers tightening in your hair, his forehead still pressed to yours, his voice low, rough, real— "You feel so good".

And fuck, that was it. That was what broke you. Because this wasn’t just fucking. This wasn’t just a reckless mistake. This was intimate. This was dangerous. And neither of you were stopping.

Your whole body tightened around him, the slow, deep drag of his movements sending you spiraling closer and closer—your breath coming out in soft, broken gasps against his lips.

"Jensen—". You barely gasped his name before it hit you, pleasure crashing through you like a wave, your body tightening, back arching, head tilting back as the orgasm ripped through you.

Jensen groaned, his grip on your hips tightening, his movements stuttering as he followed you over the edge, his body tensing, his forehead still pressed to yours as his own release hit, his breath ragged, heavy, wrecked.

For a moment, neither of you moved.

The only sound in the trailer was your heavy breathing, the hum of the AC, the faint rustling of fabric as Jensen let his weight sink into you, his hands still cradling your face, his thumbs brushing absently over your skin.

Neither of you spoke. Because what the fuck could you even say?

Your pulse was still hammering, your mind still spinning, your body still feeling the aftershocks of what had just happened. And Jensen? Jensen was silent.

His eyes were closed, his breathing slowing, his hands still holding onto you—like if he let go, the world would catch up to what you had just done.

Jensen had thought—no, he had hoped—that this would get you out of his system.

That once he had you, once he fucked you, once he pushed himself inside you and finally took what he had been craving, it would stop.

But lying to himself had never been his strong suit.

Because as he held you, his chest still pressed against yours, his hands still gripping your waist like he wasn’t ready to let go, he knew the truth. This just made it worse. Because this? You? You were better than he had imagined when he groaned your name while fucking his wife.

You weren’t just lust or fantasy anymore. You were real.

Your skin was still warm beneath his fingertips, your breath still uneven, your thighs still trembling slightly from how hard he had just made you come.

And fuck, that was the problem. Because now? Now, he wasn’t done. He wasn’t satisfied. He wasn’t over it. He was fucking starving for more.

Jensen exhaled sharply, his fingers flexing on your hips, his forehead still resting against yours.

You swallowed hard, your body still shaking, your pulse pounding beneath his hands.

You felt it, too. The way this didn’t fix anything. The way it just made the pull between you even stronger.

The weight of what had just happened sat thick in the air, pressing down on you, suffocating the fleeting high that had consumed you only moments before.

Jensen was still holding onto you, his hands firm on your waist, his forehead resting against yours, like he couldn’t pull away. Like he didn’t want to. But eventually, he had to.

With a slow, reluctant inhale, Jensen finally pulled back, his hands sliding from your waist, leaving your skin cold.

The absence of his warmth made reality come crashing back.

You blinked rapidly, your breath still unsteady, the dull ache between your legs a reminder of what you had just done.

Your stomach twisted as you quickly reached for your clothes, slipping your panties back on, pulling your dress down, avoiding his gaze.

Jensen was quiet, moving slower, his expression unreadable as he adjusted his pants, ran a hand down his face, exhaled heavily.

And you? You were spiraling. Because what the fuck was this? What did this mean? You swallowed hard, your hands shaking as you smoothed out your dress, moving toward the door. "I…". You started, your voice barely above a whisper.

Jensen’s head lifted slightly, his jaw tight.

You sucked in a breath, shaking your head as your throat tightened. "Fuck, I’m sorry", you mumbled, already reaching for the door handle. You just needed to get out.

But before you could turn the handle, Jensen´s hand shot out, gripping your wrist, stopping you from leaving.

Your breath hitched, your whole body going still. Slowly, hesitantly, you turned back to him, your pulse hammering, your chest tight.

Jensen’s grip on your wrist stayed firm, his thumb brushing over your skin, like he could feel you slipping away, like if he didn’t hold on now, you’d be gone forever.

"Don’t overthink this".

The words were meant to reassure you, but the second they left his lips, you felt the hesitation behind them. Because Jensen was overthinking this. Like crazy.

You could see it in the tight set of his jaw, the slight furrow in his brow, the way his thumb kept absently rubbing against your skin like he didn’t even realize he was doing it. He was trying to play it off, trying to act like this wasn’t huge, like this hadn’t just changed everything.

But it had. And you both fucking knew it.

You swallowed, your voice barely above a whisper. “Is that what you’re doing?”.

Jensen’s lips parted slightly—just for a second. Like he wanted to say something. Like he wanted to lie. But he didn’t. He just exhaled sharply, his jaw tightening, his fingers twitching against your wrist before he finally, finally let go.

You felt the loss of his touch instantly. You took a slow step back, your throat tightening as you reached for the door again. "I can't do this", you murmured, your voice unsteady.

Jensen stilled. But he didn’t stop you this time. He just watched as you turned the handle, as you hesitated for a fraction of a second—like you were waiting for him to say something, anything, to make this make sense.

But he didn’t.

And so, you stepped outside, the cool air hitting your skin like a slap, your mind spinning as you walked away.

And inside that trailer, Jensen sat down heavily on the couch, dragging his hands down his face, letting out a sharp, frustrated exhale. Because for the first time in his life, he had no idea what the fuck to do next.

———————————

A/N: Please let me know what you think.🥰 

-

Part 5

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[honeyryewhiskey]

. . . director!jensen x starlet!reader

synopsis ୨ৎ jensen’s magnum opus is finally coming to life after years of meticulous crafting—his first directorial film, the one that will define his legacy. he’s sifted through countless headshots, sat through audition after audition, searching for the perfect lead. then you walk in—soft, a little shy, but with a quiet sweetness that lingers, something he can’t shake. and just like that, he knows. he’s found his girl.

warnings ୨ৎ 18+ mdni, age gap relationship, the artist and his muse, powerful older man and the rising star, obsession disguised as guidance, you belong to me energy, indulgence, claiming through praise

chronological parts ! audition files off the record

Jensen takes you under his wing, molding you into the perfect starlet.

He’s obsessed with every little thing about you. Your expressions. Your voice. The way you move on camera. You’re his muse, and he doesn’t hide it.

During late-night script readings in his private studio, he sits too close, his voice smooth as he murmurs directions. His fingers trail over your wrist when he adjusts the way you hold a prop. His hands linger on your waist when he blocks a scene with you.

"That’s my girl," he praises, voice warm, approving. "You’re perfect, sweetheart. Just like that."

No one knows just how far Jensen’s gone in his obsession.

No one knows how his hands skim over your bare back during a costume fitting, how his breath tickles your ear as he murmurs between kisses, "you’re gonna look so perfect for me on that screen."

No one knows about the way he pulls you into a dark corner after a long day of filming, his praises beginning with words and ending with his head between your thighs, making sure his little muse knows just how proud he is. "You did so good for me today."

No one knows about the late nights in his private trailer, the door locked, your script abandoned somewhere on the floor with your clothes and his. Jensen’s hands hold your hips like he owns them, like he was made to be between them, fucking you into the sheets until you’re whimpering. His mouth claims the expanse of your chest, “you’re doing so well for me, pretty baby,” he praises, “you’re always so good for me.” 

