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hamsterclaw · 18 days ago

Text

An 18+ crackfic ft kth x reader.

Dedicated to Kim Taehyung's massive military arms.

Warnings: Crack, unseriousness and seriousness, medical professionals AU, mentions of blood, surgery, death, organ donation, vaping, explicit sex, birth control and copious swearing. 8k words.

start

‘Uh, guys,’ says the new intern, peering around the makeshift barrier you’ve draped between you and the surgeons. ‘There’s a lot of blood.’

‘Pretty, isn’t he?’ says the anaesthetic nurse, almost cooing.

Min Yoongi, your anaesthetic attending, looks unimpressed. ‘Who said he could look around the barrier? Threw me off my game.’

He waves his Switch dismissively. ‘Go check it out, Dr L/N. Also, Mr Kim, mind your minion.’

‘For fuck’s sake,’ snaps Mr Kim, otherwise known as Professor Kim Seokjin, head of cardiothoracics at your hospital and editor of Cardiac Surgery, the main journal for cardiothoracics in the world. (Impact factor 10.3)

You scramble round to see and realise the intern’s not lying.

‘Probably a litre of blood loss, maybe two,’ you call over the barrier.

‘I’m on it,’ calls Jung Hoseok, the perfusionist. He doesn’t quite beam his trademark sunny smile, he’s too busy running blood into the bypass circuit, but his pleasant, polite tones are a nice change from Kim Seokjin’s frosty comments and Yoongi’s grunts of disinterest.

‘You checking out my ass?’ asks Kim Taehyung, cardiothoracics fellow, deep voice lowered, a smirk you sense rather than see behind his face mask.

‘Dunno, is your ass making the patient bleed like a stuck pig?’ you retort. ‘Also, Jimin’s ass is better.’

Kim Taehyung’s brows draw together and he throws you a look that tells you that you’ll pay for that later, and it sends a delicious thrill up your spine, because Taehyung’s been looking good lately.

He always had a face to make one look twice, and now that he’s been hitting the gym and running in the mornings, he’s got a golden tan and arms that strain even through his baggy scrubs tops.

‘We have VF,’ says Yoongi, cool as a cucumber, throwing you a look. ‘Just as well we’re on bypass, but did you idiots get air in the coronaries again?’

You realise that whilst you were fantasising about Kim Taehyung choking you with his big arms and then his dick, all the alarms in your monitoring have been activated.

‘I can’t help if I make everyone’s hearts flutter,’ says Professor Kim Seokjin, Assistant Dean of the top medical school in South Korea.

‘Ah, stop,’ titters Hoyeon, the scrub nurse who’s been working with him for the last ten years but manfully pretending like it’s the first time she’s heard the joke.

The intern’s still staring, mouth agape, and you realise he’s staring at you.

‘Having a stroke?’ you ask, glaring at him.

‘Sorry noona,’ he stutters.

Beside him, Taehyung snickers. ‘Noona?’

‘Jesus fuck,’ scowls Yoongi. ‘Charge up the damn paddles and get me the fuck out of here.’

Yoongi tugs off his mask in a clear violation of operating theatre policy. ‘I’m getting coffee. If the patient dies, it’s on you.’

He tosses you a capped syringe of fentanyl and then he’s out.

Professor Kim Seokjin eyes you over the draped barrier from the lofty heights of the step he insists on using even though he’s the tallest person in the room. ‘Don’t worry about Dr Jeon, it’s his first time at everything, apparently.’

‘Apparently,’ you echo, firing up the internal defib paddles that Taehyung’s already wielding.

There’s a thin alarm that stops as the shock is delivered, restarting the heart.

Your monitoring resumes regular, steady beeping, Jung Hoseok cheers, and Dr Jeon hits the floor, twitching.

‘Fuck,’ says Professor Kim Seokjin, clinical lead for the cardiac services directorate. ‘Was he clear?’

‘Apparently not,’ sighs Hoyeon. ‘You told him to hold the retractors, didn’t you?’

You wonder if, as the last remaining anaesthetist in operating theatre 1b, you should be checking on him.

You step back round the barrier and lean over his supine form.

Dr Jeon does have pretty eyes, you note, as he blinks.

‘You’ve been defibrillated, stay still,’ you explain, reaching to check the pulse in his throat.

‘Whatever you say, noona,’ he says, his voice clear and high.

Above you, you can hear Taehyung chuckling to himself.

Yoongi reaches down and plucks the fentanyl out of your hand.

‘The patient’s BP’s up, why the hell haven’t you given this yet,’ he complains.

You stare at him, including at the smear of powdered sugar on his cheek from the doughnut he scoffed that he hasn’t bothered to wipe off. ‘Sorry, boss.’

Yoongi rolls his eyes. ‘The intern is fine. One shock never hurt anyone.’

‘Don’t worry, noona,’ echoes Dr Jeon, a little dreamily still. ‘I’m fine.’

You get up. ‘I’m not your noona, Dr Jeon, we’ve just met,’ you say sternly. ‘Now get up.’

***

You take a furtive look around and when the coast is clear slap the side of the vending machine with the flat of your hand.

The bag of candy you paid for dangles tantalisingly from the shelf instead of falling into the metal collection bin for you to fish out.

‘Shit fuck damnit,’ you swear, preparing to slap again.

Your wrist is caught in mid-air, and a male voice says, smoothly, ‘Allow me.’

You watch, mildly awestruck, as Kim Taehyung grips both sides of the vending machine and shakes it, jostling your candy free.

Shit. When did he get so strong?

He retrieves the bag of candy but instead of holding it out to you, he pockets it instead.

‘Tell me more about how Park Jimin’s ass is better than mine,’ he says, looking down at you.

The arrogant, gorgeous asshole.

You shove your whole hand into his pocket before he can stop you and curl your fingers around the plastic package.

‘Let me have it,’ you warn.

He smirks. ‘Whatever you want, baby.’

He leans back against the vending machine, all hooded eyes and thick muscles, and your hand stills in his pocket.

‘Tell you what,’ he says, voice all smoke and sex, tendrils of seduction curling around your ears. ‘Let’s go to the on-call room and I’ll unwrap it for you too.’

***

It’s been a while since you and Taehyung last fucked, but there’s never been anything tentative about him, not when he has you in his sights.

He curls a hand around the back of your head, widens his stance so you can reach to kiss him better, and relearns the shape of your mouth so quickly it’s like there was never a gap.

You gasp as he backs you up against the door, lifts his hips up against yours like he means to fuck you into it.

‘Taehyung ah,’ you mumble.

‘Hmm?’ he murmurs, warm breath on your cheek near your ear, his dark wavy hair tickling your ear as he kisses down your neck.

‘I was checking out your ass,’ you confess, yelping a little as he nips where your neck curves into your shoulders.

‘I know, baby,’ he croons, approving and patronising in a way that would infuriate you if he weren’t so goddamned hot.

He tugs at the hem of your scrubs top, divesting you of it so smoothly you’re awed despite yourself.

‘So pretty,’ he tells you, eyes dark, voice dropped low.

‘S-s-s-sorry –’

Both of you jump at the unexpected voice.

A face pops up from the bed, and you scream and jump into Taehyung’s (big) arms.

You’ve never seen his entire face, but you definitely recognise those huge eyes.

Taehyung’s still got his arms around you. ‘Fucking hell, Jungkook. Get the fuck out. We’re not at the Vegas artificial heart conference now.’

‘What happened at the Vegas artificial heart conference?’ you mutter, pulling your scrubs top back on.

‘Don’t get dressed, baby, we can still?’ Taehyung lets his voice trail off suggestively.

‘Nope,’ you say, shaking your head. ‘Next time, defibrillate him harder.’

‘Don’t worry, I will,’ Taehyung promises, throwing Jungkook a dark look. ‘Dinner tonight?’

You sigh. ‘Don’t forget to bring my candy.’

***

You’re sitting behind him so you can’t see his face, but you suspect that Kim Namjoon, your colleague and fellow anaesthetist, is asleep.

There’s something about the slant of his shoulders that gives him away. That and the soft snores and myclonic jerks.

You kick his chair to wake him up before Yoongi notices.

‘Fuck,’ utters Namjoon as he jerks awake and knocks his coffee cup off the table.

You raise your eyebrow at the clear liquid now puddling on the floor.

Min Yoongi turns away from the screen where you’re dialled into a multidisciplinary meeting with a hospital in Busan and you both freeze guiltily.

‘It was kind of you to wake Dr Kim up but you do realise I could see both of you in the camera view,’ he points out. ‘In fact, that was my only entertainment whilst we were waiting for this idiot to get the point.’

‘We’re not on mute!’ you say, quickly, trying to salvage the situation.

‘Don’t worry,’ comes the dry voice of Dr Choi from the Busan team. ‘I know how Dr Min feels about me.’

‘Why don’t you do something about it then,’ mutters Yoongi. ‘Like die.’

‘How bout I fuck your minion?’ asks Dr Choi.

You and Namjoon look at each other uneasily.

‘Relax,’ snaps Yoongi. ‘He can’t fuck a damn thing with his pencil dick. Even if he could, you wouldn’t feel it anyway.’

‘Will you motherfuckers shut the fuck up and just accept this patient for surgery?’

‘Certainly,’ comes the smooth velvety tones of Professor Kim Seokjin, lead author of the 2019 seminal paper on kidney injury following cardiopulmonary bypass. (Cited 29 times)

The squares on the screen reshuffle, and you’re treated to a close-up of Professor Kim Seokjin’s very handsome face, backlit to perfection with two surgical lights from theatre 1b.

He looks straight into the camera with his trademark head tilted half smile. ‘Your place or ours?’

***

‘Your place or ours, like a fucking nightcap,’ complains Namjoon bitterly as he follows you onto the train to Busan.

You don’t know why he’s complaining, he’s not the one carrying Yoongi’s beloved Hario V60 Switch immersion dripper and mini mill. Yoongi had insisted that you bring his coffee paraphernalia to Busan in your backpack because - ‘the coffee at St Mary’s is shit’ and ‘I don’t trust him to carry it’.

You grimace as the him in question, Namjoon, throws himself haphazardly into a seat and there’s the audible snap of breaking plastic from his backpack.

‘Was that something important?’ you ask, out of obligation.

‘Just my work tablet,’ Namjoon says, shrugging. ‘I have two, anyway.’

‘Now you have one,’ you mutter, looking for a place to stow Yoongi’s stuff.

‘Let me,’ offers a husky voice you know well.

You turn your head to confirm that it’s Park Jimin’s hands lifting Yoongi’s stuff and placing it carefully in the overhead compartment.

‘Thanks, Jimin,’ you say.

Jimin smiles and waves you into your seat, then sits next to you.

‘Heard you were singing praises about my ass,’ he says, a flirtatious twinkle in his eye, a lilt to his voice that lends a soupcon of filth to his words.

‘She took it back,’ corrects Kim Taehyung as he slides into the seat next to Namjoon.

Jimin doesn’t even raise an eyebrow.

‘Want to go to the beach after the surgery?’ he asks you.

‘Dunno, did you bring swim trunks?’ you ask, feigning innocence.

He laughs, delighted. ‘Nope.’

‘Then yes.’

Taehyung says, ‘I’ll share my suncreen’ at the same time as Namjoon says, thoughtfully, ‘You can probably buy swimming trunks —’

Your phone rings. It’s Yoongi.

‘Where are you and Namjoon,’ he asks, forgoing a greeting entirely.

‘On the train. We’ll be there in two hours,’ you tell him.

‘Two hours? Are you walking from Seoul? Backwards?’ Yoongi asks, exasperated. ‘I’m already here and I need a coffee.’

‘You’re already there? How?’

‘Never mind. Are you with the cardiothoracics fellows? Kim Seokjin and I are waiting to start.’

‘They’re on the same train,’ you say.

‘Jesus fuck,’ Yoongi snaps. ‘What part of urgent surgery didn’t you guys get? Even the intern made it before you, and he doesn’t even know what operation we’re doing.’

‘We can get a taxi straight from the station,’ you offer tentatively.

‘You weren’t going to do that anyway?’

‘Just tell me what you want,’ you beg.

Yoongi sighs, his eyeroll so obvious you can hear it through the phone. ‘We’re in theatre 4. Come as soon as you arrive.’

‘Well fuck,’ you say, as he hangs up on you unceremoniously.

