[She supposes she ought to feel a little guilty for getting him to come here tonight. He's surprisingly gone along with everything she's suggested, ranging from ditching their plans to stay in and order pizza so she could come to the carnival and enjoy some terrible fried food. Some corn dogs and beer turn into sharing a funnel cake, which turns into Clara suggesting they go on some of the rides "since they were already there". He even wins her a stuffed bear, which she makes a big deal of and names after him. It's probably easy to tell how much she values the bear, just by the way she holds it and doesn't want to put it down.
She's a reckless daredevil and loves everything they go on, even the roller coaster that he swears isn't bolted in the right way and the ferris wheel that he swears is going to kill him once they reach the top and sit there for a while. She thinks she gets him to relax well enough with some kissing.
But nothing's likely going to be able to get him to relax as she guides him out onto a grassy area that's set up for dancing. The stars are out overhead and a live Journey cover band is playing Faithfully. It's more than a little cliche, but she wants to have this moment with him. So she stubbornly drags him to the dead center of the area and gets him to start dancing with her. It's at about the moment where the song registers with him and she glances up at his face that she knows he realizes that she's just tricked him into spending an entire night out with her.
It's a date.
They've been careful to avoid them, always keeping things physical with conversation and little things like carry out and old movies on TV being their main activities. She's never asked him for more than that, but after a year of always popping up to be with him wherever he goes (and the frequency of her visits starting to come on closer together and for longer stretches of time) she knows for sure now that she wants more. The fact that she feels so much for him and hasn't let herself say any of it yet needs to be addressed too. They've been doing this for long enough that she doesn't shy away from the fact that she thinks she might love him. She just has no idea how to approach that matter with him, especially not in a way that won't have him vanishing for a few months.]
Come on, don't look at me like that.
[She quietly pleads with him. The look on her face strongly resembles a kicked puppy, and it only becomes more dejected when she fears he might pull and run away. ]
You're enjoying yourself, aren't you? It's only a dance.
[But it isn't, not to her. And she's positive that they both know that.]
[ When's the last time he's had a night off? And hell, at that, the last time he's cracked a grin and possibly even bellowed out laughter— memories are plagued with nothing but opaque images of those he's lost, a carousel much similar to the one that swirls in the distance behind them, boasting it's fluorescent lights and fading, childish giggles. It's easy to lose himself to it; really, it's easy to lose himself in her: how her mouth carries the taste of cotton candy throughout the night, how he uses it as an excuse to dip in for more; the teddy bear he'd nearly just paid the guy for given the entire system was rigged.
It dawns on him, once she'd gotten him to the top of that ferris wheel that with her, with Clara, he had such little power. She was the fracture in his facade, the ache to own softer hands, rather than those filled with callouses if only to hold her a little gentler- treat her as well as she deserved. It never takes long for him to spiral down that warred mental path, even with the dazing festival colors flaring within those wide hues of hers, staring up at him now as realization hardens across his features.
It was easier, this thing they did, without the titles. Because with titles came expectations, and all the more room for him to disappoint her, and such hope glimmered right there in the way she looked at him, like a plea she's too fearful to voice. He isn't naive enough not to know why. He's a runner. Always has been, and so maybe she's become sick of it. Their ghosting around feelings, meeting up as if it were just for a satiable fuck, nothing else.
It had always been something else. Everything else. Doesn't mean he can let himself have it.
Palms remain at her sides, though the music around them has fallen to a hush at the tumult of panic that envelopes him. There's a furrow of his brow, and it's like a knife lodged right into his chest, the way her tone slips to something melancholy. Longing. ] Clara...
[ It's almost a warning, but he bites his tongue. He doesn't want everything to turn hard, doesn't want to ruin a night that's been too good to him. It couldn't last though, could it? Nothing could. ] If it was just a dance, y'wouldn't have to say so.
[Her mouth always has had a habit of running away from her. It seems that this time, she may have started a conversation that she's not ready to take part in. A lump forms in her throat and she swallows it roughly, trying not to look too disappointed. She's gone into this determined not to push him for anything. She's known since the start that he's a broken man, and she's tried to build him up without ever asking for anything from him. His life doesn't let him give hope easily.
But she still wants to give him some anyway.
The fear that he might pull away and leave is incredibly real, and she holds onto him just a little tighter.]
I think it's time we did more than just dance.
[She cautiously tells him, trying to ignore the way her voice trembles. This is unknown territory, dangerous territory. He may not forgive her for diving right in and dragging him along with her. But when you love someone, shouldn't you fight to have them? Shouldn't you want to let them know how you feel? ]
[The video Cathy sends was...well. Not intended for Dean specifically. In fact she's not really sure who this is going to beyond "someone who is not a contact in her list." She and her friends are playing a game in which they send risque content to a phone number that has been randomized, and to see what happens. So enjoythevideo, Dean.]
had fun at the club tonight but I didn't feel like taking any of these guys home. so I'm texting you to see if you can entertain me better than them
( honestly, the last thing he expects to see is anything the least bit welcoming when he opens those attachments, considered on just deleting the message entirely. there was no telling who'd gotten ahold of his number, and with how rarely it was willingly given, it usually didn't mean too good of company to see a ping of unknown numbers flag at the top of his screen.