He’s protective, possessive. He knows how quickly Hollywood can dim the light of something so new and vibrant. He’s determined to keep you safe from all of that. And to show the world your essence through his carefully crafted lens. 

"They don’t get to see you the way I do, doll. Only I get that."

But people are starting to talk.

The way he looks at you during press interviews, the way his hand always finds the small of your back, the way you practically glow under his praise.

They suspect.

But no one really knows.

And as long as Jensen has a say in it? They never will.

sneak peek into the story. . .

Jensen watches you from behind the camera, eyes locked on the monitor, completely still. The hum of the set—the murmur of producers, the shuffle of the crew, the faint scratch of a pen against a clipboard—fades to static in the background. None of it matters.

Only you.

Your face fills the frame, bathed in soft lighting, every flicker of emotion playing across your features like a symphony only he can hear. He watches the way your brows furrow, how your lips part just slightly on the inhale before delivering your lines. The intensity in your eyes—for him—steals his breath.

It’s his vision, the one he’s obsessed over for years, coming to life before him. Through you.

"Cut." His voice is calm, controlled, but there’s a heat beneath it, just enough to make you shiver. The smallest smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.

You turn to him immediately, searching for approval. He doesn’t hesitate. He pushes up from his chair, stepping between you and your co-star with quiet confidence, his presence commanding without a single word. Around you, the set moves like clockwork—makeup dabs at your cheeks, the props team resets the scene—but you don’t notice any of it.

All you see is him.

The crinkle by his eyes. The weight of his gaze, steady and unreadable. How he looms just a little closer than necessary.

"That was perfect, Peach." His voice is low, intimate, meant for you alone.

His hand lifts, fingertips grazing the collar of your dress, adjusting it with deliberate slowness. You stand frozen, pulse quickening at the soft drag of his fingers against your throat.

"I can do a few more takes if you need me to," you offer, voice steady except for the slight quiver at the end. "Maybe try it with a different emotion?"

He chuckles, a sound that rolls through you like smoke, and nods.

"Sure, sweetheart, we can roll it again."

His fingers brush beneath your chin, tilting your face up, capturing your gaze in his. He holds it, long enough that your breath stutters in your chest.

"Always looking for a way to please me, aren’t you?"

Your stomach flips at the teasing edge in his tone. You barely hear yourself whisper, "Of course, sir. I want it to be perfect."

Something flickers behind his eyes. Approval. Possession. The corner of his mouth twitches like he’s holding something back.

He lets the moment stretch until you feel lightheaded, like he’s waiting to see if you’ll squirm under the weight of his stare. You swallow hard, pressing your feet into the floor to steady yourself.

"Good girl." It’s quiet enough for only you to hear.

Then he steps away, claps his hands once, snapping the rest of the room back into focus.

"Again, from the top."

It’s well past dark, but here you are, in Jensen’s trailer, reading lines despite the hour. He promised from the beginning that he’d help no matter the time, that he’d always answer your call.

“Again.” His voice is soft—patient, yet firm. That tone leaves no room for argument, a steady command that seems to seep into your bones. He stands before you, arms crossed, his posture strong but relaxed. His brow furrows, the familiar, focused crease settling deep into his face.

You let out a slow breath, shifting slightly on the couch. The script is loose in your hands, but it feels heavy—heavy with expectation, heavy with the weight of his gaze on you. You’ve read this line a dozen times already, trying to make it right, trying to please him. But it's still not right. Not for him.

Jensen doesn’t speak, but you feel his eyes on you, sharp, intense. His gaze cuts through the silence like a knife, and just when the pressure starts to suffocate you, he moves.

His fingers skim over your wrist, soft, deliberate, like he’s taking control without even trying. The script slips from your hands, landing beside you with a soft thud.

“Not like that, baby. Here—”

His voice is low, barely above a whisper. He crouches in front of you, leaning in so close that his breath brushes the side of your face, sending a shiver down your spine. The heat of his body presses against you, his presence filling the space between you both. You instinctively shift, thighs pressing together.

He doesn’t look at you like he’s just guiding you; it feels deeper than that. His hand hovers above yours for a moment before settling there, his fingers curling around yours with a deliberate slowness. There’s strength in his touch, but also a quiet command—he’s guiding, but he’s controlling. Every inch of his touch molds you, like he’s shaping you to fit his vision.

“You know the lines,” he murmurs, voice rough with something you can’t place. “Just give it to me straight. I don’t want you to just read the words, I wanna feel it come from here.” His fingers reach up, pressing into the center of your chest. 

You nod, but the nerves that always seem to creep up around him are impossible to mask. The script’s words are in your head, but your throat feels tight, your heart pounding.

He sees it. He always does.

“Relax,” he whispers, his tone gentler now with the ghost of a laugh, coaxing you in a way only he can. The edges of his eyes soften as he picks up on the hesitation. It’s just you, and him, and the work he’s watching flow from your being into reality.

“You can do it,” he assures, his voice a soothing balm against your racing pulse. “I know you can.”

j's note ୨ৎ this is my first jensen fic i want to hide under the covers rn bc this is so horny but i've been bit by the old man jensen bug—kudos to @figthoughts bc i probably would not have been daydreaming about him in this way without u <3

tags ୨ৎ @titsout4jackles @deansbeer @daylighted @jollyhunter @soldiersgirl @bejeweledinterludes @bluemerakis @cowboysandcigarettes @littlesoulshine @couturewinx @ultravi0lence14 @snowluvvie @flow33didontsmoke comment to be added / removed !

[that-sarcastic-writer]

Mind Games (2)

Direct cntinuation to Mind games (til we lose control) (takes place before lost time)

Ben/Soldier Boy X Supe!Fem!reader

Summary: Herogasm proves to be a disaster for everyone involved, but at least you and Ben still have each other at the end of the night. Takes places during the Herogasm episode but like I did my own shit

Warnings: explicit sexual content, minors dni, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it mfs), p in v, shower sex (pls don't try to recreate this, SB has super strength, your man does not, you might break sum), oral (f receiving), fingering, multiple orgasms, creampie, dom!Soldier Boy, praising kink, Ben calls her mean things a lot (but she likes it), choking, hair pulling, spitting, Soldier Boy cause mf is a warning on his own, typical canonical violence for this show, no use of y/n, Violet isn't her real name, just a nickname.

WC: 6.9k I'm so sorry

A/N: WHAT DID I TELL YALL MFSSS. Took me 2 years to revisit it but yk what it's fine cause every year is Soldier Boy's year. So yeah here we are. I will warn yall im not too good at writing action/fight scenes, like it made sense in my head but idk if that image translated well into the scene. I only know how to write smut im sorry. But to my Ben/Jensen girlie's, this is for you. I'll see yall in hell <3

Gif is not mine I found it on Pinterest

Universe masterlist | I no longer have a tag list so if you'd like to keep up with updates follow @midnightreadinglibrary

Fucking Herogasm. Christ, you didn't remember the last time you were here. Funny, the last time you went to a Herogasm party it was coincidentally with Ben. And it was in fact the last one you ever went to. It never felt right to go back without him. 

"Fuckin' Herogasm," Butcher laughed and shook his head, glancing back at you with intrigue, "You ever been Violet?" 