***

Taehyung nudges you.

‘Want me to carry you?’ he asks, sympathetically.

In your mad dash to the hospital once your train got into Busan earlier, you’d stacked it coming down the

station steps and twisted your ankle. Thankfully Yoongi’s coffee kit was intact, you’d have never heard the end of it otherwise.

You’d managed to make it just in time to recover the patient post-op and even to make Yoongi a coffee so he couldn’t be too mad at your and Namjoon’s tardiness.

Jimin and Taehyung had managed to smooth down the ruffled feathers of Professor Kim Seokjin, pioneer of the Toro sutureless repair technique used by cardiothoracic surgeons around the world. (First presented at the World Cardiothoracic Congress 2015 in Philadelphia)

The day hadn’t been a total wash, and now you’re heading to the beach for a beer before taking the train back home.

You look up at Taehyung to see him smiling at you affectionately.

‘I can walk,’ you tell him.

‘I didn’t build these muscles for nothing,’ he coaxes. ‘At least lean on my arm.’

You can’t help your smile as you slip your hand into the crook of his arm.

‘I’m tired,’ you tell him.

He tugs you closer gently. ‘I know, baby.’

You don’t think you’ve ever been out with him before like this. You’ve gone out in a group plenty of times, but you’ve never really touched him in public.

Which is not to say you haven’t touched every inch of his skin in private.

You are friends who fuck after all.

By the time you catch up with Jimin and Namjoon, they’ve cracked open the beer and made a space on the beach far enough back that the tide doesn’t reach.

‘Cheers,’ Jimin says, passing you a drink, barely reacting to the fact that Taehyung’s got his arm around you.

‘Cheers,’ you say. ‘Where’s —-‘

You stop dead mid sentence as the intern, Dr Jeon Jungkook, emerges from the water and approaches you, shirtless, and wet.

You blink, twice, then turn and bury your face in Taehyung’s chest.

‘Why is the intern so naked?’ you mumble.

You can feel the rumble of Taehyung’s laughter in his chest before you hear it.

‘Do you want me to ask him for you?’ he asks.

‘No. I don’t want to talk to him.’

He laughs again. ‘Shut up and drink, you’re going to make me jealous.’

Now you’re laughing. ‘I’ve never seen you jealous, Tae.’

It’s true.

In the two years that you’ve been fucking Taehyung on and off, you’ve never seen him be possessive about anything.

Now that you think of it, he’s the most self-assured person you know.

You’re still laughing to yourself as you turn back to the group, only to realise that the intern is sitting right next to you.

‘Am I embarrassing you, noona?’ he asks.

There’s more than a hint of cockiness in his tone.

The little shit knows his body is fucking hot.

You haven’t survived the last three years under the tutelage of Dr Min Yoongi for nothing.

‘I’m not embarrassed,’ you say, looking him dead in the eyes. ‘I guess since you’ve seen me without a shirt on it’s only fair that I get to see you shirtless too.’

Jimin’s eyebrows rise.

Namjoon rolls his eyes.

Jeon Jungkook blushes so hard his ears turn red.

Beside you, Taehyung snorts and cracks open another beer.

***

You’re trying to finish up your chart from the patient you just recovered but the recovery nurses are discussing hot theatre staff again.

‘Scary, but hot.’

You stifle a smile as Yoongi walks out of theatres and heads straight for you.

‘The bed on ICU is ready,’ he says, not bothering to give you any context.

‘Of course,’ you say, bowing.

He gives you a suspicious look. ‘We’ll start at 7 tomorrow.’

‘Yes, sir,’ you say, saluting.

‘I have more beans,’ he says, a final parting shot before he walks off.

You make a mental note to collect the fresh coffee beans from Yoongi’s locker at 6am tomorrow because a 7am start for him means a 6.30am start for you.

Beside you, the recovery nurses sigh collectively, and you know without looking up that it’s Professor Kim Seokjin, winner of the De Leval prize for outstanding contributions to cardiothoracic surgery on three separate occasions - 2017, 2018 and 2020.

‘Waaah I don’t have to worry now that I know my patients are in your hands,’ Professor Kim Seokjin says to the nurses, jovial and charming as always.

To you, he smiles and nods politely. ‘Wake and extubate my patient please, they can be discharged tomorrow.’

Now Yoongi’s words make sense.

‘Ah, I’ll try my best, but Dr Min wants the patient on ICU overnight,’ you say.

Professor Kim Seokjin may have a wing of the medical school named after him but it’s Min Yoongi who’ll have your head on a platter if you don’t follow his instructions.

You wince slightly as you catch sight of the patient’s vitals. Yeah. Yoongi called it. He’s not the most highly paid anaesthetist this side of the Hangang for nothing.

You’re prepping to transfer to the ICU when you hear Nurse Choi giggle.

‘He’s so handsome!’

Next to her, Nurse Kim says, in a voice that’s higher than usual, ‘He’s so nice, too. Ara said he was a total gentleman on their date.’

You look up, expecting to see Park Jimin or even the intern, but instead you see Kim Taehyung.

The punch you feel in your chest surprises you.

Why would you care if Kim Taehyung’s taking other women on dates?

It’s not like he’s dating you.

You’re concentrating so hard on trying not to be upset that you don’t notice that Taehyung’s standing beside you until he picks up an infusion pump.

‘Seems like a lot of adrenaline,’ he comments.

‘I think Professor Kim was, uh, optimistic about his heart function,’ you reply.

You take the pump from him and snap it onto the trolley pole. ‘We’re going up to the ICU.’

Before you can stop him, Taehyung’s taken up position at the head of the bed. ‘I’ll help you wheel him up.’

‘There are porters for that sort of thing,’ you protest.

He just looks at you patiently.

In the end you acquiesce and let him help. He waits by the nursing station whilst you hand over.

‘Dinner at the Kitchen?’ Taehyung suggests when you’re done.

‘Sure,’ you agree, falling into step beside him.

Then you remember. ‘But you can’t come over after, I’m on my period.’

‘Why can’t I come over when you’re on your period?’ asks Taehyung, swiping his ID to let you both into the changing rooms.

‘You can come over but no sex,’ you tell him, as the intern emerges from behind the scrubs dispenser.

He flushes immediately and drops his gaze.

‘Noona,’ he says, bowing in greeting.

‘You seem more shy with your clothes on, Jeon Jungkook,’ you observe.

‘Not always, noona,’ Jeon Jungkook murmurs. He flicks his eyes to yours briefly.

You laughs, surprised, and his whole face flushes prettily.

As soon as he leaves, Taehyung frowns.

‘I’d probably be worried if I thought there was a chance he wouldn’t pass out if you flirted back,’ he says casually.

‘I don’t date jailbait,’ you say. ‘What are you doing?’

Taehyung’s hoisted your backpack onto his shoulder.

He raises a brow, matter of fact. ‘You’re on your period, let me carry your stuff.’

‘Please, you’ll make me fall in love with you,’ you tease.

He laughs. ‘That’s the plan. Come on, I’m buying dinner.’

***

‘That dinner was worth a blow job,’ you announce, licking the last of the sauce on the wings off your fingers.

Taehyung pushes your water glass closer to you.

‘I didn’t buy you dinner so we could fuck,’ he says.

There’s an edge to his voice that makes you look at him carefully.

‘I’m sorry. I’m just — it’s just that, that’s what we do, isn’t it?’

Taehyung looks irritated. ‘It doesn’t have to be just fucking all the time does it?’

His tone is shorter than he’s ever been with you.

You sense you’re in dangerous waters here, but you have no idea what the right thing to do or say is.

‘You’re right,’ you end up saying, but it took you so long to say it that it comes out flat, like you don’t really mean it.

Taehyung gets up. ‘Anyway.’

He still sounds annoyed.

You follow him out of the Kitchen in silence.

‘I’ll walk you home, it’s late. Don’t worry, I won’t invite myself in.’

He sets off without really waiting for you to answer.

It’s a short walk to your apartment, not really long enough for you to gather your thoughts, but you know you can’t let him leave like this.

‘Tae?’ you ask, tentative, touching his arm.

It’s too dark to really see his face, but you can feel the tension in his muscles draining away under your fingers.

‘I’m sorry I snapped at you,’ he says.

‘It’s ok,’ you tell him. ‘I don’t think of you as just a fuck buddy, you know?’

‘I know we said no strings, at the beginning,’ he says. ‘But we’ve been doing this for so long —‘

He’s right.

It’s been nearly two years since you first slept together.

You’re thinking back to the first time and the rush you’d felt when he’d leaned over casually on a group night out and tucked a lock of hair behind your ear.

He still makes you feel that way, if you’re being honest.

You guess since you’ve never really dated that you’ve never seen anything that would take the shine off how you feel.

You’ve never seen him in holey sweatpants or with a shiny face or greasy hair or stuffing his face with yesterday’s takeout.

Well actually maybe you have seen that.

You’ve reached your door.

You figure it’s now or never.

‘Come in, if you want,’ you say.

He looks at you. ‘I don’t want to force anything because I was being an ass.’

‘Well, we’ve been fucking for two years,’ you remind him.

You smile. ‘You can be an ass. You don’t have to be on your best behaviour all the time.’

Taehyung’s smile makes your heart skip a beat.

You take your time unlocking your door, regaining your composure.

‘I’m taking a shower, there’s ice cream in the freezer,’ you tell Taehyung.

He’s hanging his coat up in your entryway. You don’t think you’ve ever told him how much his fastidiousness about his clothes tickles you.

By the time you’re out of the shower, he’s on your couch, feet up, a steaming cup of tea and a tub of ice cream on the coffee table.

‘Here,’ he says. ‘I made you tea.’

You smile at him gratefully.

‘How are you feeling?’ he asks.

‘I’m fine,’ you tell him. You slide onto the couch next to him. ‘Want to watch a movie?’

‘If I get to pick,’ he says.

‘Choose whatever you want.’

You sink back into the cushions as he picks the show, some feel good baseball movie. He grabs the blanket off the back of the couch and drapes it over the both of you, and when he slides his hand under the fleecy fabric to hold yours, you don’t pull away.

It feels good to hold him.

***

You’re checking your anaesthetic machine, drawing up drugs for your first case when the intern Jeon Jungkook bursts into your anaesthetic room like he’s just escaped the jaws of certain death.

‘Noona,’ he begs.

‘I’m not your —‘

You cut yourself off and sigh. ‘What do you want, Jeon Jungkook?’

‘I fucked up,’ he says, panicked.

‘Is that the medical term for it?’ you ask, cracking open a vial of antibiotics so he’ll get to the point.

‘I forgot to order the blood for the first patient.’

You roll your eyes. ‘So call blood bank, there’s time.’

‘I called them!’ he cries. ‘The patient has antibodies! They can’t have blood ready for another four hours!’

‘Oh shit,’ you say.

Professor Kim Seokjin, chair of the hospital patient safety committee (awarded the national Clinical Excellence Award in 2022), is notorious for sticking to protocol. You know that he would never start a case if there wasn’t blood available.

You know just as well as Jeon Jungkook does, that he’s doomed. A cancelled case would tarnish Professor Kim Seokjin’s sterling reputation.

The little shit with the hot body is fucked.

You both look up as the theatre doors open and Professor Kim Seokjin and Min Yoongi stroll in for the pre-op briefing.

Beside you, Jeon Jungkook whimpers.

‘Pull yourself together,’ you hiss.

Before he passes out with all his hyperventilating, you step forward.

‘Dr Jeon and I were just discussing the order of today’s cases,’ you say, smoothly. ‘We think the first patient should go last, at the end of the day. They live quite far away and we should discharge them tomorrow anyway.’

Professor Kim Seokjin smiles. ‘Always thinking about the patients,’ he says, approving.

Min Yoongi eyes you and Jungkook suspiciously then visibly decides he doesn’t give enough of a fuck to question it.

As soon as they’ve left you grab Jungkook by the neck of his scrubs top.

‘Go and beg blood bank to guarantee you the blood will be available by the end of the day,’ you say. ‘I don’t care if you have to sleep with someone, just take care of it. Also, use protection.’

Jungkook’s throat works visibly with emotion.

‘Noona, thank you for saving my ass,’ he says, bowing so low he nearly tips your drugs tray off the counter.

You sigh. ‘Just get it done, ok?’