needless to say, when he does open it, it's only the gentle buzz of the device in his palm that startles him back to a clear mind. well, as clear as it can be with something like that to fawn over. )
it's late and she's tired â tired of more things she even wants to admit, of pretending that killing is the only thing that makes her feel anything anymore (though the way that traitor cracked tonight, practically shriveled up as he died as she let out everything pent up inside of her in one deadly scream into his ear, metal bar through his shoulder keeping him pinned to the wall was nearly enough to stir something inside of her). of acting like she doesn't care about the man with her father's face, of his sheer determination to see the good in her, foolishly, because she knows for a fact that there's none left.
she's not his laurel. she'll never be his laurel. it hurts. she hates him for making her feel like this. she wants it all to go away â )
i need you to do something for me.
i need you to come here and wreck me so badly i forget who i am. forget my own name.
do you think you can do that for me, dean?
( it's a little different than laurel's typical approach to their rendezvous â controlling and snarky until she can one-up him, completely have her way with him; she sounds a little desperate, but she's deathly serious. )
( late sorta depends on who you ask. for him, the inky veil of the night's no different than when he shuts his eyes, sleep a rare blanket of comfort to find between countless nights on the road. hell, whatever him and sammy were chasing this time—so far two shades away from squat—had made even the idea of an aged motel room better than crashing in the back seat of the impala.
there's a callous palm scrubbing down along his cheeks, stubble-covered jaw as he hears phone vibrate against the end table on his side of the room, sammy perched behind some makeshift divider and likely either nose deep in some angel coding or dappling in sweet dreams.
last person he thinks to find contacting him at such an hour is her. definitely doesn't sound like it's the right time to tease, knows something's likely gnawing itself at her from the inside out enough to send something so startlingly submissive, but he can't help himself. naturally. maybe he just wants to see exactly how willing she is to give him that control. )
You gonna say please?
Weren't very nice the last time I saw you, you think you deserve it?
( his own wounds had already been nursed, only one that'd required a few stitches at the outer of his arm, snapping the thread with his teeth before nestling everything back together into that first aid kid. there was a handful of them lying around the bunker, and he's well aware that her own would need attention. from the way she held her own back there, however, he doesn't find it right to assume that she hasn't suffered an open wound before. he knows what it's like, to prefer to take care of himself, how difficult it is to accept the offering of a harbor she couldn't even really be sure was anywhere safe.
sam'd insisted just as much as the elder, and the two of them had spoken lowly about the accommodations before she'd slipped off quietly into the shower. of course, that'd included for him not to pull any shit, to which dean offered up two palms as if in a white-flagged gesture. sam's always found sleep a hell of a lot easier than he has; once upon a time he'd envied it, but dean's gotten used to the quiet of the bunker, the endless books at his disposal, a mind that never ceases to keep him company with harrowing thoughts.
he hears the light pad of her footsteps before her figure appears in the entry, glancing up from where he's leaning, and he can't help but look her over. it's a quick study, more appreciative than it is predatory. this wasn't the time nor place, wasn't some quick lay in a motel room, but there was no denying the allure she held standing before him so simple, so bare and in his clothes nonetheless. those dark scarlet locks dampening the collar of the shirt, the supple expanse of her skin, he finds himself clearing his throat and forcing his gaze down to the bottle in his hands, the briefest of smiles forming at her words. )
Didn't do anything for you that you hadn't done for me and my brother. ( honestly, he couldn't give two shits left what happened to him, but sammy? he'd build anyone a damn throne for sparing him a mere cut. idly, he fidgets with the beer in his hand before raising it to his lips once more, nursing on it familiarly. )
You took a hell of a beating back there. ( voice is low as it is gentle, gravel-toned and careful. he knows she isn't comfortable; hell, he can't blame her, but that doesn't mean he won't try and mend that over. ) You alright?
Acquiescing the reply with a slight nod and a gentle shrug, Natasha eased further into the small kitchen, controlling her wince with master aplomb, and came to gingerly take a seat at the table, resting her arms on its cool surface.
"That's true," she admitted quietly, gazing off into the middle space. "I suppose I owe you one, this next time." Her lips quirked with the thought. These two weren't unfamiliar, though she'd never lingered long enough to be considered introduced. Safer that way; she didn't need friends, she only collected enemies. But considering that she was in their fortress...
"Natalia Alianova Romanova," she intoned, the Cossack inflection thick in her voice, especially with her given name. "Anglicized to Natasha Romanoff," she added, dialect disappearing to leave her tone comfortably middle-American. "And you must be Dean Winchester, and that's your brother Sam, snoring in the library." She acknowledged him with another light nod. "I've heard of you."
Her back twinged just then, and this time she wasn't able to hide the soft hiss of indrawn breath, nor the moue of discomfort that crossed her brow. "I'm...all right," she insisted, but sat up a little straighter to keep from stretching the edges of the gaping gash. "That last ublyudki marked me pretty good before you beheaded him." It had stopped oozing blood, thankfully, but the wound was still raw and sore.