Your lips curled up a bit and you licked your lips slowly, glancing at Ben for a second before you found two pairs of curious eyes on you. 

"Yeah, every year for like ten years." You responded, and you were met with a look of disbelief from Hughie, and even Butcher had a slight glint of surprise in his eyes. Perhaps they didn't take you as the orgy, drugs and depravity type of supe, not that you blame them, that never truly was your idea of fun. But you weren’t entirely innocent either. "I'm serious. You can ask Ben if you don't believe me." 

Both men gave Ben a long glance and he laughed, shrugging at you. 

"She ain’t lying, I took her to her first one, in 74' was it? Should've seen her, such a pretty doe-eyed lil’ thing, with a face like hers she fooled everyone." 

"Oh, yeah, you showed innocent little me all the ropes. It was very educational." You rolled your eyes, trying to hide the small grin on your face, and Ben had one of his own. 

For a moment you forgot neither of the other two men quite understood whatever was going between you and Ben, so you missed the uncomfortable look on their faces. 

"Oh, I showed you a hell of a lot more than just the ropes, sweetheart." 

"And I'll show you both the barrel of a gun if I have to endure another second of your trip down erotic memory lane. Can we focus here?" Butcher groaned, looking both annoyed and disturbed by your relationship, like a parent who was tired of keeping his two horny teenagers in line. 

You exchanged a look with Ben, eyes big and lips pursed as you tried not to laugh and you gave him a look of having just been scolded. He simply rolled his eyes and half paid attention to Hughie and Butcher as they went back and forth about who was going in first. 

You, as always, just stood there and observed, absentmindedly twirling your knife between your fingers as you listened to them agree that Hughie should go in first so you could be in and out as quickly as possible. In between your own priorities, Ben being the main one, you had almost forgotten why you were here in the first place. Despite the fact that you were picking off Payback's members one by one, you quickly realized this wasn't for you, or Ben and his plot for revenge. No, it was about Butcher getting his. And the two of you were simply there to make it happen. 

You had begun to wonder if this was all there was to it, a means to an end, and in reality neither you or Ben had much of a chance to make it out this revenge mission alive. But if there was something you knew for sure, it was that you would die before you let anything happen to Ben again. Deep down, you hoped he would do the same for you. 

"I'm gonna go check the area before we go in, make sure there aren't any surprises." Butcher announced after a minute or two of waiting, Hughie not being back yet. He started walking, but not before turning to glance at you both with narrowed eyes, "And you two behave, last time I left you cunts alone you broke a bathroom." 

You did a mocking salute to him and snorted when he rolled his eyes at you, grumbling something you didn't quite hear as he began to walk away. He was out of your sight pretty quickly and you could already feel Ben's intense gaze burn on your face. You ignored it at first, but when he stood in front of you, eyes never leaving you, you had no choice but to look at him. You stopped your fidgeting and you looked up at him expectantly as you leaned back against a tree.

"I don't need to read your mind to know you want to tell me something, what's up?" 

"What you said back at the motel, did you mean it?" He questioned, leaning close to your face as he placed a hand beside your head. You stared at him for a second, trying to dig in your mind for whatever it was that he meant. You found his green eyes and you realized. 

Ah. The three fucking words. 

"Seriously Ben?" You groaned, your head falling to the side with annoyance, but more of all you wanted to avoid his gaze, avoid the shame of having confessed your deepest feelings, knowing feelings wasn't something either of you ever talked about let alone ever admitted to. Because feelings meant vulnerability, and vulnerability meant weakness. And weakness wasn't something either of you would ever admit to.

He grabbed your chin, grip tight as he forced you to look at him, "Did you? ‘Cause I meant what I said, all of it." 

Your face softened and your lips slightly curved into a tiny smile. You never wanted to search his mind without his permission, it was like a line you never liked to cross, but you didn't need to this time. Just by looking into his eyes you always knew. You could tell a lot by looking into someone’s eyes. You searched his eyes for any kind of deceit or even manipulation, but you didn't find any. You knew what he meant, and coming from him, it meant everything. 

"Yeah," You sighed softly, "I meant what I said." 

"Good." His pink lips curved into a satisfied smirk as he squeezed your face and leaned down, capturing your lips into his own. It was slower, no rushed and desperate touches like before, but he still kissed you hard. There was nothing gentle about it, but was there ever anything gentle about him? 

His tongue slipped into your mouth as he dropped his hand, resting it on the column of your neck. He pressed his armored chest against yours, pretty much pinning you against the tree. His mouth was so skilled, like he knew exactly how to take your breath away in seconds, he knew you that well. You would never allow a man to have this much control over you. But it was always different with him. Your hands found his long strands as you explored his mouth, and you pulled hard. You felt him groan against your mouth and he squeezed your neck in response. You gasped, the sound quickly fading into a soft moan. He pulled back and watched with amusement the look of pure ecstasy on your face as he squeezed your throat. 

"You fucking slut, you still get off to me hurting you, don't you?" He bit his lip as he released your throat, thumb brushing over the skin he knew would bruise, just like everybody else's, even if it was for a little bit. 

You inhaled deeply, the short lack of airflow making you dizzy, but in the most delicious way possible. You opened your eyes, finding his green ones and god you wished nothing but to just ditch the mission and go somewhere where he could take you, over and over again. 

"Are we here to get revenge or are we here to get your dick wet? ‘Cause I'm getting some real mixed signals here." You mumbled, breath heavy and he chuckled. He leaned down, pressing his lips to your jaw before he moved them to your ear. 

"I'm gonna fuck you so hard I'm gonna break a hell of a lot more than just a mirror." He coaxed. The way he spoke in your ear made you rub your thighs together and the pool forming in your panties was impossible to ignore. It was embarrassing how quickly he could pull you apart and do with you what he pleased. "When we get back. Now pull yourself together, we're on a mission." 

And just like that he was standing a few feet away from you. He was looking behind his shoulder, almost as if he could hear someone. And of course, just in time for you to somewhat regain your composure, Butcher came back. Though it wasn't before you locked eyes with Ben one more time as you tried to control your breathing, and the cocky bastard winked at you, lips curled into a shit eating grin before Butcher actually approached you both. 

This motherfucker. 

"All clear. The twins are in there. You shouldn't have a problem going in," He said to Ben, but then looked at you, "You, though, you might get some attention. Pretty girl, dressed in black leather and strapped with knives, that's some BDSM shit if I've seen one." 

"Okay and?" You frowned, now standing by both men.

"Just stay close to him, people might recognize you and approach you. Do what you can to keep a low profile. You might have to get your hands a bit dirty." He looked between you and Ben. You stared at him with a small frown at first, but when he raised his eyebrows at you, you quickly realized what he meant. 

"Wouldn't be the first time." Ben commented with a chuckle when he caught on. You looked at him, slightly unimpressed by his lack of discretion but you simply rolled your eyes. 

Butcher sighed heavily, clearly done with your antics by then and he simply motioned you off with an unimpressed expression, "Off you go, ya dirty cunts." 

"Looks like you might get your dick wet after all." You commented to Ben as you both headed off to the house. 