‘I will,’ he promises.

***

The annual staff party takes place in December, you go every year when you’re not working.

It’s not what you would call a classy affair, but there’s an unlimited free bar and a buffet table.

You’re trying not to get pulled onto the dancefloor by the overexcited Jung Hoseok when you see him.

Tall, dressed in a crisp shirt that makes his skin tone pop, wavy hair styled half over his forehead, he looks so good your mouth goes dry.

He’s already looking at you.

You send him a pleading look as last summer’s dance anthem comes on and you finally acquiesce.

Hoseok’s a great dancer, you’ll give him that, with an energy that’s infectious. You’re starting to enjoy it when Taehyung slides in smoothly behind you.

His body presses against yours, you get the sense he’s leaning closer, then his voice sounds in your ear.

Intimate like a caress.

‘You look really pretty,’ he says.

You turn your head and he’s right there, lips curled in a smirk, head tilted to yours like it’s just the two of you.

You turn into his arms and his hand lands on the small of your back, an inch too low for polite company.

He dips his head low to whisper in your ear again, and you let him lead you off the dancefloor, into a darkened part of the room.

‘My place?’ he murmurs, eyes intent on yours, his tall frame leaning over you.

You curl a hand over his forearm, and he wraps a possessive arm around your waist to take you home.

***

Shit, Taehyung is hotter than you remember.

He’s splayed over his couch, tugging you down so you’re draped over his thick thighs, your skirt rucked up, his thick length throbbing against your core.

He lays a kiss right next to the corner of your mouth, teasing when you turn your head to try to kiss him.

He’s got a hand on your waist, another one curved over your breast, and he grunts when you rock your hips against his.

‘Fuck, when’s the last time we did this,’ he murmurs into your ear, voice thick, syllables running together in a honeyed drawl that makes you close your eyes.

‘Dunno, don’t make me wait,’ you complain, tugging at his shirt.

He doesn’t answer, kissing you again with an eagerness that let you know he wants this as much as you do.

He tastes like the chocolate mint he was sucking all the way to his apartment and he licks into your mouth in a way that makes your crave the feel of his cock plunging into you.

‘Tae,’ you moan.

His hand runs down your spine, tugs the zipper of your dress down, making your dress fall in a pool at your hips. He gazes at your breasts in the bra you picked out because you know he likes white lingerie.

He chews on his lower lip as he traces a finger over the upper curve of your breasts, then he lowers his mouth to you.

He unclasps your bra, helps you pull it off.

The way he admires your half naked body makes you feel like you’re burning up from the inside.

He pulls your hips closer, grinds a little against you, showing you he’s still hard as a rock, but he’s always been a patient man.

He kisses the soft curves of your tits until you’re whining his name the way he likes. By the time he sucks a nipple into the wet warmth of his mouth you’re barely aware of anything but him.

He lays you down, gets on top of you, mouth still on your tits, hard cock jutting into the space between your legs, teasing.

You curl an arm around his neck, hanging on as he aligns the blunt head of his cock to your entrance and pushes in.

‘Fuck,’ you gasp. He fills you so well your eyes close with the pleasure of it.

He circles his hips on the next thrust, and you whine his name.

‘Gonna come on my cock?’ he asks, voice low, words coming out staccato as he keeps fucking you.

‘Yeah, fuck, don’t stop,’ you moan.

‘I won’t,’ he promises, curling a hand under your knee to keep you from scooting up the bed with every thrust.

Fuck, he’s strong.

He rolls his hips tight against yours, and you can feel your orgasm tingling through your toes, your pleasure centres lighting up each time he groans and moves deep inside you.

‘Tae,’ you pant.

‘Yeah,’ he grunts. ‘Hold on.’

He takes a moment to push your hair away from your face and give you a cocky smirk as though you couldn’t feel exactly how hard he is.

‘Gonna cum?’

‘Uh huh, don’t stop,’ you plead..

‘I won’t,’ he promises again. ‘Wanna feel you —‘

You cry his name as he grips your ass and you come.

‘Good girl,’ he praises, voice low, the tendons in his neck straining as he fucks you through it.

‘Shit, I can feel you,’ he groans. ‘Fu—-uck.’

He’s coming himself, you realise, his movements slowing, his grip tightening on your ass almost to the point of pain.

He dips his head for another kiss, open mouthed and sloppy, tongues mingling as the tension drains from his body and he collapses on the bed next to you.

‘Are you squished?’ he asks, slurred, trying to disentangle your thighs from his.

You shake your head.

‘Don’t go far —‘

He laughs, affectionate. ‘Forgot how clingy you get. Gimme a sec, just get this —-‘

He breaks off. ‘Shit.’

‘What?’ you ask, trying to see.

‘Condom split,’ he tells you.

‘Oh.’

You sit up, and there’s a tell-tale gush between your legs.

‘Yeah.’

You roll out of his bed, your legs like jelly still, and head for his bathroom.

A moment later he sticks his head round the door.

‘You ok?’

Your eyes meet.

‘Yeah.’

‘There’s a 24 hour pharmacy down the block,’ he says. He hesitates. ‘I haven’t slept with anyone since we last fucked.’

Despite the situation, you’re surprised. ‘Really?’

‘Have you?’

You use the bathroom and wash your hands.

‘No.’

‘Shit, are we monogamous?’ Taehyung asks, sounding so incredulous about it you snicker.

‘Shit, it’s like we’re a couple or something,’ you joke.

He hands you one of his sweatshirts to get dressed.

‘Guess so,’ he agrees. ‘Do you even want to go to the pharmacy? We can have a baby. I like babies.’

You smile at him fondly. ‘You’re good with babies,’ you say. ‘But we can’t have a baby now.’

‘Honestly?’ he says, pulling his own clothes on. ‘Even talking about it is making me horny.’

You laugh as he passes you your panties. ‘Come on, let’s go, I’m hungry.’

Taehyung helps you on with your coat.

‘Is my hair a mess?’ you ask.

‘Looks like you’ve been fucked,’ he advises. ‘Keep it that way so no one hits on you.’

‘You’re ridiculous,’ you scoff. ‘Who’s going to hit on me at the pharmacy?’

‘Who wouldn’t hit on you?’ he counters, sounding perfectly serious. ‘You’re hot.’

He locks his door and you head down to the main entrance of his building.

He slips his hand over yours so naturally you don’t realise what he’s doing until he’s holding your hand, and then you don’t want to let go.

***

It’s the week before Christmas and you’re in the staffroom having lunch with Namjoon as Hoyeon and Mina pass out the secret santa gifts.

‘Here’s yours,’ Hoyeon announces brightly, passing you a silver paper bag

You accept with a nod and thanks, pulling out the card.

‘Thank you for being you, love Santa,’ you read out loud.

Namjoon rolls his eyes. ‘Christmas is a soulless commercial holiday.’

‘Ok, atheist,’ you say, rolling your eyes back at him.

‘I’m agnostic,’ he mutters.

You unwrap your gift and stop, frowning, at the duck’s egg blue box.

‘Wasn’t there a cost limit?’

You lift the lid to reveal a pair of sparkly earrings.

‘That’s at least a carat each,’ Hoyeon observes.

‘This can’t be right,’ you say.

‘Do you like them, noona?’ asks the intern Jeon Jungkook, popping up from out of nowhere.

You and Namjoon stare at him open-mouthed.

‘Are you my secret santa?’ you ask.

He nods eagerly. ‘I was so happy to get you.’

‘There was a gift cost limit,’ you protest.

‘I don’t know how much they cost, I just put it on my black card,’ he admits.

You’re still staring at him.

‘Jesus fuck,’ observes Yoongi from somewhere behind you. ‘What in the name of blood diamonds—‘

‘They’re ethically sourced!’ says Jeon Jungkook, indignant.

‘No diamonds are ethically sourced,’ Yoongi says, pityingly. ‘Anyway there was a gift cost limit. She can’t accept.’

Jungkook pouts.

‘They’re beautiful, but Yoongi’s right, Jungkook,’ you say gently. ‘Besides, you can’t afford —‘

‘My family own the hospital,’ Jungkook tells you, earnestly. ‘And a few others too, and Sharpcor.’

Now Yoongi’s staring at him too. ‘Your family own the biggest pharmaceutical conglomerate in South Korea?’

Hoyeon whistles.

Namjoon splutters. ‘You left a pair of diamond earrings in a random gift pile in the staffroom?’

‘Not the point,’ you and Yoongi say in unison.

‘Who knew the intern was chaebol,’ remarks Hoyeon. She pats him reassuringly on the shoulder. ‘So handsome, too.’

Hoyeon smiles at you. ‘Almost as handsome as Kim Taehyung.’

Namjoon chokes on his lunch.

‘You and Taehyung?’ he asks, incredulous.

‘Where have you fucking been?’ Yoongi asks, scornful.

He turns to you. ‘This is why I don’t trust him to carry my coffee stuff.’

‘Anyway, I wanted to thank you for helping me out the other day,’ Jungkook says. ‘And if Taehyung ever treats you badly you should tell me.’

He narrows his eyes.

‘I’ll take care of him for you, noona,’ he vows.

‘Uh, thanks?’

‘Where’s my secret santa gift?’ Namjoon asks, looking through the pile.

‘Working with me is its own reward,’ comes the silken tones of Professor Kim Seokjin, awardee of the ‘Trainer of the Year’ award for five years running as voted for by SNU medical trainees.

Kim Seokjin smiles kindly at you. ‘Nice earrings.’

***

You’re sitting at the ICU hub validating your observations from the last case when a shadow falls over you. You look up automatically to see Kim Taehyung.

‘Hey,’ he says, that smirk on his face that you’ll never admit to him is fucking hot.

‘Hey,’ you say, casual.

He leans over the screen of your computer. ‘So I figured —‘

He’s cut off by Ara, one of the ICU nurses.

‘Thank you for my secret santa present,’ she says, smiling at him warmly.

‘How did you know it was him?’ you ask, signing the last of your prescriptions.

‘We talked about how much I love cats,’ she replies, looking up shyly.

Taehyung smiles. ‘It was me. I’m glad you liked your present.’

‘I wondered, if you’re not too busy later, if you wanted to go to the cat cafe we were talking about?’ Ara asks.

Taehyung glances at you. ‘Actually, Ara —‘

He pauses like he’s waiting for you to jump in.

You’re logged off, all done, but waiting to see where this goes.

‘I’m kind of seeing someone,’ he finishes.

You get up, and Taehyung follows you out of the ICU.

‘Why didn’t you say anything?’ he complains, as soon as you’re out of Ara’s earshot.

‘Like what?’ you ask.

‘Like how we fucked three times last night?’

You both fall silent as Nurse Choi passes by pretending not to have heard.

‘Why would that stop you from going to the cat cafe with Ara?’ you ask.

You’ve spoken thoughtlessly, and as soon as the words leave your lips you realise how collossally stupid they are.

Of course you care if Taehyung goes on a date with Ara.

It’s too late to take them back.

Taehyung stares at you, brows drawn together.

‘Unbelievable,’ he says.

You’re hurt, but you don’t know what to say to salvage the awful wrong turn this conversation’s taken.

For once, your quick mind fails you, and whilst you’re clicking through how to fix this, Taehyung’s turned away.

‘You know what, I don’t want to do this,’ he tells you.

He lifts his gaze to yours. ‘I thought we were finally getting somewhere, you know? What was the point of us these two years?’

He doesn’t wait for an answer, which is fine, because you can’t give one.

As he walks away you already know you’re making the biggest mistake you’ve made lately in letting him go.

***

Yoongi sighs, exaggerated.

‘Did you start your Christmas drinking early or what?’

‘Huh?’ you ask, blankly.

‘You’re one short step from getting thrown out of my anaesthetic room,’ Yoongi says, a sharpness to his tone he doesn’t normally use with you.

You struggle to focus on the monitoring in front of you.

‘Sorry, I haven’t been sleeping well,’ you apologise.

‘Next time you have a bad day, do us both a favour and call in sick,’ Yoongi says. ‘This patient is relying on us to keep him alive and under anaesthesia for his operation, and at this rate, you’re not going to achieve that.’

You take a step back at his harsh words.

‘I’m sorry, I’ll call in Namjoon,’ you say hurriedly.

‘Leave the —’

Yoongi breaks off as you pick up the glass bottle of acetaminophen. ‘I told you it was broken,’ he says.