"I don't think it needs stitches, but it definitely hurts like hell." Hard to admit, but there was no use in posturing, not here or now. Still, she did opt to make light of the situation, saying, "Twelve hours will see me right as rain, and I'll be out of your hair, sooner, if possible."
She'd gotten the message almost two months to the day since she'd departed company with the Winchester brothers, thanking them quietly but profusely for their hospitality and for saving her life. Their good-natured acceptance, along with a few blushed cheeks, back-of-the-neck rubs, and crooked little smiles had touched her amusement, and she'd headed back to her own abode still a little sore, a bit stiff, but more than ready to get back to work.
And she had. Natasha had returned "home" to seven contracts waiting in her inbox and on her answering machine. As she'd earlier promised Dean during her brief stay, she triaged the work and bounced a few on to the brothers--legitimate work that she would ensure they were compensated for, and wasted little time getting herself back on the job.
Weeks passed, and Dean actually surprised her by keeping in touch, as he'd told her he would. It was a little...disconcerting at first; she was too used to operating solo and holding 'radio silence' unless breaking it was absolutely necessary, but Dean Winchester apparently didn't have many friends to talk with, either. Texts soon evolved into actual phone calls, provided neither of them were working, and almost without realizing it, Natasha found herself looking forward to those hours of seemingly meaningless conversation, often lying away until sunrise with her cell phone tucked beneath her ear as she just listened to Dean's wonderful voice. The inherent growl in his tone seemed to vanish the miles between them and Natasha often imagined him lying right beside her, purring words right against her skin.
More than once she had to haul out of bed and take a cold goddamned shower after hanging up the phone.
Returning home after a particularly difficult hunt, Natasha headed straight for a hot bath and leftover pizza afterwards, scarfing down the remainder before turning off all the lights in her flat and slipped into bed--satin sheets, note--checking the time on her phone. Ten-fifteen. She had a quarter hour before it would chime with a familiar ringtone (Eye of the Tiger; he'd insisted) and the rest of the night would be considerably better spent than the day had been. Sighing softly, Natasha reclined against her nest of pillows, the satin feeling heavenly against her bare skin. A slow churning had been lurking in the pit of her stomach for a few days now; a pestersome happenstance whenever one was alone, damnit.
But long fingers slipped over her skin regardless, closing her eyes and shamelessly imagining another's hands doing the same thing, instead.
( this wasn't the sort of thing dean often kept up with. other hunters'd hear from him at times, sure, and maybe even with some sort of consistency should there be some sort of mutual benefit; while he'd told himself for long enough keeping in contact with red was merely for the fact that she was a damn good source of both intel and cases whenever their own stretch of land fell quiet, he wasn't blind enough to recognize the way it developed into more.
'more' was another thing that the winchester's weren't great at upholding. he doesn't dare let it tread into anything romantic, no, because he's got no right tangling up another woman in his fucked up life, even if it's a life strikingly similar to his own. he's got too many problems, too eager to push away what's too close, and he guesses that's why this works. this... whatever it is they're doing, a soft, velvet voice on the other end of that phone sometimes the lone thing that kept him sane.
him and sammy had just gotten back from a nasty case of shifters, a few fresh cuts left behind, but nothing he couldn't handle. skin is left almost supple save for perpetually calloused hands after a hot shower, losing himself beneath rhythmic droplets and letting the night's events whir through his mind again and again, as they so often did after a hunt. he recounts everything, and as he stands before the mirror in that bathroom he drags a single hand across it, almost letting out a pitiable laugh at the hollow shell staring back.
by the time he lets himself plop down at the edge of his bed, touch dragging across his features, his phone glows with a notification from sam. 10:28 PM. heading out to manchester, eileen needs another set of eyes. a small grunt, normally he'd be up for any sort of distraction, any case to wear himself out into, but instead he's damn foolish enough to lay back against his own mattress with the one thing at mind that stills everything else. if he closes his eyes, he can still see the way she'd walked into that bunker's kitchen in the loose drape of his shirt.
âĒ hey. brothers are a different code. especially co-dependent ones. âĢ
I mean, he'd try. âĒ and then, a haze-induced tangent—(you should probably get that ride to him, cait. âĢ We've gotten into some good brawls in our days I ever tell you the time we took out three biker dudes? Turns out it was more a sticky situation than we thought. Imagine some huge guy, white beard, vamp teeth Ruined the whole look. Turns out trim santa didn't like anyone making that joke, either
Tell you? âĒ he's never really had a problem with that, has he. âĢ
If you're inviting me to break in the sheets, there is no part of me that minds taking you up against them, devouring you against them, anything you want against them. We'll have to be thorough, though. Have to make sure we leave an honest review.
As for the red, I wouldn't mind you in nothing but that lipstick, but if you have anything for me to unwrap, can't say I'd complain.
âĒ in fact he'd nearly die about it. lingerie's always been a weak spot, for dean.
he shouldn't of even brought this up. why, christian grey? âĢ
Uh, basically some millionaire with daddy issues. More than daddy issues. Hence leading to him finding some girl, making her sign some kind of dom contract shit to keep everything hush hush between them. He's got this red dungeon looking room with apparatus', paddles, you name it this guy is on his shit.