He chuckled, shooting you a glance as you stood in front of the door. You were both eager to get this over with, you more than him. It was one thing for him to be able to face the assholes that betrayed him, and you were happy to do it with him. But the idea of being around dozens of supes, in an environment where there were no rules, no respect and no boundaries, made you uneasy. You didn't know if you could handle that many voices all at once. It had been a long time since you had been around other Supes, let alone that many, and you had made that decision for a reason. 

Almost as if he could feel the anxiety radiate from you, you felt a large hand fill your own. Confused, you looked down and saw he had intertwined his fingers with your own. "There's nothing to be nervous about, sweetheart, it wouldn't be the first time we do this." 

"I haven't been around other supes since…" You inhaled deeply, your throat slightly closing up at the memory. The last time you stepped foot at Vought Tower, when you realized you couldn't do it anymore. Ben looked at you, eyebrows slightly knitted into a frown, "It's been a long time is all." 

"Just stay by my side, nobody will lay a hand on you. I'll always protect you, remember?" He gave your hand a slight squeeze and the calm yet assertive ring in his voice made you feel almost at ease. Almost. 

You stayed silent, needing all your energy and focus to keep the dozens of voices beginning to infiltrate your mind one by one. The sound of Ben speaking as a very naked man opened the door sounded far, distant, you didn't catch much of what they said. You only knew to move when you felt Ben tug you along. Now the sound of your racing heart was almost as loud as the voices. So fucking many people here. So many Supes. So many voices. All at once. It was deafening. It disgusted you, to have to hear every passing thought these depraved beings had. You didn’t realize you started digging your blunt nails into Ben’s gloves.

It didn’t hurt, but your enhanced strength definitely made him feel the tightening grip of your shaking hands. He stopped and looked at you with a twisted frown.

“The fuck is wrong with you now? You look like you saw your father.” 

You eyes snapped up to find him looking back at you with both confusion, and his version of concern. You opened your mouth but you could only stammer but no words actually came out. You couldn’t think. It was so loud. Your lip quivered ever so slightly as you felt your chest start to grow heavy. Ben saw the look on your face, the way your eyes were frantically looking around the room, your jaw wound up so tight he thought you’d break it. The last time he saw you like this was when you first joined Payback and didn’t have full control of your abilities. 

“Stop that, right now.” He gripped your shoulders hard, really fucking hard, enough to make you shift your focus on him for a moment. You looked at him with wide eyes. “Hey, I need you to focus. Get your head under control. I need you to have my back here, okay?”

“I… I don’t.. I can’t get them to stop. They won’t stop.” You said, so close to being on the verge of tears. “There’s so many, I can’t get them to shut the fuck up. I--” 

“Hey,” He shook you ever so slightly, leaning in close to your face. “The fuck did I just say? Get. yourself. Together. You used to tune ‘em out, remember? So tune them out.” 

You breathed in, your chest rising as you tried to drown out the noise, focus on his face, on his voice. But you couldn’t. You hadn’t been around this many people in nearly a decade.

“I can’t. I just can’t. I can’t be here. I’m sorry.” You shook your head frantically and tried to slip out of his grip but he didn’t let you. 

“I need you here. Just—hey,” he grabbed your jaw, looking out of the corner of his eyes to make sure you weren’t bringing in too much attention before he met your teary eyes. “Just look at me. I’m right here. Remember you used to tune everyone else out and only focus on my voice, hm? Focus on my thoughts, okay? It’s just you and me, fuck everyone else.” 

You stared at him, the green in his eyes seeming more and more green the longer you looked. You even saw a ring yellow in there. His voice. His thoughts, they had always calmed you, centered you. The voices grew more and more distant the longer you looked at him. You listened to his voice as his thoughts became your own. Until only the sound of his voice was in your head. Your breath was shaky as you closed your eyes, a laugh of relief leaving your lips.

He held your face for a little longer, his deep frown less harsh as he watched your face slowly visibly relax and the tension left your body.

“Are we good?”

“Yeah, we’re good.” You exhaled deeply and nodded at him, feeling like you were slowly regaining control of yourself. “Let’s go find the terror twins.” 

You walked around this house for what felt like hours. But it didn’t help that you were being stopped every five minutes by every naked Supe you walked by. Ben was anything but amused.

“I swear to fucking Christ if one more of these slimy jizz-covered fuck faces asks you to use your knives on them I will actually shove my shield up their ass.” Ben grumbled with a look of disgust on his face.

“They’d probably like that.” You had to bite your lip to stop yourself from laughing at the death glare he shot you.

“Eat shit.” You actually snorted this time, and you were full on giggling when he started mumbling curses at you as he walked off. 

You ultimately decided splitting up was probably the way to go, the house was way too big and had too many rooms, you’d find the twins quicker if you each went your own way. Ben was reluctant at first, a bit apprehensive to leave you on your own after you almost broke down earlier. But you reassured him you were fine and perfectly capable of going on your own. You ultimately realized you made the right choice. You didn’t know exactly when or how but out of nowhere you heard a loud blast in the next room and you were launched right through a wall from the blast. Pain immediately started shooting through your body at the impact. You were a Supe, sure, but you weren’t Soldier Boy, you weren’t fucking invincible. You bled and you felt pain like any human. 

It took you a good minute to understand what the actual fuck had just happened. And when you did, you almost forgot about the throbbing pain going through your body. You pushed yourself up to your feet, stumbling and holding on to walls as you dragged yourself through the rubble and burned bodies. Your jaw slightly fell open at the sight of this much mayhem. You didn’t believe in God, but fuck were you praying to a higher power for Ben to be okay. 

You managed to stay on your feet despite the pain. It would go away eventually, in a day or so, but the first few hours were brutal. Still you pushed through, determined to find Ben. You stumbled into a hallway, the walls were falling apart and chunks of cement were all around the floor. But what caught your attention was the sight that fucking American flag and blonde head of hair you had grown to despise. Your heart stopped, you were frozen. You held your breath as you realized fucking Homelander was here. And he currently had Ben pinned to a wall.

This was such a bad fucking idea. You could die a very agonizing death. A bad idea indeed. 

Adrenaline kicked in, you sprinted and with a bit of momentum you landed on Homelander’s shoulders. You were surprised he didn’t hear you coming.You were thankful he was preoccupied with Ben. Your nails dug into the side of his temples and you used all of the energy and power you had coursing through your veins, and sent that straight to his brain.

You weren’t sure if it would even tickle. You tried using your shock powers on Ben once, a long time ago, just to test out how it worked on Supes with enhanced strength, he said it felt like being electrocuted. And right about now you were praying Homelander felt something, enough to stun him at least. You could kill an average Supe if you used enough power, but you weren’t so sure if you were strong enough.

You held on, but you were struggling, commanding your body to release this much energy was mentally exhausting but the sound of Homelander groaning in pain made you smile the slightest bit. The shocks of electricity weren’t going to kill him, but it sure did hurt, and it stunned him. Nobody’s brain was invisible afterall. 

“Hurts, doesn’t it motherfucker? Your body may be indestructible but your mind can only take so much before it breaks.” You spat. Sparks were coming from your fingers as your eyes flashed bright purple. “It’s fucked when its you being held down against your will, huh?”