You stare blindly at the cut on your hand from the glass shard of the broken bottle.

‘Fuck. I’m so sorry. I’ll get Namjoon,’ you say.

‘No. Sit the fuck down,’ Yoongi says sternly, tossing you a pack of swabs to mop up the bleeding. ‘Watch the monitoring until I get back, and if the patient’s tube falls out you’re damn well going to snap gloves on and reintubate him, cut hand or not.’

You daren’t disagree.

You tie a swab around your bleeding hand and force yourself back into the routine you’ve developed over the years you’ve been training with Yoongi.

Patient.

Monitoring.

Lines.

You run through all three checks in a loop until you hear the door to the anaesthetic room swing open behind you.

‘The patient’s stable,’ you call, not turning around.

‘I know they are,’ comes Yoongi’s voice. ‘Go get your hand stitched up.’

You turn and instead of Namjoon you see Taehyung.

You look at Yoongi, betrayed.

He’s staring back at you, face impassive.

‘Do you think I actually need help? I’ve been giving anaesthesia since before you could even draw a propofol molecule,’ he says, dryly. ‘Go get your hand stitched up.’

Taehyung’s looking at you, but he hasn’t moved from his spot near the door.

‘It might not need stitches,’ you protest.

‘Why don’t you let the surgeon decide,’ Yoongi suggests. ‘Get the fuck out of my anaesthetic room. I expect you back here next week at your usual level of competence.’

He turns his back on you so you have no choice but to follow Taehyung into the next room.

Taehyung runs the tap so you can hold your hand under the stream of water.

‘Just keep it under there,’ he says. ‘I’ll get some local and sutures ready.’

You watch the blood from your cut run into the sink and try to gather your composure as he gathers things behind you.

You haven’t spoken to Taehyung since your awful encounter a week ago. You’d called him, but he hadn’t answered, so you’d left it at that.

You’re wondering if you should turn around when he approaches you with a swab.

‘Here, hold your arm up,’ he says quietly.

You bend your elbow to keep your hand above your heart as you take a seat on the trolley.

Taehyung gestures for you to lower your hand onto the tray he’s set up.

He pulls up a stool across from you, and you look away.

‘There’s a shard of glass still in here,’ he tells you. ‘I’ll give you some local and take it out. You’ll probably need a couple stitches.’

‘Ok,’ you say.

You flinch at the sting of the needle, but he’s so gentle you don’t feel much more than that.

This close, the familiarity of his cologne and the warmth of his touch make you miss him so much it makes you want to cry.

You still can’t look at him.

He’s quiet as he works on your hand.

Finally, he says, ‘All done.’

You risk a look at your hand to see a line of beautiful neat stitches, just before he covers it with a dressing.

‘Thanks,’ you say. You look up to meet his gaze.

He leans forward and kisses you on your forehead, so quickly you don’t have time to react.

‘Take the stitches out in a week,’ he says.

He hesitates. ‘I can take them out for you, but if it’s easier, any of the nurses can help you.’

‘Tae,’ you say.

He’s already getting up, tidying up the tray. ‘Just a sec.’

You wait for him after he’s left the room, but soon enough it’s clear that he’s not coming back.

***

‘You didn’t even dress this smartly when you interviewed for your fellowship,’ Yoongi observes from somewhere behind you.

You jump.

‘Jesus, don’t sneak up on me like that!’

Yoongi looks unperturbed, sucking on a vape that violates all of the hospital’s policies.

You remind him of that and he just snorts. ‘Technically we’re on university grounds.’

‘The real question is why you’re hanging around hiding behind a fern at the surgical appraisals,’ Yoongi remarks.

‘I’m not hiding,’ you say, sulky.

Yoongi mutters something that sounds like ‘fucking Kim Taehyung.’

You don’t bother asking him to repeat himself, because you’ve spotted him.

Before you can make yourself overthink it, you step out, right into Kim Taehyung’s path.

He steps back, startled, his hand automatically reaching to steady you.

‘Are you ok? Did I bump into you?’

‘No,’ you say, ‘I just wanted to say good luck for your appraisal.’

His smile is immediate. ‘You remembered. Thank you.’

You’re so busy drinking in how good he looks in a suit that it takes you a moment to realise he’s just asked you a question.

‘My hand?’

He holds out his hand, palm out, and you put your hand in his automatically.

He looks like he’s holding back a smile. ‘I think it was the other one,’ he says, so seriously you can’t be embarrassed.

He traces a gentle finger over your healing scar.

‘It looks like it’s healing nicely,’ he observes. His fingers curl around yours in a gentle squeeze, then he lets go.

‘Thanks for stitching me up,’ you say.

You both look up as his name is called.

‘Good luck,’ you say, quickly.

He looks like he wants to say something else, but in the end he just nods.

***

It’s 10am on Christmas day, and you’ve never been a grinch but your Christmas spirit is already running low.

So far you’ve extubated two patients on the ICU, one of whom promptly pulled out his art line, dousing you and Nurse Choi in AB positive, and the only fresh scrubs left in the dispenser were three times too large for you.

You sigh as you roll up your scrubs bottoms so they aren’t dragging on the floor as you head to theatres to answer your latest call.

You’re greeted by a rush of activity.

‘There’s an offer,’ announces Hoyeon as you enter the anaesthetic meeting room.

‘Heart or lungs?’ you ask.

‘It’s a heart, from Jeju-do.’

‘Where’s the recipient?’ you ask.

‘Arriving in an hour,’ says Yoongi, briskly. ‘Go have lunch, it’s going to be a late night.’

It’s 10 am, but you know that with the logistics of all the pre-heart transplant tests, harvesting the donor heart and prepping the recipient, you’ll be busy for hours.

You head to the staffroom to bolt your lunch only to find Taehyung already there.

He glances at your sandwich and pushes one of his bowls towards you. ‘I brought extra,’ he says.

‘Thanks,’ you say.

You eat in silence seated opposite each other.

Eventually he says, ‘Didn’t they have any scrubs in your size?’

‘I like the baggy look,’ you reply, deadpan.

You realise he’s lifting his own scrubs top off.

‘Here, let’s swap. It’s closer to your size.’

You stand and he steps between you and the staffroom door to shield you from the view of anyone walking in.

‘Don’t worry, I won’t look,’ he says. There’s a teasing note in his voice.

You pull your top off and pass it to him, then slip his top on.

It smells like him.

‘Did you look?’ you ask, looking up at him.

He reaches to help you pull your hair out from the back of the top.

‘Of course I did,’ he says, and he sounds so offended that you would even check that you can’t help giggling.

‘I miss you,’ you say, the words coming so naturally you don’t realise what you’ve said until his eyebrows lift slightly.

He doesn’t give you any time to worry. ‘I’ve missed you too,’ he tells you.

You exchange a smile, the first in a long time.

There’s exaggerated throat clearing from behind Taehyung.

‘There’s a patient waiting to get a new heart, but you guys take your time,’ says Yoongi, wielding his sarcasm like a whole other language. ‘It’s fine.’

***

You’re titrating pressors on the patient from Jeju-do as Park Jimin dissects down the major vessels and veins.

In the adjoining theatre, you can see Yoongi, Taehyung and Professor Kim Seokjin (Executive Chair of the National Blood and Transplant Committee 2021-2024) waiting with the recipient.

Jimin looks up at you.

‘About to explant,’ he says.

‘I’ve got you,’ you reply.

You watch, awed as always, as the donor heart is placed in a saline bath and rolled towards the adjoining theatre.

Namjoon, beside you, takes over the haemodynamics and Jimin goes back to operating. You know that between them they’ll treat the donor with the honour their choice deserves.

For now, you head towards the next theatre to help Yoongi.

Jung Hoseok’s running a spotless circuit, the recipient’s already on bypass, and the heart looks good to go.

As Taehyung and Professor Kim Seokjin (founder of the non-profit Healing Hearts that provides surgical expertise to low-income countries) remove the original heart and begin the long process of suturing the new graft in, there’s a quiet that’s uncharacteristic of operating theatre 1b.

You can’t help but admire how beautiful Taehyung looks when he’s like this, his face composed under his loupes, his hands moving with a grace and sureness that’s lovely to watch.

Yoongi and you swap each other out as the operation goes on, until just before midnight when the last of the graft sutures goes in.

There aren’t any barriers between you and the surgeons, not tonight at least.

‘I think we’re good,’ Kim Seokjin says, with a quiet simplicity you rarely ever hear from him.

‘Good,’ Yoongi says, absent his usual snark.

Taehyung releases the aortic cross clamp, and as you watch, the newly transplanted heart fills with blood.

Then, it starts to beat.

Your eyes meet Taehyung’s, and you can see his smile even under the mask, your brain filling in the parts of his face you know so well.

You’re smiling back.

You think everything’s going to be all right.

***

It’s a couple hours later, when you’ve dropped off the patient on the ICU, and are heading to the locker room, that you hear your name called.

It’s Taehyung, a line on his forehead from where he was wearing a scrubs hat all day, eyes a little bloodshot from fatigue, and still the most beautiful thing you’ve seen this Christmas.

He stops in front of you, there’s a moment of silence and then both of you speak at once.

You both stop, and you reach for his hand.

‘Do you want to grab some food?’ you ask.

‘Like a date?’ Taehyung asks, but he’s lit up like a Christmas tree so you think he already knows.

‘Yeah, like a date,’ you say.

The way he’s looking at you makes you wonder why the hell you waited so long.

‘There’s nothing I’d like more,’ he says.

He knits his fingers through yours, gently, and you walk down through the hospital together.

end.

Happy holidays! Take it easy. Love, Rei xx

#bts smut #bts fanfic #taehyung smut #taehyung x reader

139 notes · View notes

bigmouthlass · 4 months ago

Text

Title: Calling A Professional, part a

Series: Professional, part 1a

Author: BJ

Fandom: Supernatural

Rating: Explicit

Pairing: Dean Winchester/You, Dean Winchester/Reader, Sam Winchester/Jessica Moore

Synopsis: 'You' are a career-oriented young Omega too preoccupied with school to have a dating life. Your image-oriented family decide enough is enough and give you a screamingly inappropriate present -- a night with a full-service Alpha escort, emphasis on full. And stuff happens.

Tags: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, ABO, Omegaverse, AU, Alpha Dean Winchester, Omega You, Omega Reader, Sam Winchester, Zachariah, Balthazar, Gabriel, Naomi, Castiel, Benny LaFitte, Arthur Ketch, Abbadon, Becky Rosen, Bobby Singer, Jessica Moore, Alpha Sam Winchester, Alpha Zachariah, Alpha Balthazar, Alpha Gabriel, Alpha Castiel, Beta Benny LaFitte, Alpha Abbadon, Omega Jessica Moore, Charlie Bradbury, Billie the Reaper, First Time, Sex Worker Dean Winchester

AN: Blame the walking talking PWP device that is Dean Winchester. All recognizable intellectual properties are owned by their respective creators and holders of any copyrights or trademarks. This is a not-for-profit work of fan art and protected by Fair Use.

---

“Are you kidding?”

Your cousin Rebecca shakes her head, flying that damn blonde mane all over the place. Glaring, you wave a breeze past your nose. Rebecca’s between boys again and she’s broadcasting interest signals to every Alpha within smelling range. You check your watch. God dammit, as it is you’re going to have to sacrifice another hour of sleep because this was supposed to be your study hour. You do not have time to do lunch.

Except Rebecca’s speaking on behalf of one of the Family heads, an Alpha you’re supposed to call Uncle Zachariah. You know him mostly as a signature on your tuition checks. He’s not exactly pleased that you’re working on a degree instead of chasing a good Alpha but he’s never objected.

Apparently his patience has limits.

“Look, this service has an impeccable reputation--"

“I do not have time for this.”

“Make time, babyboo.”

You grind your teeth. “Do not call me that.”

“Quit behaving like a child,” Rebecca says. “Daddy made it clear. Maybe it was okay to play it like you’re the cerebral ice princess when you were sixteen but you’re a grown Omega now. People see you -- no Alpha, not dating, working all the time -- and they talk.”

No concern about your well-being or what you actually want, of course. Once again you curse the absurd twist of genetics that caused you -- a surprise pregnancy between a couple of middle-aged Betas divorced from terrible first marriages -- to Present as Omega. Things are expected of you, if you want to achieve your quietly ambitious goal of a scholar’s life without having to assume a mountain of debt.