Dunno what happened to using your hands or a good old fashioned tie, but what do I know.
I most certainly am inviting you over to help break them in. All night and all day if we must. How else are we to test them properly?
[she has a few ideas, actually. though his are much better. but he forgot one,]
You'll have to tell me what they feel like against you, too. [both the first set underneath him and--] Especially around your wrists and your eyes. [--the second set she purchased for the sole purpose of cutting strips. if they look as gorgeous as they do on the display screen she knows they'll look lovely around Dean.]
I might have a little something you can untie. But you'll have to use your teeth. [while not exactly lingerie Peggy thinks it'll have nearly the same effect on him. if not then she'll simply have to do better for next time, won't she?
she really shouldn't have asked for him to explain.]
And that's considered erotic literature in your time? Have people really grown tired of Cleland or Monbron?
( or else she might just have to start calling you "whinewhinewhinechester" instead of sam. )
Okay, let's get to it. Since I'm clearly going solo this year, thanks to Josie going all twindisposed on me, I currently have three equally amazing ideas:
[ She's not sure how long they've already been at it, Sam and Julia trading another book filled with ancient texts and no answers. Her fingers trace the rim of her whiskey glass as she reads, trying to figure out how another Knight of Hell apparently came into existence when they were supposed to be wiped out.
Julia can't stop her eyes from wandering to Dean when the Latin phrases all start to meld together, barely registering Sam mentioning something about needing help with an Ancient Greek passage. Whatever was going on between herself and Dean wasn't something she spoke about openly. Especially not to his brother of all people. They had fun together whenever she was in town and she tried to be a safe place for him if he needed to vent his feelings... Though it usually wasn't verbal. But where he didn't talk, she did -- confided in him when he'd been at some of his lowest points. She didn't take his shit and she'd been in his shoes. Not the same situation, but being stripped of her soul and possessed, being forced to take a back seat while she watched atrocity after atrocity go down. People telling her she shouldn't blame herself, not understanding why she couldn't have been strong enough to fight it. Even if it had been an unkillable monster inside her.
She had no idea what emotions were going through his mind, but she had a guess of how he wanted to spend her first night back in the bunker. She runs her fingers through her long curls, brushing them out of her face as she returns her attention to Sam to help with the translation. But she can't stop the way her eyes keep drifting to the other brother, casually dipping a finger into her whiskey as she debates a word choice with Sam before bringing her finger to her lips.
If he needed to escape, she was ready to indulge him as soon as she and Sam hit a natural stopping point. Could be hours from now, but she'd make it worth his while. The hours cemented into place once she genuinely gets caught up in a theory from Sam, jumping to her feet to walk around and grab one of the books she'd brought with her near Dean -- remembering something she'd seen in passing. Her knee-length sweater billows behind her, pulling away from her black tank top and jeans. She's never not in enchanted heels, the sound echoing in the large room as she walks. Pulling out the chair next to him, she quickly sits, flipping through the pages as she calls names and phrases out to Sam while he takes notes. Her concentration is completely dedicated to the pages, already reaching for another book as she and Sam follow another idea that could be a possible lead.
Even this close to him, she's already distracted again -- giving his thigh a quick squeeze under the table before she throws herself fully into translating Aramaic on the fly. ]
excuse my tl;dr just setting up his ~brain's setting
( this was just another reason why the bunker should've been off limits to everyone but cas, and even then his judgment was questionable. dean's mostly gotten past the fact that she's a witch—she's saved their asses more than once and proved herself trusthworthy for the most part, but he's never one to go all in, regardless. the moment you let your guard down is the moment shit goes south. he's learned it time and time again; a certain red-haired witch didn't really help matters, either.
as it stands, her knowledge of the ancient languages scrawled within dozens of the books compacted within the bunker's library was an asset. paired with sam's neutron brain, they're a hell of a lot closer to cracking in on this bastard than they would've been just the two of them alone. dean may not be able to decode the literature, but he's taking to scouring the systems—checking outages, security cameras, power fluxes, anything that might help them lay down a track and figure out where this thing was headed—the why could wait.
thing is, he could be a hell of a lot more productive if she didn't keep eying him from across the table, pressing her hair to the side and wafting over scarves of that perfume she wore each time. sam doesn't seem phased, and luckily as was usual, had his nose too far buried within the books to notice the exchanged glances turned to stares, almost like a contest as to who would give out first. typically he'd have a lot more restraint, but all it takes is a flit of his gaze down to the plush of those lips and he can see them wrapped around him with his fist in her hair. he can count on one hand the number of women he's slept with more than once, and it's for all the reasons opposite of her.
she doesn't ask questions. doesn't expect him to talk. doesn't try and fix him; she takes and she gives in equal parts, and knows how to walk out that door.
an hour turns to four, and he's near calling it quits for the night when the sound of her heels tutting against the floor calls his attention, unashamedly trailing her as she ventured for a book, settling herself then at his side. he knows full and well that it's intentional, and those lithe fingers of hers scoring up along his thigh only confirm the same. his jaw tightens—but it's childs play as far as cracking his composure. if she wanted to play dirty and wither him down right here in front of his own brother, he certainly wasn't one to be a pawn. he shifts a little, legs bowed beneath the table as he leans back, merely coming off a change in posture, but it enables him to reach his own hand beneath the table without sammy's knowledge, only he's not so shy.