He screamed, stumbling around as he attempted to grab at you, but this wasn’t the first time you tried to fry someone’s brain off while on their shoulders. You gasped when you saw his laser eyes go off as he screamed, leaving indents on the wall. This split second of distraction was enough to make your focus falter, and it gave Homelander the opportunity to find a grip on you. You cried in pain when he grabbed your ankle and tossed you off. 

You landed fucking hard, it knocked the air right out of your lungs. You coughed as you attempted to get up, but Homelander was grabbing you and pulling you up by your neck before you could blink. He held you up in the air as he levitated so you couldn’t find a way to escape. He held you at arm’s length so you couldn’t reach him, either. The way his empty, ice cold eyes stared you down with evil glee as you gasped for air was terrifying. 

“I always knew you were a fucking bitch. I should’ve killed you when I had the chance. Matter of fact, I’ll do that right now.” Your eyes widened when his eyes gleamed bright red. 

Out of the corner of your eye you saw Ben behind Homelander, with a grin as he grabbed Homelander’s cape and pulled down, and he pulled really fucking hard. Your body collided with the ground roughly, landing on your side with a pained cry. But you still saw Ben throw Homelander around by his cape, and had you not been mere seconds away from death, you would have laughed at the comedic irony. You were in and out of consciousness, an aura surrounding your vision. But in between your delirium you could see Butcher and Hughie had arrived, and the three of them were taking on Homelander. It wasn’t long before the three of them had Homelander pinned down. You could feel yourself fade, your muscles give out and your mind shut off. You hadn’t used that much power since you were in Payback. 

You heard indistinct voices and shouting before everything went black. 

“The fuck are you waitin’ for? Blast this cunt!” Butcher shouted and Ben grunted.

“I can’t! Just—Fuck.” His eyes found you in the corner, bloodied and passed out. You couldn’t run away and you wouldn’t survive the blast, he knew that. “You—kid, take her, and get out here. Now!”

“No fucking way!” Hughie shouted back, and Ben felt the urge to blast him instead. 

“Do what he says, take the fuckin’ girl and go!” Butcher shouted at Hughie, catching on to what Ben was trying to do. But before any of them could do anything, Homelander blasted his lasers, screaming as he overpowered the three of them while they were distracted. And just like that he was gone. 

The three men sat in silence, in defeat. They had a chance and they blew it. Ben knew it was mostly his fault, he shouldn’t have hesitated. But he refused to ever let you get hurt. In silent anger he glared at both of them and he stood and walked over to your passed out body. He clenched his jaw as he picked your limp body and carried you. He made eye contact with Butcher and Hughie and it took all of his power not to shoot both of them in the face. 

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

Your whole body ached, and your head was founding. It was unbearable. You winced in pain as you began to peel layers of clothes off your body. God it fucking hurt. You closed your eyes as you attempted to hold back tears, only snapping back into reality when you felt Ben trace his fingers over your back. He noted every bruise and every cut. He knew they would heal, sure but it still made him seethe with anger. 

“What the fuck were you thinkin’, taking on Homelander like that? Did all the fucking pills you take for your psychosis fry all of your neurons or what?” He was so angry, and he never was exactly kind with his words. You always knew that, but it still hurt when he talked to you that way, especially when you had only been trying to help him. 

Your back was turned to him, so he couldn't see the hurt frown on your face but he did notice you huff at him and move away from his touch, refusing to look at him. 

“Okay.. Hey, no. I didn’t.. I didn’t mean it like that. Fuck.” He bit his tongue, squeezing his eyes shut with regret of his choice of words. You kept your back to him as you continued to undress. He groaned. “You would have died. And it would have been on me. I couldn’t live with that, is all.” 

“Well, I was passed out so it would have been a quick death, if that's of any consolation to you.” You answered shortly as you stripped down to your underwear. You don't think he understood that you stopped caring whether you lived or died a long time ago. 

“Okay, could you not be a bitch for two seconds?” He sighed, already annoyed by your attitude. 

“No. If you want a girl who doesn't talk back to you, go find Countess. Oh, wait, you can't ‘cause she sold you to the Russians. Guess you're stuck with me.” You answered with even more spitefulness, just to tick him off a little bit more. You didn't need to read his mind to know he was beyond pissed. You weren't exactly in a colorful mood, either. Your back was still turned to him as you tossed your bloodied gear in a corner. 

He breathed in deeply, pitching the bridge of his nose, “Violet, look at me when I'm talking to you.” 

You turned around with exasperation, your eyes open wide with a ‘what’ expression as you motioned your hands around passive-aggressively. 

“I didn't mean what I said. I know you were trying to help me… And I know that you can't always control your powers. I sometimes can't deal with my own head, I can't imagine having to deal with everybody else's.” Ben wasn't one to apologize. He was actually allergic to the words I'm sorry. You knew that. But you knew he at least tried to apologize using other words. So you listened. You knew he was having a hard time, too. “But I'm not really one to talk. I think I'm the one that's fucked in the head.” 

Your lips slightly parted at his words and you looked at him with a tiny bit of sadness. You never asked him details of what happened to him. Sure, you could look, but you never wanted to dig through his mind without his permission. He'd tell you if he really wanted to. But you didn't need to know everything to understand that what he went through messed him up. And it messed him up a lot. What happened at Herogasm was proof of that. 

“Do you want to tell me what happened at Herogasm? Don't make me look through your head, I don't want to.” You sighed softly, ultimately giving in, like you always did. Your delicate fingers dragged over his vest as you absentmindedly began to take off his gear. 

Ben stayed silent for a long time. He didn't think he even knew what happened. You were down to the last layer of the top part of his suit by the time he opened his mouth. 

“I blacked out. I don't.. I don't know what the fuck happened. I was talking to the fuck twins and then nothing. Next thing I remember is the burned bodies and the place was all fucked up.” He breathed out a little unevenly, a frown knitted deep on his face. He looked down at you when you stayed silent. “I didn't mean to. You believe that, right?” 

You did. But did he? 

“Of course I believe you.” You pressed a soft kiss to his lips, hands flat on his chest. He brought one of his hands to the back of your hair, holding your head in place. After a few seconds, you hummed, parting your lips slightly. “Can I ask you a question?” 

He nodded. 

“Why didn't you kill Homelander? You had a shot. Why didn't you take it? You would have done the whole fucking world a favor.” 

Ben stared at you with confusion. Did you really not get it? Were you that clueless or was he just that bad at showing his devotion for you? Probably the latter. 

“You saw what my blast did to the house. You wouldn't have survived that. I should have, I know, Butcher won't stop fucking reminding me. But he has nothing left to lose. Can't kill two girlfriends in the same week, y'know?” 

Your mouth fell open with indignation and you shoved at his chest, but deep down you felt warm at the fact that he chose you over his mission, for once. You still pretended to be angry at him, though. “Fucking prick.” 

He brought his lips to your jaw, leaving blunt kisses and you pretend to hate it. But the smile on your face was inevitable. 

“Wanna shower now or what?” He eventually said. That was the reason you were in the bathroom after all. 