“You hired a for-God’s-sake prostitute--"

“Escort, babe!”

“Someone receiving financial remuneration for sexual activities is a prostitute,” you say. Because that’s what this is about; you have Alpha friends who’ll happily squire you around formal occasions just for the networking opportunities. It’s making the conservative generation of the Family nervous that a healthy Omega with a legitimate blood tie is running around without making herself available to the right sort of Alphas, and as far as they know you’re still a virgin.

Which is correct. That moment, when an Omega catches a scent from a compatible Alpha, gets all soft and slick and ready for mounting? That’s never happened. Certainly not with the frequency it happens to any of your Omega cousins. Anael seems to fall in love every other month on average. It all strikes you as ridiculous and it’d be nice to tell the Family to go to Hell and let you alone.

You’re more pragmatic than that.

“Look, it’s already set up,” Rebecca reminds you. “There’s really nothing to be worried about. It’s one party. You and the escort get a chance to get to know each other. Then he gets a call the next time you go into heat.”

“This is so humiliating,” you say.

Rebecca reaches across the table. You yearn to throw your glass of water in her face but refrain. She really is trying to be sympathetic. “There’s nothing to be scared of. Daddy told me this agency has Alphas that specialize in first timers. All you have to do is relax.”

“Not helping,” you say.

“Just do it,” she sighs. Because that’s what everything from the Family boils down to. “You don’t have to enjoy it, but just do it. Once it’s over Daddy and Great-Aunt Naomi will find something else to obsess over and you can go back to doing,” she waves a hand, making her bracelets rattle and her rings sparkle, “whatever it is you do.”

“It’s called anthropology,” you grumble as the waiter serves your quiche. Rebecca tips her head and the waiter helps himself to a discrete noseful of her scent.

Disgusting.

---

A week later you’re dressing in your favorite gown and tying your hair up. It’s Great-Aunt Naomi’s birthday party and you’re obliged to show up for a few hours and let yourself be counted amongst the Family’s membership roster.

If that were all, you’d be fine. Take the chance to catch up with the least boring of your relatives. But this is the night the guy your uncle’s paying to deflower you is coming to meet you. And you’re nervous.

You open the portfolio sent by the agency. The contract is a dense block of gobbledygook. Someone’s highlighted the salient points, specifically in case you don’t feel absolutely comfortable and safe you can always terminate the service on the spot. How the hell that’s supposed to work in the middle of a heat cycle, you have no idea. Your heats are short but once you’re riding the tide your brain is good for nothing.

The opposite page has a profile of the specific professional who drew the short straw:

WINCHESTER, Dean M. Six-foot-one, 190 pounds, brown hair, green eyes. Cute enough, going by the snapshot paperclipped to the profile sheet. There’s also a scrap of fabric tucked into a little pouch, a scent article that smells mostly like leather.

He’s also several years older, no higher education, and from his list of interests you anticipate a deep conversation about sports. God damn your designation anyway. If you were a Beta nobody would care if or who shared your bed.

“Bonsoir, cherie.” Uncle Balthazar taps on the powder room door. You’re staying at his condo while he spends most of his time abroad. He’s volunteered to be there when your escort shows up, just in case. “Are you ready darling? I just heard the most awful racket from the garage and Harold tells me that’s your date.”

“Not my date,” you correct. “My hooker.”

Uncle Balthazar winces. “Mind your manners young lady. It’s not the gentleman’s fault Zachariah has no sense of the appropriate.”

“I know,” you say.

Uncle Balthazar gives you an arm as you step into your highest heels. “Darling, hold your head high and shine like the treasure you are and you’ll be fine. I’ll be waiting in the sitting room.”

As he leaves you check the mirror. Everything is in place and from photo distance you look like you belong amongst the Family rich and powerful. With a little luck you’ll be back in time to get a little work done before going to bed.

“There she is!” Uncle Balthazar says as you stride into the sitting room. There’s a man in black tie standing next to him. “You look exquisite, my dear,” Uncle Balthazar brings you near with a light touch on your back and kisses your cheek. “This fascinating gentleman is Dean Winchester.”

“How do you do?” you offer your hand.

Your gigolo takes it and brings it to his lips. “Pleasure to meet you.”

The photograph does not do him justice, is all you can think as his eyes meet yours. They’re green, all right, like spruce needles or forest moss or dark jade but not really like any if those things. They study you with a warmth. Delight, like this isn’t a business transaction and you’re the best surprise he’s ever seen. His hand is warm, and his full pink lips are soft against your skin. The touch sparks, like flint on steel.

“Yes, well,” Uncle Balthazar clears his throat. “I’m going to go pick your aunt up. I’ll see you at the party. Au revoir ma petite.”

“Yeah, um,” Dean blinks like he’s just waking up from a trance. “Come on, my car’s downstairs. Let’s get going.”

“Yeah, of course, right,” you shake yourself, taking Dean’s offered arm. Closer proximity doesn’t help, because now you can catch his scent. He’s sweet, all caramelizing fruits and hardwood smoke and leather. A hazy picture floats through your mind, one with less clothes and more heat and you on all fours arched and wailing as--

“Oh merde,” you say under your breath.

---

The car is an old but impeccably clean black Chevrolet. You know nothing about cars but fall in love with this one immediately because the inside is saturated with Dean’s scent. Warm and sweet and it’s working on your mind and body in ways you were not prepared for.

“Uht-oh, the vultures are circling,” Dean says as he pulls up to the hotel. Sure enough there’s a gaggle of photographers perched behind velvet ropes.

“Lovely. The more pictures they get now the more they’ll ignore me later,” you say.

“Not your first rodeo?”

“Very far from it,” you tell him dryly.

Dean accepts a token from the valet and gets out. Waving aside the kid in uniform going for your door, he opens it himself and hands you out, standing just far enough back to be out of focus as flashbulbs pop around you. You do the little half turn pretending to adjust the strap of your bag, and right on cue Dean steps up with his arm cocked. He sets a leisurely pace, facing forward with a blank expression, letting you draw the eyes.

“Not your first rodeo either?” you ask in a low voice as the photographers focus on the next arrival.

“Nope,” he says, shrugging. “Usually when I take clients to these kinds of parties, I hang out with the bartender, eat my weight in finger sandwiches, and try not to start food fights.”

You cough out a giggle at the mental image of your cousin Castiel launching a pie into Great-Aunt Naomi’s face. “You can do that if you want,” you tell him. “I mean except for the food fight part. I’m used to entertaining myself at these things.”

“Nah,” Dean says. “I want to see if I can hear you laugh some more. You’ve got a great laugh.”

He keeps doing that. Giving you little compliments like statements of the obvious. Like how pretty you look with your hair up. And an impressed, “Awesome!” when you tell him you graduated high school two years early. And when you try to brush off what you study as boring stuff, he looks you in the eye and says, “Anything you want to talk about, I want to listen. I’m interested. I’m fascinated.” He’s either the best damn actor in the world . . . or he’s being completely sincere.

Something else is happening too. Assorted relatives keep orbiting by, insisting you introduce them to Dean. He identifies himself as your date and nothing else. He barely looks at them, even ones like your cousins Toni and Bela and Annmarie, Omegas firing off interest signals like fireworks. He speaks when spoken to, can participate in conversations, but he keeps orienting on you like no one else is real to him.

Or so you imagine because that’s how you feel. The low-level paranoia that makes events like this an unpleasant chore isn’t there. Not when Dean keeps touching your arm or your back. During the dinner part of the party, as your cousins do their thing around your assigned table, Dean keeps holding up morsels of his food for you to try, keeps sneaking bits off your plate. It’s an intimate thing to do and doesn’t feel out of place at all. You wish you were alone, just the two of you.

You stiffen when you hear your name. It’s Zachariah, and the way he’s looking at you makes your skin crawl. “Enjoying the party?”

“Of course,” you say. Just listen and nod in the right places, you remember your mother coaching you as a child. Your Uncle Zachariah likes to think he’s in control. Give him that and he’ll leave you alone.

“Good, that’s good,” he nods. One hand goes on your arm, the other goes on Dean’s, and he leans in close. “Just wanted to make sure you kids were hitting it off,” he says, shaking you in what probably feels like a gesture of affection to him but feels intrusive to you.

“Mr. Adler,” Dean says, and the cold formality of his tone is jarring compared to the easy and pleasant affect he’s had so far. “We’re fine, thank you.”

Uncle Zachariah’s smile curdles a bit. “You’re in good hands,” he tells you, and you unconsciously draw back. His hand cups the back of your neck and the part of you that’s been basking in the warmth of Dean’s attention all evening recoils like a startled snake. “The agency tells me Dean’s the best they have with first timers.”

It’s not like everybody in the Family doesn’t know. Your cousins gossip worse than retirees at their favorite diner on weekday mornings. But to have it tossed back in your face-- you honestly want to throw up.

Abruptly Dean stands. Conversation for ten feet around goes quiet. Brushing back Zachariah he pulls you to your feet. “I think I could use a drink. Don’t you.”

You nod, and when Dean puts an arm across your shoulders you press closer. Dean’s warm, sweet scent chases away the cold chills and the instinct to run and hide. Alpha will protect you, those instincts say, and you’re too freaked out to retort that you can protect yourself, thank you very much.

Dean leads you to a smaller secondary bar tucked in a shadowy corner of the ballroom. “Tequila, straight,” he tells the bartender.

“Make it two,” you say.

“Woah,” Dean says. “No way you’re old enough to drink.”

“I’ve been taking wine with dinner since I was twelve Dean. I could probably outdrink you.”

The bartender serves it up without a word and you both slam it back. The liquor acts like a slap in the face, clearing your head a little.

“This probably isn’t any of my business,” says the Alpha that’s getting paid to pop your cherry, “but does he usually pull that kind of shit with you?”

“What do you mean?”

Dean does a double-take. “You’ve never had an Alpha come on to you like that?”

“Like what?” you ask, getting a little irritated.

“Babygirl when an Alpha starts rubbing the back of your neck like that it’s a dominance display.” Dean gently lays his hand in that same place. He applies just a little pressure and oh God, your heart starts slamming in your chest and you can feel slick at the tops of your thighs.

“Stop that,” you say.

“Yeah,” he says and backs off. Part of you cries out, wants to leap into his arms, bare your throat, your body, everything. “Can I ask you a personal question?”

“Why stop now?”

“You’re smart, you’re beautiful, you work hard and kick ass. Why are you putting up with,” Dean flicks a hand at the party proper, “this shit?”

“You tell me. Why’s an intelligent good-looking guy like yourself turning tricks?”

Dean flinches. The anger in his eyes almost spurs you into a run, but there’s something else lurking at the edges. Shame? Disappointment? “I’m sorry,” you backpedal. “It’s none of my business.”

“There aren’t many jobs for high school dropouts that let a guy gross eighty K a year, and I’ve got a father in assisted living and a brother in law school,” Dean tells you in a flat just-the-facts monotone.

You laugh without much humor. “I’m aiming for a doctorate, the Family pays for my education, and Zachariah controls the money. I’m ineligible for financial aid because my mother was an Adler of the Grand Rapids Adlers and student loans would put me in debt until I turn five hundred.”

The two of you stare at each other for a long moment.

“You wanna go out, get some air?” Dean runs up the Truce flag.

“So bad.”

---

Outside the fall air is cool and smells like peace. You lead the way to the back end of the hotel courtyard, where there’re benches looking across the river.

“I’m sorry,” you apologize again. “I got no high ground to stand on when it comes to how anybody makes money.”

Dean huffs out an unamused little ha. “My dad still thinks I hustle pool and scam credit cards for a living. If he knew I work for an escort service he’d have a heart attack. Then come back to life and shoot me. Then have another heart attack.”

“Aren’t you worried he’ll see you on one of those daytime tabloid shows?”

“Nah. Dad only pays attention to the ABCs. Automobiles, Booze and Cowboys.” Dean pauses, looking across the river at the softly lit rotunda of the museum. “Doing this means Dad can stay in a good place and Sam doesn’t have to hold down a job while he’s at school. Once he graduates, he’ll be able to start helping with Dad’s bills and I can quit and do something else. Or keep doing it and retire young. I dunno.”

“You don’t have to justify yourself to me.”