he wastes no time in drawing two fingers up to the hem just at the apex of her thighs, restraining a groan at the heat that permeates there. otherwise, he doesn't take a single look away from his laptop, applying a bit of pressure against that sweet spot to let her know: i'm game. )
[ guess who drove an hour out to follow a lead on some big bad that ended up going nowhere? this gal. ]
I might stick around one more day to make sure I covered all my bases, but I'd rather not. There's only one motel around here and it's making me seriously reconsider my rule about not sleeping in my car. Please tell me you found something.
( hashtag tuesday ptsd. collectively he's probably driven weeks only for a trail he's on to run dry. join the club, troy. )
Found something as in a case? Or something other than the single motel along the entire route? Place isn't that bad, by the way. Just don't expect mints on your pillow.
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She's a reckless daredevil and loves everything they go on, even the roller coaster that he swears isn't bolted in the right way and the ferris wheel that he swears is going to kill him once they reach the top and sit there for a while. She thinks she gets him to relax well enough with some kissing.
But nothing's likely going to be able to get him to relax as she guides him out onto a grassy area that's set up for dancing. The stars are out overhead and a live Journey cover band is playing Faithfully. It's more than a little cliche, but she wants to have this moment with him. So she stubbornly drags him to the dead center of the area and gets him to start dancing with her. It's at about the moment where the song registers with him and she glances up at his face that she knows he realizes that she's just tricked him into spending an entire night out with her.
It's a date.
They've been careful to avoid them, always keeping things physical with conversation and little things like carry out and old movies on TV being their main activities. She's never asked him for more than that, but after a year of always popping up to be with him wherever he goes (and the frequency of her visits starting to come on closer together and for longer stretches of time) she knows for sure now that she wants more. The fact that she feels so much for him and hasn't let herself say any of it yet needs to be addressed too. They've been doing this for long enough that she doesn't shy away from the fact that she thinks she might love him. She just has no idea how to approach that matter with him, especially not in a way that won't have him vanishing for a few months.]
Come on, don't look at me like that.
[She quietly pleads with him. The look on her face strongly resembles a kicked puppy, and it only becomes more dejected when she fears he might pull and run away. ]
You're enjoying yourself, aren't you? It's only a dance.
[But it isn't, not to her. And she's positive that they both know that.]
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It dawns on him, once she'd gotten him to the top of that ferris wheel that with her, with Clara, he had such little power. She was the fracture in his facade, the ache to own softer hands, rather than those filled with callouses if only to hold her a little gentler- treat her as well as she deserved. It never takes long for him to spiral down that warred mental path, even with the dazing festival colors flaring within those wide hues of hers, staring up at him now as realization hardens across his features.
It was easier, this thing they did, without the titles. Because with titles came expectations, and all the more room for him to disappoint her, and such hope glimmered right there in the way she looked at him, like a plea she's too fearful to voice. He isn't naive enough not to know why. He's a runner. Always has been, and so maybe she's become sick of it. Their ghosting around feelings, meeting up as if it were just for a satiable fuck, nothing else.
It had always been something else. Everything else. Doesn't mean he can let himself have it.
Palms remain at her sides, though the music around them has fallen to a hush at the tumult of panic that envelopes him. There's a furrow of his brow, and it's like a knife lodged right into his chest, the way her tone slips to something melancholy. Longing. ] Clara...
[ It's almost a warning, but he bites his tongue. He doesn't want everything to turn hard, doesn't want to ruin a night that's been too good to him. It couldn't last though, could it? Nothing could. ] If it was just a dance, y'wouldn't have to say so.
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But she still wants to give him some anyway.
The fear that he might pull away and leave is incredibly real, and she holds onto him just a little tighter.]
I think it's time we did more than just dance.
[She cautiously tells him, trying to ignore the way her voice trembles. This is unknown territory, dangerous territory. He may not forgive her for diving right in and dragging him along with her. But when you love someone, shouldn't you fight to have them? Shouldn't you want to let them know how you feel? ]
We've been dancing for a year now.
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decadentdecade.
I'm not asking
[ yes he is. just grumpy, as he's been paired with her for yet another case.
sammy was completely unwilling to go undercover with her. big guess why. ]
what a good world
[Drama queens. Shoot a guy one time...
But if she has to pick one of the brothers, she does like working Dean up better. He throws the best tantrums.]