You nodded. You could use the hot water on your bruised skin. You finished stripping, Ben just watched you with a perverted grin and smacked your ass before he stripped himself. 

He got in first, turning on the water and letting it run until steam began to fill the small space. He knew you liked it boiling hot. He didn't mind. You got in and immediately went under the shower head. You moaned in relief, the hot water running down your tense muscles, alleviating the soreness on your body. Ben watched you with a surprising amount of patience as he stood behind you. He leaned down and pressed his soft lips behind your neck, licking along the skin before he moved down your neck to your shoulder. He rested his hands on your hips, squeezing the skin as lightly as he could. You had enough bruises for one day. 

“I'm gonna take care of you tonight, m’kay?” He mumbled against your skin before he made you turn around. 

He crashed his lips against yours, rough fingers gripping your jaw as he slipped his tongue into your mouth. You whined, already craving more. When he kissed you like this, you just couldn't help yourself. 

“Need you, please.” You were breathless against his lips, your blunt nails digging into his chest desperately. He gave your bottom lip a small tug as he pulled away. 

He made you stand in front of him, his back to the shower wall as he slowly sank to his knees. Your eyes followed him longingly.

“C'mere.” He pulled you towards him, his eyes were full of greed as he made eye contact with you while he directed you to rest one of your feet on his shoulder. 

His eyes stayed locked with yours as leaned forward and licked a long stripe from your hole up to your clit. He wrapped his lips around the bud and sucked. You gasped, instantly pressing your hand against the damp wall to keep yourself up. Your mouth fell open in delight as he dragged his tongue around your sensitive clit. 

“O-Oh. Shit. Shit, Ben.” You whined softly, your free hand falling to his wet hair. He held your hip with one hand, steady vice grip holding you in place as he pushed his tongue into your hole. You swore the cry you let out was heard in the entire apartment. “Oh, my God. Fuck. That feels so good.” 

Ben hummed in approval as you wrapped your fingers around his hair and held his face against you. As if he would go anywhere. He happily kept his mouth on you, head moving up and down as he worked you with his tongue, his nose brushing your clit with every movement of his head. To say that you were so close was an understatement. You could feel your leg start to give out under you the longer you felt that heat build in your stomach. Ben was more than happy to assist you with that, too. His free hand grabbed the underside of your thigh and forced you further against his mouth until your leg was dangling over his shoulder. His other hand stayed on your hip, vice grip holding you upright effortlessly. 

His tongue found your clit one more time, and the emptiness it left was replaced by two long fingers pushing into your cunt. Your eyes rolled back as your mouth fell open in a silent cry. You leaned your forehead against the tile as you dug your nails into his scalp. Fuck, you didn't remember the last time a man ate you out, let alone ate you out like this. It felt so good you wanted to cry, you didn't even remember the pain in your body, all you could feel was pleasure. 

“Feels good, doesn't it sweetheart?” He spat into your clit as he fucked you with his fingers. If the shower hadn't been running the lewd sound of his fingers dragging in and out of your wet hole would've been so loud. But he could still hear it, and fuck did he love it. He took a second to look up at you. Such a pretty little thing when you were so close. “Oh, you wanna come don't you? Mhmm, yeah, you do. C'mon, gimme what I want. I know you can do it.” 

His tongue was back on your clit, he licked harsh stripes as he slipped his thick fingers in and out of your cunt with urgency. The sounds of him licking and sucking on your clit were almost as filthy as the sounds coming out of your mouth. His fingers fucked you without mercy, there was not a single thing gentle about his touch. It was rough and relentless. Just like he was. And it had you seeing fucking white before you even realized. 

You squeezed your eyes shut, lips parting in a silent cry as you held his face against you. But it wasn't like he'd go anywhere, if anything he kept his tongue on your swollen clit and his fingers never stopped. Tears formed in your eyes as your thighs shuddered. And when he didn't stop you were pulling at the ends of his hair to pull him off you. He groaned at this. Quite unhappy to be leaving the warm place between your thighs. 

“I wasn't done.” He looked up at you with a frown. You took in a deep breath, blowing out a small laugh as you grabbed at his face, weakly attempting to pull him back up.

“You can be down there all you want later, I just..” You swallowed hard, somewhat regaining your composure as he stood up to his full height. You pulled him down by his face and kissed him, and you kissed him fucking hard. And the taste of yourself still left on his tongue made you need him even more. “Just need you, okay?” 

“Need me where?” He grabbed your jaw, fingers sprawled out over your throat as he held your face back. He stared you down, malicious eyes full of greed as he waited for your answer. And he wouldn't give you anything until you did.

“Inside me.” You muttered through gritted teeth, almost delirious as you rubbed your thighs together with anticipation. He didn't look satisfied. You breathed in deeply, the aching need between your legs unbearable. “Need your cock, inside me, right now, Ben.” 

He lifted his eyebrows up in satisfaction and gave you a simple hum before he switched positions with you, without a word pressing your front against the shower wall. 

“I fuck you once and you're already acting like a pathetic whore? Okay. But you better fucking take my cock like the good fuck doll you've always been, hm?” He kicked your legs apart with his knee, his back pressing you further into the wall as he pressed the head of his cock against your entrance. You took a deep breath. “Yeah, you're gonna take this cock like a good lil’ fuck doll.” 

You gasped when he pushed himself inside with a snap of his hips, but it quickly turned into a moan when he pushed himself to the hilt, hips rutting against your ass. You dug your nails into nothing as you closed your eyes, taking in the delicious feeling of his thick cock stretching your walls.

“What a tight fucking cunt.” He grunted, gripping your hips, not wasting any time. He barely gave you time to adjust. “So fucking wet. Just for me, huh?” 

You were nodding against the wall instantly, pushing your ass back against him as he fucked you without mercy. You felt his lips on your shoulder as he leaned over you. The lewd sound of slapping skin was drowned out by the shower running but you could hear it clear as fucking day. 

“Yes! Mhmm feels so good.” You moaned softly, mindlessly reaching behind you to touch him, any part of him. Your fingers found his beard as you ran your hand over his face desperate to feel him, then you found his hair, and you latched on for dear life as he drilled into you. 

“Yeah? Like how my cock feels in your guts? You missed it, didn't you?” He pressed the side of his face into your head, allowing himself to close his eyes and soak the feeling of your nails on his scalp, he could even feel the faintest bit of electricity shooting through your fingers. He fucking loved it. 

“Yes! God yes.” You couldn't even describe how much. 

Ben smirked at this as he wrapped his arm over your chest and his fingers found your throat. He forced your head back, making you look at him. 

“Open your mouth,” He ordered, he held his finger to your pulse as he felt the fast rate of your heartbeat. You did as he said, and with a huff he spat in your mouth. “Slut. Swallow it.” 

How he could so easily break you down to nothing and treat you like no other man could, truly was beyond your understanding. But your mind didn't have to understand it. Your body just did it. You felt a pool of wetness seep through you at the damn near animalistic groan that rumbled in his throat. 

“You're such a good fucking girl.” He spat, pressing his lips against yours in a messy filthy kiss. You could barely keep your mouth open, not with the way he was so determined to make you fall apart for him. “You're my good fucking girl.” 