“I’m not, just thinking out loud I guess.” A breeze blows in from the west and you shiver as it pulls gooseflesh from your bare arms and back. “Oh, here,” Dean says, shucking out of his tuxedo jacket and draping it over you. His arm goes over your shoulders and you let him cuddle you close. It’s easier to see now, the firm layers of muscle on his arm and chest, how small your body is by comparison.

There it is again, that melting feeling deep in your core. A part of you that only comes alive in your heat cycles is awake now, making you want to curl around Alpha the way a cat curls up in a friendly lap. You’d purr if you could roll an R.

You feel Dean’s chest rise as he takes a deep breath. “You’re not used to having someone take care of you, are you?” he asks.

“I can take care of myself,” you say, but it doesn’t have the hard snap it usually does when you point that out.

“Yeah I can see that. That’s not my point. You looked scared to death in there, but you didn’t look around for help. How long have you been dealing with his crap on your own?”

You shudder, and Dean pulls you closer. “I barely know Zachariah. I only see him at events like this and when I have to give him my schedule every semester. He pays for my tuition, so I have to at least be nice to him.”

“Fuck.” Dean’s quicker than he lets on. “I just dropped a damn mess in your lap didn’t I?”

“It’s not your fault. Look,” you say, trying to push past the way being in his arms makes you feel warm and alive and wanting, “if you want to back out, I’ll make sure you still get paid. It’s pretty clear Zachariah didn’t give a damn about me or the Family. He . . . I don’t know what he wants.”

“I got a pretty goddamned good idea. When you get home, check for cameras.”

You shudder again, feeling sick.

“You also might want to talk to a lawyer about your options as far as family money. An independent lawyer. You get me?”

“Yeah.”

“Anyway, Zachariah isn’t the one calling the shots. You are,” Dean says. “Do something for me, would you please?”

“Okay.”

“Close your eyes.”

You do.

“Just breathe with me a minute. There’s nobody else here, just us.” Dean lets the quiet hang. He tips his head to rest on top of yours, taking your scent. His own Alpha scent gets stronger, more complex. More delicious. “Pretend we just met. It’s up to you, where we go from here. If it’s what you want, I’ll take you home right now and you’ll never see me again--"

“No.” You open your eyes and turn your head, meeting Dean’s surprised look. “No I don’t want that.”

“Oh thank God, me neither,” Dean breathes and presses his mouth to yours.

You’ve been kissed before, and mostly it felt gross. This is not that. The only thing you can think is soft. One of his hands cups the back of your neck and you sigh into his mouth at the way you go soft and slick under the touch. The picture in your mind is in sharper focus now, now that you know Dean’s palms are a little rough and how his lips taste. How would-- how will that feel when you’re in heat and every sensation jumps by a factor of ten? “Oh God,” you whimper.

Dean pulls back and smiles. “Dean’s fine, babygirl.”

You swat at his chest, giggling. “No egotism in your family.”

“When you’re as great as I am,” Dean tells you, trying to keep a straight face and not quite making it, “it’s hard to be humble.”

You burst out laughing.

“Oh, share the fun?” Uncle Balthazar, his dark red silk shirt open at the throat and smelling strongly like Aunt Anna’s perfume strolls up.

“Inside joke,” you tell him.

“Already?” He smiles down at you. “Just came over to tell you not to wait up. I got a call from Gabriel. I have to catch a flight to Madrid in a few hours.” He makes a face. “God, I despise Spain this time of year.”

“Did they make the toast already?”

“Yeah. If you want to make a discrete exit now would be the time.” He pecks your cheek, frowns, sniffs. “My goodness. May I suggest a quick dip in the river before you go?”

“Very funny.”

“I’m not entirely joking, ma cherie.” Is he blushing? In the dark it’s hard to tell. Uncle Balthazar turns his attention to Dean. “It goes without saying that if you hurt our darling girl in any way I’ll have your legs broken, yes?”

“Understood,” Dean answers.

“Splendid. I’ll call in a few days. Goodnight sweetheart,” he smiles at you and strolls away, whistling Hall of the Mountain King.

“He’s right,” you say, trying again to behave like you don’t want to climb Dean like a curtain. “We can sneak out through the access alley that comes out by the old post office.”

Dean frowns thoughtfully, one finger waggling as he takes his bearings. “Got it.”

You stand. Dean doesn’t. “Come on, we gotta get before the valets get busy.”

“Gimme a minute,” he says, pushing himself to his feet.

“Why? What’s wrong?”

“God,” he says to himself, looking down into your confused face, “you have no fucking idea what you’re doing to me do you?” At your very eloquent ‘huh?’ Dean pulls you tight to him and kisses you. Reflexively you stretch to try and match his height, and Dean groans as your belly drags over the bulge at the front of his pants.

Blushing as your blood turns to lava, you say, “I’m sorry? I didn’t mean to do that.”

“Never,” Dean says, “ever, ever, apologize to me for getting me hot.”

“H-ha-have you been like that all night?” you stutter.

“More or less.” Gently pushing you back to arm’s length, Dean puts his arm across his face and takes several deep breaths. “Okay. I’m okay. Let’s get out of here.”

---

You keep it together up until the elevator to Uncle Balthazar’s condo opens on the foyer. Dean takes his jacket back and puts his face in the fabric, smelling your mingled scents. “I’m never getting this damn thing cleaned again.”

“I will not be your excuse for dirty laundry, Alpha,” you say without thinking.

Dean’s smile widens. “I could get used to hearing that,” he tells you, pulling you close for another kiss.

What was probably intended as an affectionate good night turns into something else, as the simple facts of safety and privacy make themselves known. Dean backs you into a wall as your legs go weak. He bends his knees and you moan as that bulge rubs exactly where you need it. For the first time in your life you wish you were in heat, right now, Presenting, taking Alpha’s knot.

“Put your hands behind my neck-- good girl,” Dean says. Your dress has a slit up the left leg; Dean pushes it up until the slit starts at your hip and reaches through. “Fuck,” he breathes when he feels your slick sliding down your thigh, “you’re dripping for me, aren’t you babygirl?”

“Yes,” you whimper. “Yes Alpha.”

“Tilt your hips up a little-- other way. Let me get at that pussy. Good girl, just like that,” Dean says, and you gasp as he touches you there, gentle pressure through the fabric of your panties. You’ve tried doing that for yourself a few times but it never felt like this, nothing like this.

“Do you like this?” Dean asks. “Does it feel good? You have to tell me babygirl, I can’t read your mind. Be a good girl and tell me.”

“Feels good,” you say through a tight throat. “Feels so good, Alpha.”

“Makes your pussy feel good?” You nod, biting your lip. “Say it babygirl, tell me I’m making your pussy feel good.”

“Making my pussy feel so good,” you whine, being a good girl for Alpha. Just the idea, being a good girl for Alpha, makes you weak, makes you want to fall to the floor and Present right now, let Alpha take you right there next to the umbrella stand and whatnot table. “Please,” you moan, feeling the bliss adding and multiplying and clinging to Dean otherwise you’re going to fly apart. “Please Alpha--”

“Come for me Omega, be a good girl and come in your panties for me.” You choke on a whimpering howl as the coil in your middle snaps and pure pleasure floods every cell in your body. Dean kisses you through it, swallowing all your moans and whines.

“Shhh, quiet babygirl,” Dean says as you beg him for anything, everything, just more. “You need to get a shower and get some sleep and I need to go.”

“No Alpha, please, I need you, I need your knot, please--”

“Shhhh.” He holds you until your body stops shaking, until your legs can hold you up on their own. “It’s okay Omega. I’ll be here when you need me.”

“I need you now,” you beg.

“If I get inside you right now,” Dean tells you, his voice hoarse, “I’ll last for almost ten whole seconds. And to take care of you the way I want to, I’m going to need to be better than ten seconds.” He gulps. “A lot better.”

“No,” you moan as he puts your hands back down at your sides and sinks to his knees. Your panties slither down your shaking legs and you almost fall taking your feet out of them. Your pussy clenches and fresh slick floods out of you as Dean noses you through your dress, and from the look in his eyes it’s causing him physical pain to tear himself away from you.

“It’s okay,” he says, pulling you into a hug and kissing you, deep and desperate. “Be good for me, go in and get some sleep. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

And he’s gone, stuffing your slicked panties into his pocket.

---

The next day you float through your TA hours for Professor Visnyak and writhe through your Issues In Classical Archeology lecture, mind full of Dean and body longing for same. In the cold routine of your life as usual he doesn’t seem real, like you were visited by some fairy prince with a taste for virgin Omegas. You keep catching yourself sniffing at the air, searching for Dean’s sweet, smoky Alpha scent.

Your phone beeps a notification as you grind through a stack of Geology papers written by freshmen with zero interest in the topic, nibbling at a sad excuse for a Caesar salad and wielding a red pen like a Sith lightsaber. Thinking it’s your father confirming he made it to Florida with the rest of the snowbirds you swipe the unlock and damn near drop the phone when you see a selfie of Dean posed next to the open hood of his car. You barely believe it but in casual clothes and sporting some whiskers he’s even more handsome, and you thank God for the foresight that caused you to wear a liner in your panties today and double up on the scent blockers.

hi bbygrl

changing babys oil

whatre u up to?

Giggling, you lay your head on the pile of papers covering the TA’s desk and pose like you’d fainted, red pen clutched in your hand.

Grading.

Barf.

You set your phone down and go back to work, but a moment later it chimes again.

giv all As

less time, students luv u

After a moment’s thought, you type.

And miss making freshmen business majors suffer? Can’t do it.

A second later, Dean replies.

as u were

(devil face)

---

RU on FB?

Yes but I barely use it.

When he asks you text your username. The app on your phone chirps with a notification-- DM Winchester wants to be Friends. Smiling, you accept the request.

would u do something 4 me?

Depends. What?

take a picture every day

doesn’t hav 2B selfie

just whatevr ur doing or looking at right then

hav 2 go out of town a few days

might not B able to text every day

Out of town? Why?

family bizness

10 hr drive to ks

HATE flying

do that 4 me?

Okay. Why? My life’s boring.

The three little I’m thinking bubbles bounce for several minutes before Dean’s answer pops up.

not 2 me

bbygrl

(kiss face)

---

Another thing Dean said to you on the bench that night’s been bouncing around in your head. You’ve always just sort of taken everybody’s word for it that Family money is accessible to you, but only under certain conditions and only if somebody else approves. When you posit the question -- in carefully worded hypotheticals on a Q&A forum run by the university law department -- the answer comes back to consult a specialist in inheritance law to be sure, but since you’re eighteen now and legally an adult, that might not be the case anymore.

You also do some reading on Alpha-typical body language. Because you had to be overreacting, right? Zachariah had just caught you in a strange mood, Omega instincts working like they’re supposed to for the first time in your life and preening under Dean’s focused attention. But the more you read, the colder and more repulsed you feel.

“You’re awfully quiet. Is something the matter?”

Screwing up your nerve, you ask, “Uncle Balthazar, do you know if Mother made arrangements for me in her will?”

“Of course she did dear, she met with Chuck’s people when she first got sick and had everything put in order. You’ll never want for anything, she made sure of that. Why do you ask?”

You hesitate. “Why did Zachariah really pay for Dean to go out with me?”

Uncle Balthazar sighs. “Sweetheart he was worried. We all were. It isn’t normal for a young and healthy Omega like you to show zero interest in Alphas. He thought that once you’d had a complete heat, whatever the problem was would sort itself out.”

“I looked it up. According to the doctor’s guidelines being a virgin isn’t something to be worried about unless an Omega’s almost thirty, not eighteen! And the way Rebecca talked-- I mean, she didn’t come right out and say Zachariah would cut me off if I didn’t do it but she didn’t have to. And as far as making people talk, compared to the crap Uncle Gabriel gets up to, me being a frigid bore isn’t news.”

Uncle Balthazar doesn’t say anything. You sag against the kitchen counter, the strength going out of your legs. God you wish Dean were here, warm and solid and safe. The Omega in you craves Alpha’s protection, and you don’t like it but the rational parts of you agree right now.

“Uncle Balthazar--”

“This isn’t something we should discuss over the phone, cherie. Your Uncle Gabriel and I are flying back to Michigan. We’ll be there tomorrow morning. Can you meet us for breakfast?”