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dean pls
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sorry for the wait. had a crazy week
np, same
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text;
had fun at the club tonight but I didn't feel like taking any of these guys home.
so I'm texting you to see if you can entertain me better than them
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needless to say, when he does open it, it's only the gentle buzz of the device in his palm that startles him back to a clear mind. well, as clear as it can be with something like that to fawn over. )
Uh, think you got the wrong number kid
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text obviously
it's late and she's tired â tired of more things she even wants to admit, of pretending that killing is the only thing that makes her feel anything anymore (though the way that traitor cracked tonight, practically shriveled up as he died as she let out everything pent up inside of her in one deadly scream into his ear, metal bar through his shoulder keeping him pinned to the wall was nearly enough to stir something inside of her). of acting like she doesn't care about the man with her father's face, of his sheer determination to see the good in her, foolishly, because she knows for a fact that there's none left.
she's not his laurel. she'll never be his laurel. it hurts. she hates him for making her feel like this. she wants it all to go away â )
i need you to do something for me.
i need you to come here and wreck me so badly i forget who i am. forget my own name.
do you think you can do that for me, dean?
( it's a little different than laurel's typical approach to their rendezvous â controlling and snarky until she can one-up him, completely have her way with him; she sounds a little desperate, but she's deathly serious. )
obviously she says with a brick of prose
there's a callous palm scrubbing down along his cheeks, stubble-covered jaw as he hears phone vibrate against the end table on his side of the room, sammy perched behind some makeshift divider and likely either nose deep in some angel coding or dappling in sweet dreams.
last person he thinks to find contacting him at such an hour is her. definitely doesn't sound like it's the right time to tease, knows something's likely gnawing itself at her from the inside out enough to send something so startlingly submissive, but he can't help himself. naturally. maybe he just wants to see exactly how willing she is to give him that control. )
You gonna say please?
Weren't very nice the last time I saw you, you think you deserve it?
punches myself in the face
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đžđ đđđđ đđđđđ đļđ đđžđđŊđ.
( his own wounds had already been nursed, only one that'd required a few stitches at the outer of his arm, snapping the thread with his teeth before nestling everything back together into that first aid kid. there was a handful of them lying around the bunker, and he's well aware that her own would need attention. from the way she held her own back there, however, he doesn't find it right to assume that she hasn't suffered an open wound before. he knows what it's like, to prefer to take care of himself, how difficult it is to accept the offering of a harbor she couldn't even really be sure was anywhere safe.
sam'd insisted just as much as the elder, and the two of them had spoken lowly about the accommodations before she'd slipped off quietly into the shower. of course, that'd included for him not to pull any shit, to which dean offered up two palms as if in a white-flagged gesture. sam's always found sleep a hell of a lot easier than he has; once upon a time he'd envied it, but dean's gotten used to the quiet of the bunker, the endless books at his disposal, a mind that never ceases to keep him company with harrowing thoughts.
he hears the light pad of her footsteps before her figure appears in the entry, glancing up from where he's leaning, and he can't help but look her over. it's a quick study, more appreciative than it is predatory. this wasn't the time nor place, wasn't some quick lay in a motel room, but there was no denying the allure she held standing before him so simple, so bare and in his clothes nonetheless. those dark scarlet locks dampening the collar of the shirt, the supple expanse of her skin, he finds himself clearing his throat and forcing his gaze down to the bottle in his hands, the briefest of smiles forming at her words. )
Didn't do anything for you that you hadn't done for me and my brother. ( honestly, he couldn't give two shits left what happened to him, but sammy? he'd build anyone a damn throne for sparing him a mere cut. idly, he fidgets with the beer in his hand before raising it to his lips once more, nursing on it familiarly. )
You took a hell of a beating back there. ( voice is low as it is gentle, gravel-toned and careful. he knows she isn't comfortable; hell, he can't blame her, but that doesn't mean he won't try and mend that over. ) You alright?
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"That's true," she admitted quietly, gazing off into the middle space. "I suppose I owe you one, this next time." Her lips quirked with the thought. These two weren't unfamiliar, though she'd never lingered long enough to be considered introduced. Safer that way; she didn't need friends, she only collected enemies. But considering that she was in their fortress...
"Natalia Alianova Romanova," she intoned, the Cossack inflection thick in her voice, especially with her given name. "Anglicized to Natasha Romanoff," she added, dialect disappearing to leave her tone comfortably middle-American. "And you must be Dean Winchester, and that's your brother Sam, snoring in the library." She acknowledged him with another light nod. "I've heard of you."
Her back twinged just then, and this time she wasn't able to hide the soft hiss of indrawn breath, nor the moue of discomfort that crossed her brow. "I'm...all right," she insisted, but sat up a little straighter to keep from stretching the edges of the gaping gash. "That last ublyudki marked me pretty good before you beheaded him." It had stopped oozing blood, thankfully, but the wound was still raw and sore.
"I don't think it needs stitches, but it definitely hurts like hell." Hard to admit, but there was no use in posturing, not here or now. Still, she did opt to make light of the situation, saying, "Twelve hours will see me right as rain, and I'll be out of your hair, sooner, if possible."
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Cont. (or something)
And she had. Natasha had returned "home" to seven contracts waiting in her inbox and on her answering machine. As she'd earlier promised Dean during her brief stay, she triaged the work and bounced a few on to the brothers--legitimate work that she would ensure they were compensated for, and wasted little time getting herself back on the job.