“I want to come. Please I—fuck.”  Your words were broken as your whole body burned up, and it wasn't from the hot water. 

“Of course, you do. It just feels so good, doesn't it?” He squeezed your throat harder, only choked out sounds could leave your mouth as he slipped his other hand to your swollen clit and rubbed harsh circles. 

Your orgasm hit you so hard you didn't realize it until you were shaking violently, your eyes rolled back into your head as you fucked yourself on his cock. Not that he ever stopped. He moaned loudly at the feeling of your wetness seeping on him. The wet sound of his cock slapping against your cunt made him want to come, too. 

“Fuck. Fucking Christ Violet. C'mon, make me come. Fuck yourself on my cock just like that. Be a good fuck doll for me, that's it.” His hand left your throat to pull at your hair. He dug his fingers deep into your scalp as his face fell on your shoulder. With a deep grunt he held you down on him. “Fucking take it, that's it, girl. Just like that. Fuck.” 

You could feel your mixed releases slip down your thigh. You sighed deeply, allowing yourself to close your eyes in ecstasy as he pressed his lips to your jaw. You hummed softly, reaching behind you to run your fingers through your hair. 

“I never want to leave this cunt. Feels so fucking good.” He muttered against your skin. 

You laughed softly, eyes still closed, you breathed heavily, “You're gonna have to eventually.” 

“Like fuck I am.” 

Both of his hands were on your hips and he turned you around. You whimpered softly at the emptiness he left you, but it was quickly replaced by choked out gasp when he grabbed both of your thighs and effortlessly hoisted you up around his waist. Your back was pressed against the tile wall and he slipped his cock inside you without a warning.

“Ben—” 

“You wanted my cock inside you? Well you better fucking take all of it. Every fucking inch ‘til I say so. You want it, don't you?” He spat, already fucking into you like you were nothing more than a toy. He held you up by your thighs as he kept them wide open so he could take as much as he wanted. And that he did. “Of course you do, this cunt is all mine to with as I fucking want. That ain't never gonna change.” 

What a long fucking night you were going to have. But you'd take a million of this over another day without him in your life. And this? This was all you ever wanted. You didn't need anything else, just him.

[deansbeer]

until the end ・ TOM WELLING. ៸៸៸ 𝐍𝐀𝐕𝐈𝐆𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 ! ♡ library

୨୧ synopsis. you prepare to marry tom, facing nerves and excitement, while jensen helps him navigate his own wedding day jitters.

୨୧ warning(s). fluff | fem!reader | wedding anxiety | mild language | best friend!jensen | a heartfelt best man speech | light friendly banter | wedding games (?) | mentions of whiskey (but nothing too extreme) | no use of Y/N.

୨୧ kari notes. i had a dream the night before about him and i can't recall what even happened :( but all i do remember is just seeing his face, like the one in the photo <3 he's so cutesy !!!

୨୧ word count. 2.3k

tom sat in his chair, his fingers drumming against the armrest as the distant hum of conversation filled the dressing room. he hadn't seen you all morning, and the absence of your presence weighed on him more than he cared to admit. the simple comfort of you—your scent, your voice, the warmth of your touch—was missing, leaving him restless.

his back ached from sitting too long, his body stiff after hours of preparations. the elegant suit he wore felt both like a privilege and a burden, the fabric pressing against him as he fidgeted, trying to find a comfortable position.

“jesus, man, you look like you're about to throw up."

tom turned his head to see jensen, his best man, standing in the doorway with a smirk. dressed in a sleek black suit, tie slightly loosened, jensen carried two glasses of whiskey—one of which he promptly handed to tom.

he took the glass but didn't drink, just stared at the amber liquid. "i don't feel like throwing up," he muttered, though the slight tremor in his hands betrayed him.

jensen raised an eyebrow, taking a sip of his drink. "could've fooled me. you've been sitting in that chair looking like a lost puppy."

tom sighed, leaning back. "i haven't seen her all day. feels weird."

jensen chuckled, clapping a hand on his shoulder. "that's because, for once in your life, you're not in control, dude. she's busy getting all done up while you sit here, looking pretty and trying not to panic."

"i'm not panicking,” tom argued, but jensen just gave him a knowing look.

"sure. and i don't have a supernatural convention next weekend."

tom rolled his eyes, finally taking a sip of the whiskey. the warmth spread through his chest, loosening some of the tension in his muscles. he savored the momentary relief, but it did little to quell the storm of emotions brewing inside him.

jensen sat down across from him, leaning forward, his expression turning serious. "look, man, i get it. this is huge. but you already won. you got the girl. you're just making it official now."

tom exhaled, rubbing his hands together. "that's the thing. what if i mess it up?"

jensen snorted. "dude, you've been with her for how long? you think one wedding is gonna change anything?"

tom hesitated, then shook his head. "no… i don't know. i just want it to be perfect."

jensen grinned. "it will be. because she loves you, dumbass."

tom huffed a small laugh, finally relaxing a little. jensen's unwavering confidence in him helped ease some of the knots in his stomach.

"now," jensen said, standing up and straightening his tie, "let's get you out there, before you start crying on me or something."

tom shot him a look. "i'm not gonna cry."

jensen smirked. "uh-huh. we'll see about that when she walks down the aisle."

tom shook his head, but deep down, he knew jensen was probably right. the thought of seeing you in your wedding dress made his heart race, a mix of excitement and trepidation swirling within him.

the morning had been a blur of soft laughter, gentle touches, and the rustling of silk and lace. you were surrounded by your bridesmaids, each one fluttering around you like butterflies, adjusting your hair, perfecting your makeup, and making sure everything was flawless. despite the whirlwind of preparations, your mind was solely on tom.

you hadn't seen him all morning, and it felt strange not to have him there beside you. he was your anchor, your home, your safe place. the anticipation of standing before him and exchanging vows sent shivers down your spine.

a soft knock on the door pulled you from your thoughts.

"come in," you called, your heart racing with excitement.

the door cracked open, and to your surprise, jensen peeked his head in. "hope i'm not breaking any ancient wedding traditions by showing up," he said, stepping inside. "but i come bearing a peace offering."

you laughed as he held up a letter—tom’s handwriting scrawled across the front.

"he made me deliver it," jensen explained, handing it to you. "said he 'needed' to talk to you, but, you know, rules and all."

your heart clenched as you carefully unfolded the note, your breath hitching in your throat.

baby… i know i'm not supposed to see you yet, but i needed to tell you this before you walk down the aisle. i love you. i've loved you from the moment i met you, and i will love you for the rest of my life. no matter what happens today, tomorrow, or fifty years from now—you are my always. see you soon, my love.

you pressed the letter to your chest, blinking back tears. the words resonated deep within you, filling you with warmth and affection.

jensen watched you with an amused expression. "yep. he's gonna cry."

you laughed softly, shaking your head. "no, he is not."

"wanna bet?" he grinned. "i'll put fifty bucks on it right now. he's already a mess."

you chuckled, but deep down, you knew jensen was probably right. the thought of tom's reaction when he saw you was enough to make your heart swell.

as the minutes ticked by, the atmosphere shifted. the music started, a soft melody filling the air, and the moment you had been waiting for had arrived.

everyone rose from their seats.

and tom—oh, tom—he went completely still.

jensen, standing beside him at the altar, smirked as he heard the sharp intake of breath from his best friend.