You mentally reshuffle your day. “I think so. At the café?” The café is the tearoom overlooking the river in the hotel owned by the Family. Everybody eats there.

“No, we need somewhere we won’t be paid attention to. That luncheonette in Caledonia Gabe likes, eight AM tomorrow. We’ll see you there.”

You just stand there speechless, the hum of a broken connection ringing in your ear.

---

Later that day you’re bent over a table in the library, grinding through your Introduction to Statistics homework and listening to Mindless Self Indulgence.

Your phone vibrates. It's Dean-- where r u?

Campus library. Stats homework.

Kill me now.

nope.

bad luck to kill someone when ur holding their underwear

(leering face)

You gasp, covering your mouth when you see dirty looks coming from the other students.

DEAN!

A hand taps your shoulder and you almost hop straight to Heaven. Dean's got a hand over his mouth turning red from holding in a huge laugh. You drop your Statistics text and throw your arms around his neck, kissing the laugh right out of his mouth.

Some sarcastic soul starts a round of applause.

"Thank you, thank you, you're a wonderful crowd, try the veal, tip your waiter," Dean says, waving it off. “I come bearing caffeine,” he tells you, plunking a carrying caddy with two big cups and a baggie full of sugar and creamer and flavoring packets on the table.

“Oh bitter fuel of life, come to me,” you sigh, grabbing one of the cups and taking a long sip of the hot black liquid.

“You take it black,” Dean says, like he’s making a mental note.

“Just like my metal,” you cap the line, but not surprisingly Dean doesn’t catch it.

“Quick-- favorite Led Zeppelin song,” Dean says.

“Houses of the Holy,” you say without thinking. “Yours?”

“Ramble On. Can you take a break? Just for a few minutes?”

“Sure, I was about done here anyway,” you say, packing your stuff.

---

“This is where you took your picture day before yesterday isn’t it?�� Dean asks as you walk with him across the pedestrian bridge spanning a deep crease in the earth cut when the glaciers retreated. Far below a streamlet of rain runoff flows down into a storm drain. The trees growing on the edges of each slope are in full color, brilliant oranges and yellows and one maple tree that turns purple-red every year. Dean points to it. “I recognize that tree.”

“Mmm-hmm.” You sit on a bench set against the bridge railing. Dean doesn’t sit with you. Instead he goes to his knees in front of you and wraps you in his arms, nose pressed against the side of your neck. You breathe him in and shut your eyes as Alpha’s scent wraps your spirit in warmth. You turn your head and Dean’s right there, meeting your lips in a tender kiss.

“Missed you,” Dean says.

“Me too,” you admit. “A lot.” It’s been two weeks and feels like a million fucking years.

You put your hands on either side of Dean’s face, feeling his afternoon scruff scrape your palms. In daylight he looks even more gorgeous than he did that night, sunshine picking up golden and coppery tones in his hair and bringing out amber tones in his green eyes. But there’re deep shadows under his eyes and his skin is too pale. You’ve spent too much time around people functioning on caffeine and stress to miss the signs. “Are you okay? You look like you haven’t been sleeping.”

“Good guess. I’ve been driving since four this morning. I gotta go home and crash but I wanted to see you first.”

“Aw,” you kiss him again, smiling. “I can spare an hour until my next class if you want to grab a snack or something.”

“I can’t babygirl I’ve gotta get a few hours rack time. I got a job tonight.”

You stiffen. The reminder of just what it is Dean does for a living feels like a faceful of icy water.

Dean’s arms are firm around you and before you can get up enough torque to really struggle he clarifies, “Not that kind of job. It’s a bodyguard gig.”

“Oh.” You hang your head. It’s not like you didn’t know the score, and you’re both adults, and it’s really not appropriate for an Omega to get possessive. You’ve known Dean a grand total of a fortnight and change. You don’t have any special claim on his time. Or his body.

Like hell I don’t, that Omega-voice says, quiet but steely.

“Bodyguard?”

“I spent a few years in the Army. I got good reflexes, I’m a dead shot, and I can do double-duty as arm candy.”

“I’m sorry,” you say meekly. “It’s not really any of my business.”

“Before you ask,” Dean says, “I take the other kind of gigs because the pay is about ten times better and there’s a lot more demand.”

Assuming Dean can’t talk about his job particulars, you change the subject. “Can you meet me tomorrow for, I dunno, lunch or dinner or something?”

“I should be back in town after seven. We could get something to eat, sure.” Dean sits back on his heels, your hands held in his. “Is something wrong babygirl?”

Briefly you explain what you’d found out poking around online. “I tried to talk to Uncle Balthazar about it but he told me he didn’t want to talk about it over the phone.”

Dean swears. “I hate it when you’re right Sammy,” he grumbles.

"What?"

"I mentioned my brother's in law school, right?" You nod. "Last time I talked to him I asked him whether or not you could get locked out of any family trusts after you turned eighteen."

"From what I found, I need to talk to an actual lawyer for a definitive answer," you say.

"That's what he said too, but he pointed something else out." Dean squeezes your hands. "Look, I hope I'm wrong about your uncle. I . . . I could've been overreacting, I really don't like watching Alphas act like that around Omegas. Especially when it's family."

"But," you prompt.

Dean sighs. "Imagine how it looks to anybody who doesn't know you. Grew up rich--"

"Not hardly."

"Let me finish. By the standards of people who make up most of the taxpaying public around here you grew up with a silver spoon up your butt, okay?"

You roll your eyes but concede his point.

"Never been in a serious relationship, never been in a casual relationship," Dean goes on. "From the info Mr. Adler provided, you've barely even dated. Then you go out in public with a," he grimaces a little, you're not sure he knows he's doing it, "professional escort once, and all of a sudden you want access to the family checkbook?"

You feel your face drop in shock. You'd thought your parents raised you as a rational, skeptical, borderline cynical person. Not even close. "To anyone who doesn't know me," you echo Dean's phrasing, "I either look impossibly naive or like a greedy bitch. Emphasis bitch. And you look--"

"--like a knothead asshole taking advantage of an Omega kid with a crush." Dean smiles into your ashamed face. "Don't worry about me babygirl, I can take care of my own reputation. Such as it is. I'm just saying, until you know for sure whether or not your uncle's trying to do something shady--"

"--I probably shouldn't be talking to you about it," you finish. You feel like you need to curl up and cry. The list of friends you can take something like this to doesn't exist; the few who don't have some sort of connection to the Family, you don't feel you know them well enough to confide in. Not something like this.

"Hey," Dean says softly, brushing a hank of hair back off your face, palming your jaw. "Whatever happens, I got your back. Count on that."

"I do," you say, meaning it. "Meet me anyway? I just . . ." you laugh a little helplessly, "I don't care if all we do is fall asleep on the couch watching the Lions lose."

Dean looks down a second, his Adam's apple bobbing on a gulp. When he looks into your eyes again, your mouth goes dry. "Babygirl. The next time I get you in private, we will not be sleeping."

---

You're still flushed from all the thoughts that sentence put in your head as you walk into the Salt Shaker Grill the next morning and find Uncle Balthazar and Uncle Gabriel at the corner table. With them, to your surprise, is your cousin Castiel.

"Darling," Uncle Balthazar says, standing and kissing your cheek. "You look well. Infatuation agrees with you."

"Yeah, you're all pink and glowy," Uncle Gabriel adds with a sardonic little grin. "Who are you and what've you done with our girl?"

"Up yours Uncle Gabe," you say.

"I took the liberty," Uncle Balthazar says, pointing to a plate heavy with bacon and eggs, toast on the side. "You hardly eat enough to keep a mosquito alive."

"Okay kiddo," Uncle Gabriel says after giving you a minute with your breakfast. "Before we tell you why we wanted to talk face-to-face, I need you to be honest with me. Okay?"

"Sure Uncle Gabe," you say.

"What exactly happened, to make you ask Balthy why Zach went and hired an escort for you?"

You explain about the incident at Great-Aunt Naomi's birthday gala. When you tell about how Zachariah touched your neck, Uncle Balthazar interrupts, "Show me how he touched you, love."

You put your hand just under where your neck becomes your skull and squeeze. The Alphas at the table exchange a look. "I thought I was just-- I don't know, maybe the shrimp wasn't agreeing with me? Dean told me Alphas do that as a dominance gesture."

"Yes they do," Uncle Balthazar says. "Pressure, right in those spots," he rubs just behind one ear, "stimulates the pheromone glands. It's a little like rubbing the small of a woman's back."

"That's a foreplay move, kiddo," Uncle Gabriel says. "When Balthazar told me about it, I thought it was Zach just being a dick. He gets like that sometimes when he drinks. The only time you're around Zach is at Family crap like that party. You're never alone with him."

"But it occurred to me," Uncle Balthazar says, more serious than you've ever seen him, "that that's not true."

"I saw the incident," Castiel says in his gravely voice, making you look at him in surprise. You vaguely remember seeing Castiel at an adjoining table, deep in conversation with his date and not paying much attention to the party. Castiel's a shy duck, and a bit socially awkward. He works with Zachariah, one of the many spiders keeping the money web snug. "I'm sorry I didn't intervene. By the time I realized what was happening, your escort had already taken control of the situation."

"Zach insists on vetting your class schedule and making out your tuition payments personally, right?" Uncle Gabriel asks.

"Yeah, every semester." You shrug. "I take him my schedule, he pretends to be interested, he makes a big production out of writing the check, and I leave."

"And are you alone with him when you have these meetings?" Uncle Balthazar asks.

"Yeah," you say.

Uncle Balthazar hesitates. "Darling, please know I love you and I would never do anything to hurt you. But we have to know. When Zachariah's alone with you, does he do things like this?" He takes your hand and his thumb rubs the nerve cluster just below your wrist. He puts an arm around you as though to hug you but his fingers press into your waist in a way that makes your breath catch. His hands span your back, one between the shoulderblades and one low on your spine. You can feel him tracing your bra strap as he pulls you close, pressing your breasts into his chest.

"Stop that," you say, pulling back.

"You legit didn't realize those were dominance gestures." It's not a question.

"As I pointed out," Uncle Balthazar says to Uncle Gabriel, "she wouldn't. Most of us learn those tells as we start dating. Or by watching our parents."

"Except your parents were both Betas, and you don't date," Uncle Gabriel concludes. "Puts kind of an unpleasant spin on Zach hiring a sex worker to pop your cherry."

"Oh for God's sake Gabriel," Uncle Balthazar says, "have a little consideration for the child's feelings will you?"

"She's not a child Balthy," Uncle Gabriel says. "Us overlooking that is the whole reason this has gone as far as it has."

You push your plate aside, the appeal of the food gone. "What am I going to do? I have at least six more years until I get my PhD and financial aid is out of the question."

"That will never be a problem,” Uncle Gabriel says. “Even if Zach cuts you off you'll be taken care of. We owe your mother that much. I'm putting that in writing."

"Me too." Uncle Balthazar tips you a wink. "Not all of our money is Family money, cherie."

"Overseeing the Family trusts is part of my job duties," Castiel says. "Your mother set up a trust in your name when she had her will updated, to be held by the Family until you turned eighteen. The process of turning that trust over to you should have begun months ago. When I asked Zachariah, he told me things was on hold until your summer break when you would be free for court dates."

"Except that doesn't make sense," Uncle Gabriel says. "Your birthday was in January. Chuck's a gutless wonder but it's not like him to be inefficient."

A silence falls over the table. You sense a boundary’s about to be crossed, and you ask, "Why didn't you want to talk about this over the phone Uncle Balthazar?"

"Because if what I think is happening is happening," Uncle Balthazar tells you, "it dovetails rather neatly with some suspicions Gabriel and I have had for years."

"We think Zach's been filching the Family fortune," Uncle Gabriel says it, bald and ugly.

"Irregularities have been appearing consistently in the bookkeeping," Castiel says, his usual frown deeper than usual as your mouth drops open in shock. "Someone going to improbable lengths to conceal cash transactions, source and destination."

"The only people who have the access to do that kind of Catch Me Fuck Me with the books are the Old Lady," Gabriel is the only one alive who gets away with calling Great-Aunt Naomi the Old Lady, "Michael," the public face of the Family, "Raphael," the Family politician and a state representative in Lansing, "and Zachariah."