Weeks passed, and Dean actually surprised her by keeping in touch, as he'd told her he would. It was a little...disconcerting at first; she was too used to operating solo and holding 'radio silence' unless breaking it was absolutely necessary, but Dean Winchester apparently didn't have many friends to talk with, either. Texts soon evolved into actual phone calls, provided neither of them were working, and almost without realizing it, Natasha found herself looking forward to those hours of seemingly meaningless conversation, often lying away until sunrise with her cell phone tucked beneath her ear as she just listened to Dean's wonderful voice. The inherent growl in his tone seemed to vanish the miles between them and Natasha often imagined him lying right beside her, purring words right against her skin.
More than once she had to haul out of bed and take a cold goddamned shower after hanging up the phone.
Returning home after a particularly difficult hunt, Natasha headed straight for a hot bath and leftover pizza afterwards, scarfing down the remainder before turning off all the lights in her flat and slipped into bed--satin sheets, note--checking the time on her phone. Ten-fifteen. She had a quarter hour before it would chime with a familiar ringtone (Eye of the Tiger; he'd insisted) and the rest of the night would be considerably better spent than the day had been. Sighing softly, Natasha reclined against her nest of pillows, the satin feeling heavenly against her bare skin. A slow churning had been lurking in the pit of her stomach for a few days now; a pestersome happenstance whenever one was alone, damnit.
But long fingers slipped over her skin regardless, closing her eyes and shamelessly imagining another's hands doing the same thing, instead.
Ten minutes. An eternity, alas.
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'more' was another thing that the winchester's weren't great at upholding. he doesn't dare let it tread into anything romantic, no, because he's got no right tangling up another woman in his fucked up life, even if it's a life strikingly similar to his own. he's got too many problems, too eager to push away what's too close, and he guesses that's why this works. this... whatever it is they're doing, a soft, velvet voice on the other end of that phone sometimes the lone thing that kept him sane.
him and sammy had just gotten back from a nasty case of shifters, a few fresh cuts left behind, but nothing he couldn't handle. skin is left almost supple save for perpetually calloused hands after a hot shower, losing himself beneath rhythmic droplets and letting the night's events whir through his mind again and again, as they so often did after a hunt. he recounts everything, and as he stands before the mirror in that bathroom he drags a single hand across it, almost letting out a pitiable laugh at the hollow shell staring back.
by the time he lets himself plop down at the edge of his bed, touch dragging across his features, his phone glows with a notification from sam. 10:28 PM. heading out to manchester, eileen needs another set of eyes. a small grunt, normally he'd be up for any sort of distraction, any case to wear himself out into, but instead he's damn foolish enough to lay back against his own mattress with the one thing at mind that stills everything else. if he closes his eyes, he can still see the way she'd walked into that bunker's kitchen in the loose drape of his shirt.
ring ring, nat. he's right on time. )
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trigeminal headache â tfln overflow.
Remind me to have a talk with her later
âĒ hey. brothers are a different code. especially co-dependent ones. âĢ
I mean, he'd try. âĒ and then, a haze-induced tangent—(you should probably get that ride to him, cait. âĢ
We've gotten into some good brawls in our days
I ever tell you the time we took out three biker dudes?
Turns out it was more a sticky situation than we thought. Imagine some huge guy, white beard, vamp teeth
Ruined the whole look.
Turns out trim santa didn't like anyone making that joke, either
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[ even if he says yes, whoâs to say how much of this conversation heâs going to remember?
the barrage of text alerts telegraphs the urgency in getting him back here. before she responds, she opens her Uber app and orders a ride for him. ]
If Trim Vampire Santa didnât like the joke, maybe he should rethink his look.
Got a ride coming out to you right now.
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shieldingfoundation â tfln overflow.
Tell you? âĒ he's never really had a problem with that, has he. âĢ
If you're inviting me to break in the sheets, there is no part of me that minds taking you up against them, devouring you against them, anything you want against them. We'll have to be thorough, though. Have to make sure we leave an honest review.
As for the red, I wouldn't mind you in nothing but that lipstick, but if you have anything for me to unwrap, can't say I'd complain.
âĒ in fact he'd nearly die about it. lingerie's always been a weak spot, for dean.
he shouldn't of even brought this up. why, christian grey? âĢ
Uh, basically some millionaire with daddy issues. More than daddy issues. Hence leading to him finding some girl, making her sign some kind of dom contract shit to keep everything hush hush between them. He's got this red dungeon looking room with apparatus', paddles, you name it this guy is on his shit.
Dunno what happened to using your hands or a good old fashioned tie, but what do I know.
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[she has a few ideas, actually. though his are much better. but he forgot one,]
You'll have to tell me what they feel like against you, too. [both the first set underneath him and--] Especially around your wrists and your eyes. [--the second set she purchased for the sole purpose of cutting strips. if they look as gorgeous as they do on the display screen she knows they'll look lovely around Dean.]
I might have a little something you can untie. But you'll have to use your teeth. [while not exactly lingerie Peggy thinks it'll have nearly the same effect on him. if not then she'll simply have to do better for next time, won't she?
she really shouldn't have asked for him to explain.]
And that's considered erotic literature in your time? Have people really grown tired of Cleland or Monbron?
Are hands or a tie your preferred methods?
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siphoners â tfln overflow.
Don't call me that.