"told you," jensen whispered, barely containing his amusement.

tom ignored him. because there you were.

as you walked slowly down the aisle, tom’s throat tightened, his vision blurring slightly. you were breathtaking. ethereal. his.

the fabric of your dress flowed around you like a dream, the intricate details catching the light and shimmering with every step. the world around you faded as you locked eyes with tom, his expression a mixture of awe and vulnerability.

jensen discreetly reached into his pocket and pulled out a handkerchief, nudging tom with his elbow. "you good, dude?"

tom exhaled shakily, eyes never leaving you. "yeah."

jensen smirked. "told you you'd cry."

as you reached the altar, the officiant began the ceremony, but all tom could focus on was you. the way your hair fell gracefully over your shoulders, the glimmer of happiness in your eyes, the soft smile playing on your lips—it was everything he had ever dreamed of and more.

i can't believe this is happening, he thought, his heart racing. the officiant’s words were mere background noise as he absorbed the moment, the reality of marrying you sinking in with every heartbeat.

after a few heartfelt words, it was time for the vows. you turned to him, your eyes sparkling with love as you spoke from the heart.

"tom," you began, your voice steady but filled with emotion. "from the moment i met you, i knew you were special. you've been my best friend, my confidant, and my rock. our relationship has blossomed into something beautiful, and i can't imagine my life without you. today, i vow to always stand by your side, no matter what life throws our way."

he felt the tears prick at his eyes, his heart swelling with every word. you continued, your voice unwavering, "i promise to be your support, your cheerleader, and your partner-in-crime. i promise to laugh with you, cry with you, and share every moment of joy and heartache. you are my best friend, my lover, and my soulmate."

with each vow you made, tom felt the weight of the world lift off his shoulders. he was home.

when it was his turn, he took a deep breath, his voice thick with emotion. "(___) you are my everything. i've loved you from the moment we met, and i will love you for the rest of my life. you are my anchor, my light in the dark, and i promise to cherish you always."

the officiant smiled, clearly moved by the sincerity of your vows. the guests watched in rapt attention, and tom could feel the weight of their love and support surrounding you both.

"now, by the power vested in me, i pronounce you husband and wife," the officiant declared. "you may now kiss the bride."

tom stepped forward, his heart racing as he cupped your face in his hands. as your lips met, the world melted away, leaving just the two of you in that moment. the kiss was soft at first, an exploration filled with love and promise, before deepening into something more passionate.

after you pulled away, the applause erupted around you, a symphony of joy ringing in your ears. tom couldn't help but smile, the sight of you radiant in your wedding dress filling him with a sense of completeness.

the reception was a whirlwind of laughter and celebration. glasses clinked, music filled the air, and everyone was on their feet, dancing and reveling in the happiness that surrounded you both.

jensen stood up, tapping his glass with a fork, commanding attention. "alright, alright, listen up, people. i've got some words to say about this big guy right here."

tom groaned, burying his face in his hands. "oh, god."

jensen grinned, the mischievous glint in his eye impossible to miss. "relax, man. i'll keep it PG-13… mostly." he cleared his throat dramatically, the room quieting down in anticipation. "i've known tom for a long time now. and let me tell you, this dude? he's a legend. he's superman, for crying out loud. but today? today, he's just a guy who got incredibly, ridiculously lucky."

the crowd erupted in laughter, and tom shook his head with a chuckle, feeling a mix of embarrassment and pride.

jensen turned to you, his tone shifting to sincerity. "seriously, i don't know how you put up with him, but i'm glad you do. because i've never seen him happier than when he's with you. and if there's anyone who deserves a lifetime of happiness, it's him."

tom swallowed hard, his jaw tightening as emotion welled up. jensen's words struck a chord, and he felt the heat of tears pooling in his eyes.

"so let's raise our glasses," jensen continued, raising his glass of chardonnay. "to tom and his beautiful wife. may your love be as epic as smallville, as unbreakable as superman himself, and as legendary as this wedding."

"cheers!" the crowd erupted, raising their glasses with enthusiasm.

tom, now definitely blinking back tears, turned to you with a soft smile. "i love you," he whispered, leaning in close, his voice barely audible over the cheers.

"i love you too," you replied, your heart swelling with joy.

you both shared another kiss, the world around you faded, leaving only the two of you wrapped in your love. the evening unfolded like a beautiful dream, filled with dancing, laughter, and the warmth of family and friends celebrating your union.

tom pulled you close during the first dance, his arms securely around your waist as you swayed to the music. the world outside faded away, and all that mattered was this moment—the two of you, together, forever.

"i can't believe we're actually married," you said, gazing up at him, your heart racing.

"believe it," he replied, his voice low and filled with emotion. "you're mine now, and i'm never letting go."

the words hung in the air, a promise that resonated deep within you. you moved together, the rhythm of the music matched the heartbeat of your love, each beat echoing the journey you had taken to get to this moment.

as the night wore on, laughter echoed around the room. friends and family shared stories, memories, and heartfelt toasts, each one a testament to the love you and tom had cultivated over the years. the atmosphere was electric, a perfect blend of joy and celebration that wrapped around you like a warm embrace.

jensen, ever the entertainer, took to the floor again, his antics bringing laughter and smiles from everyone. "alright, folks! next up, we have a little game for the newlyweds," he declared, his eyes twinkling with mischief. "let's see how well they really know each other!"

tom and you exchanged glances, amusement dancing in your eyes.

"bring it on," you said confidently, nudging tom playfully.

the game involved answering questions about each other, and as the rounds progressed, the room filled with laughter as you both revealed little quirks and secrets that made your relationship unique.

"okay, what's his favorite movie?" jensen asked, looking between you and tom.

"easy. mutiny on the bounty," you answered without hesitation.

tom grinned, nodding in approval. "and (___)'s is the craft," he replied, and the room filled with cheers.

the questions continued, each one drawing out laughter and teasing from the guests. but amidst the fun, tom felt a deep sense of gratitude swell within him.

when the night began to wound down, you found yourselves standing on the balcony, the soft glow of fairy lights surrounding you, the stars twinkling like diamonds in the night sky.

"can you believe we did it?" you asked, leaning against the railing, your heart full.

tom turned to you, his expression softening. "i can. and i wouldn't change a thing. this is exactly where i'm meant to be."

you smiled, warmth spreading through you. "i love you, tom. you make me so incredibly happy."

he stepped closer, wrapping his arms around you, pulling you into his embrace. "i love you too, baby. more than i can ever put into words. you're my everything."

as you stood together, the world around you faded into silence, leaving only the two of you in your perfect moment. the wedding had been a beautiful celebration, but it was the love you shared—strong, unwavering—that truly made it unforgettable.

you stared up at him, your heart brimming with joy, you knew this was just the beginning of your forever.

EXTRAS. @titsout4jackles @honeyryewhiskey @daylighted @st4rfckerz ⎯⎯ if you wanna be tagged in any tom or clark content, do let me know !!! i love pookie wookie sm :(