âĒ
but do it again.whoever said he didn't deserve to go to hell may have been wrong. âĢRight, well give me your options
If I'm gonna be chaperone I gotta have some say in it don't I?
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( or else she might just have to start calling you "whinewhinewhinechester" instead of sam. )
Okay, let's get to it. Since I'm clearly going solo this year, thanks to Josie going all twindisposed on me, I currently have three equally amazing ideas:
c:
[ and if it allows her to tease dean in the process — can she be held accountable for that? ]
Which shade of lipstick goes well with a battle axe?
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( it will, likely, remain an emergency. )
Am I allowed to just answer my preference?
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Julia can't stop her eyes from wandering to Dean when the Latin phrases all start to meld together, barely registering Sam mentioning something about needing help with an Ancient Greek passage. Whatever was going on between herself and Dean wasn't something she spoke about openly. Especially not to his brother of all people. They had fun together whenever she was in town and she tried to be a safe place for him if he needed to vent his feelings... Though it usually wasn't verbal. But where he didn't talk, she did -- confided in him when he'd been at some of his lowest points. She didn't take his shit and she'd been in his shoes. Not the same situation, but being stripped of her soul and possessed, being forced to take a back seat while she watched atrocity after atrocity go down. People telling her she shouldn't blame herself, not understanding why she couldn't have been strong enough to fight it. Even if it had been an unkillable monster inside her.
She had no idea what emotions were going through his mind, but she had a guess of how he wanted to spend her first night back in the bunker. She runs her fingers through her long curls, brushing them out of her face as she returns her attention to Sam to help with the translation. But she can't stop the way her eyes keep drifting to the other brother, casually dipping a finger into her whiskey as she debates a word choice with Sam before bringing her finger to her lips.
If he needed to escape, she was ready to indulge him as soon as she and Sam hit a natural stopping point. Could be hours from now, but she'd make it worth his while. The hours cemented into place once she genuinely gets caught up in a theory from Sam, jumping to her feet to walk around and grab one of the books she'd brought with her near Dean -- remembering something she'd seen in passing. Her knee-length sweater billows behind her, pulling away from her black tank top and jeans. She's never not in enchanted heels, the sound echoing in the large room as she walks. Pulling out the chair next to him, she quickly sits, flipping through the pages as she calls names and phrases out to Sam while he takes notes. Her concentration is completely dedicated to the pages, already reaching for another book as she and Sam follow another idea that could be a possible lead.
Even this close to him, she's already distracted again -- giving his thigh a quick squeeze under the table before she throws herself fully into translating Aramaic on the fly. ]
excuse my tl;dr just setting up his ~brain's setting
as it stands, her knowledge of the ancient languages scrawled within dozens of the books compacted within the bunker's library was an asset. paired with sam's neutron brain, they're a hell of a lot closer to cracking in on this bastard than they would've been just the two of them alone. dean may not be able to decode the literature, but he's taking to scouring the systems—checking outages, security cameras, power fluxes, anything that might help them lay down a track and figure out where this thing was headed—the why could wait.
thing is, he could be a hell of a lot more productive if she didn't keep eying him from across the table, pressing her hair to the side and wafting over scarves of that perfume she wore each time. sam doesn't seem phased, and luckily as was usual, had his nose too far buried within the books to notice the exchanged glances turned to stares, almost like a contest as to who would give out first. typically he'd have a lot more restraint, but all it takes is a flit of his gaze down to the plush of those lips and he can see them wrapped around him with his fist in her hair. he can count on one hand the number of women he's slept with more than once, and it's for all the reasons opposite of her.
she doesn't ask questions. doesn't expect him to talk. doesn't try and fix him; she takes and she gives in equal parts, and knows how to walk out that door.
an hour turns to four, and he's near calling it quits for the night when the sound of her heels tutting against the floor calls his attention, unashamedly trailing her as she ventured for a book, settling herself then at his side. he knows full and well that it's intentional, and those lithe fingers of hers scoring up along his thigh only confirm the same. his jaw tightens—but it's childs play as far as cracking his composure. if she wanted to play dirty and wither him down right here in front of his own brother, he certainly wasn't one to be a pawn. he shifts a little, legs bowed beneath the table as he leans back, merely coming off a change in posture, but it enables him to reach his own hand beneath the table without sammy's knowledge, only he's not so shy.
he wastes no time in drawing two fingers up to the hem just at the apex of her thighs, restraining a groan at the heat that permeates there. otherwise, he doesn't take a single look away from his laptop, applying a bit of pressure against that sweet spot to let her know: i'm game. )
hell yeah
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idek i just wanna dick around with these two
[ guess who drove an hour out to follow a lead on some big bad that ended up going nowhere? this gal. ]
I might stick around one more day to make sure I covered all my bases, but I'd rather not.
There's only one motel around here and it's making me seriously reconsider my rule about not sleeping in my car.
Please tell me you found something.
i am happy to supply
( hashtag tuesday ptsd. collectively he's probably driven weeks only for a trail he's on to run dry. join the club, troy. )
Found something as in a case? Or something other than the single motel along the entire route? Place isn't that bad, by the way. Just don't expect mints on your pillow.
sigh or i could just DISAPPEAR sorry about that