"Naomi has no motive or need. Neither does Michael. Raphael wouldn't be that stupid, not while he's running on an austerity platform, a corruption charge would destroy him politically," Uncle Balthazar says, ticking his points off on his fingers. "Until recently, I would have said Zachariah had no motive or need either."

"You don't know him the way I do, Balthy," Uncle Gabriel says. "Zach's always relied on being the Old Lady's favorite son. I don't like thinking this way, kiddo," he says to you, "but if he's doing what I think he's doing, he's going to start openly courting you to mate and he's worked really fucking hard to make you think you had to stay in his good graces or risk losing everything."

"Oh my God," you say, swallowing hard to keep from throwing up your eggs over. "He can't do that-- he's my fucking uncle--"

"Great-uncle, a few times removed," Castiel corrects. "Legally there would be no barrier."

"Legally shit!"

"Agreed, my love," Uncle Balthazar says. "Zachariah miscalculated when he purchased your new friend's services. Fresh eyes see clear.”

Zachariah? Thinking of you as his? "I'm gonna be sick," you croak and scramble for the ladies room.

---

“It wasn’t your fault Pamela,” Uncle Gabriel’s explaining to a dark-haired woman in an apron. “My niece just got some really crappy news.”

“I’m sorry,” you apologize on your own behalf. “Everything was really good.”

The woman’s stern expression melts. “Oh that’s okay sugar. Do you want me to bring you some ginger ale? It’ll help settle your stomach.”

“Thank you,” you nod.

“So anyway,” Uncle Gabriel says, “what Balth and Cas told me got me thinking. Cas doesn’t have any hard proof Zach’s been skimming, he’s just the likeliest suspect.”

You remember what Dean said and just like that you know something. “It’s Chuck isn’t it? Chuck’s covering for him.”

“Very good,” Uncle Gabriel says, giving you a chilly smile. “And if Chuck is dirty, none of us are safe. He knows where all the bodies are buried.”

“Literally?”

“Best you be able to say for the record that we never answered that question,” Uncle Balthazar tells you, and you hush up. Balthazar’s role in the Family business has never been completely explained to you. “Look, the point is, if Zachariah’s been foolish enough to illegally block your access to your mother’s money, and if we can prove it, it could be the smoking gun we need.”

“We get control of the Family business away from Zach, we get Chuck disbarred and possibly thrown in jail, and we avoid a situation with the IRS and the Feds,” Uncle Gabriel winds it all up. “If the law gets involved we could lose everything.”

“Not everyone in the Family has independent support,” Uncle Balthazar says, “and while I couldn’t give a damn about some of them that list includes you.”

“Okay,” you say, accepting the cool cup of ginger ale from Marybeth. “What do you need me to do?”

“For right now? Act normal,” Uncle Gabriel says. “I know you’re still seeing this Dean guy--”

“Don’t ask me to stop.”

“I wouldn’t kiddo,” Uncle Gabriel says. “Balth tells me you two hit it off. Big time.”

“They certainly smelled very cozy with each other,” Uncle Balthazar says.

“The way Mr. Winchester immediately acted to keep her away from Zachariah,” Castiel observes, “it was not the action of a detached professional. A detached professional would have been more concerned about appeasing his patron than ensuring your comfort.”

“I’m not going to be the one telling you to quit seeing a guy who was ready to throw down for you an hour after meeting you,” Gabriel says. “But for the love of God be careful. If Zachariah starts throwing money around--”

“Dean wouldn’t do that,” you defend your Alpha.

“Not saying he would. I did some digging,” Uncle Gabriel says, “and a quick hundred thousand would solve all sorts of problems for him. Zach can write that kind of check, easy. He probably spends more replacing the towels in the hotel after New Year’s.”

“And if someone got the idea Dean was only seeing you to get access to Family money,” Uncle Balthazar says.

“That’s what he said.” You tell them about the conversation the two of you had earlier.

“Guy’s not a complete dumbass,” Uncle Gabriel notes.

“And he’s completely besotted with her. Anyone with eyes could see it,” Uncle Balthazar says.

“I agree,” Castiel adds.

“When do you see him again?” Uncle Gabriel asks.

“Later today.”

“If he tells you that his boss, or Zach, or Chuck got in touch with him and asked him to do something with you off-contract,” Uncle Gabriel says, “you need to tell me right away. An unscrupulous escort can make a lot of extra money in blackmail too. I’m not saying,” he says, holding up a hand as you open your mouth, “that Dean would. Just the insinuation might be enough to fuck us up.”

“Zachariah,” never again will you think of him as Uncle, “is acting like he’s my Alpha-in-waiting. Is blackmail an option for us?”

“That’s not a discussion you need to be privy to. You neither, Castiel. Let us old men handle the scheming,” Uncle Balthazar says.

The four of your rise and Uncle Gabriel leaves a pile of tens on the table. “Thanks Pamela. Take her easy.”

“Incidentally,” Uncle Balthazar says as he escorts you to your car, “I’ll be staying with your Aunt Anna whilst I’m in town. You young people might need a little privacy.”

“You’re supposed to tell me Dean’s a prostitute and I can’t trust anything he says or does is real,” you say, feeling very tired suddenly.

“Darling, how often do you think a professional takes time out of their day to just take their clients for a walk? Or leave absurd little memes on their social media? Or indulge your ridiculous love for cartoons?” Uncle Balthazar puts his arm around your shoulders, an affectionate, comforting weight. You take in his familiar scents of lilies and sandalwood. “I’m not going to say it’ll be anything lasting, cherie. First loves almost never are. But just because a relationship proves temporary, that doesn’t mean it wasn’t worthwhile.”

“Better to have loved and lost?”

“Good God, no. The only person who can decide what’s an acceptable risk when it comes to your heart is you. Don’t let our cynicism ruin a chance at a little genuine happiness.”

His characteristic smirk reappears. “And do try not to break any of the furniture.”

---

“You can sight-read Latin?”

Dean shrugs, picking a cheese stick out of the basket. “Long story. And wouldn’t you know-- none of the high schools I went to would give me a language credit for it.”

You look up from the pictures you took in lab, of linen and parchment scrids covered with heavy block printing. “How may times did you change schools?”

“Lost count,” Dean says. “When I finally gave up I was like two years behind.”

“Why?” you ask. “You’re a smart guy.”

“That’s an even longer story, babygirl.”

You put your phone down. “I have time. These damn parchments have waited three hundred years. They can wait another couple minutes.”

Dean stares at you, taking a sip of his drink. The two of you are holding down a table in your favorite greasy spoon just off downtown, Harvelle’s Filling Station. It’s open 24 hours and the management doesn’t care if you take a few hours to get some homework done in the relative peace and quiet. The urge to apologize for prying comes but this time you resist.

“Our-- me’n’Sammy, our mom died when I was four and Sam was a baby. House fire.”

“Oh God, I’m sorry,” you say. You reach for Dean but he shifts out of your reach. It hurts, but you leave your hand there, an invitation for Dean to take or leave.

“Dad never got over it. Something up here,” Dean taps his temple, “just broke. He started saying he saw someone in Sammy’s room, that whoever it was was out to get us. Then our grandma died of a stroke and he started drinking.

“Would you believe until I got my discharge the longest I ever lived anywhere was ten months? Dad would move us somewhere, get a job -- legal or otherwise -- we’d start to settle in, but then the nightmares would start up again. He’d disappear a lot, sometimes for weeks.”

“Jesus. Who was taking care of you?”

“We took care of ourselves, pretty much,” Dean says. “But it got bad sometimes. Dad would come home and start screaming at us in Latin, crazy shit about the sixty-six seals and the end of the world. I forged a work permit when I was thirteen and started working. Did a lot of other shit I’m not proud of.” Dean shrugs. “School just wasn’t as important as making sure Sammy was fed and safe. I got caught hustling poker when I was seventeen and the DA gave me a choice-- Army or jail. I picked Army. At least then Sammy got a steady income.”

“Where were you deployed?”

“Afghanistan. Three years into my contract, my Uncle Bobby had a heart attack and I got a hardship discharge to come back and take care of him and Sam. Don’t look at me like that.”

“What do you mean?”

“Like I’m some three legged puppy or something. Dad’s okay, Sam’s okay, I’m okay. That’s what matters.”

You can’t help it though. It’s too damn easy to picture Dean as an underfed kid fighting tooth and claw to keep everybody’s shit together. Dean comes by his cynicism honestly, you realize, more honestly than you in any case.

“Anyway, it’s not your job to take care of me.”

“I thought we left the job thing about six exits back,” you say.

“Not what I meant,” Dean says. “I’m an Alpha. Alphas take care of Omegas.”

“If we’re bringing designations into it,” you say, “it’s just as valid to say,” you point your thumb back at yourself, “I’m the Omega, it’s my job to be caring and nurturing to my Alpha.”

A light comes in Dean’s eyes and he smiles. “Your Alpha?”

You replay your last sentence. “Did I say that?”

“Yep.” Now Dean takes your hand, bringing it up to scent your wrist. He meets you halfway across the table for a soft kiss.

“Hey hey hey,” the night shift fry cook says. “Get a room you two. This is a family place.”

“I gotta go,” Dean says, getting into his coat. “I got an appointment BFE then I have to go out of town again.” He pauses. “You’re on cycle meds, right?”

You nod. You have to be, in order to get the necessary time away from school to deal with your heats.

“When do your meds change?”

“Sunday.” Switching from suppressant to contraceptive means a heat within 24 hours.

“Call me the second-- the second, you start getting the shakes. You hear me?”

“Yes Alpha,” you say.

The frission of nerves must show on your face, because Dean smiles and gives you another kiss. “Try not to worry babygirl,” he says softly. “I’ll make it good. I swear, I’ll make it good. Take such good care of you.”

“Yes,” you moan, ever so softly.

---

A couple of days later you’re in the lab wading through a dig site inventory reconcile. Behind the dust mask over your face you wiggle your nose and sniffle like some kind of half-assed rabbit. Every damn time you mask up you get a runny nose.

It’s a relief when your phone purrs with a bass guitar D chord, the custom sound you picked out for Dean’s number. A break would be lovely right now. Going into the other room you unmask and blow your nose.

morning bbygrl

gimme a smile?

You snap a mirror selfie of yourself blowing your nose.

Stupid dust.

Dean replies with a laugh-to-tears face, and you respond with The Finger.

do u know this guy?

A second later your phone flashes a fuzzy pic of a dark-haired square-jawed man wearing a motorcycle jacket.

That’s Mr. Ketch.

PI that works for family law firm, Sturley and Kline.

I think hes tailing me

unless there’s another reason for him 2B in lansing

Maybe? Uncle Raphael lives in Lansing.

Why are YOU in Lansing?

Dean texts back an embarrassed blushy face.

speeding tix

wasn’t paying attn

nailed doing 88 in 70

You reply with an eye roll.

ur fault

comin home 2U

You took a speeding ticket for me?

(Bambi eyes)

break speed limits

crash barricades

slay dragons

wash dishes

don’t do windows

mans gotta draw the line somewhere

---

Sunday is the one day a week you make it a point to leave completely open. After Mass at St. Mary’s By The Freeway, you wrap yourself up in your overcoat and stroll across a couple parking lots to the Filling Station for a late breakfast.

“Hey-hey!” The peace of your divinely mandated day of rest dies bloody as you spy Zachariah leaning against your car. “There’s my favorite niece!” He pulls you into a crushing hug and you almost gag when you get a noseful of stagnant water and wet dead leaves.

“Good morning Uncle Zachariah,” you say warmly even though your lips have gone numb. Now that you know what to look for, Zachariah’s body language screams of overbearing Alpha. Nothing at all like Dean. Dean, dammit, where is he? You need Alpha, like right fucking now please. “Join me for breakfast?”

“Sure. I could eat. Meet me at the hotel?”

You tic your head at the Filling Station. “I usually eat here after church. Their omelets are delicious.” And the owner knows your face.

Zachariah’s smile does that souring thing. “Sure. Good to get out of the comfort zone once in a while.”

Because apparently you’re a closet sadist you order Zachariah an Ash Special with extra peppers, just the sort of thing to give him heartburn the rest of the day. Zachariah sits on the booth bench like it’s covered in something nasty and his nose wrinkles at the stench of cigarette smoke.

“So!” he says, as you attack your omelet and gulp coffee, “big day tomorrow.”

You pause. How did he know your heat’s coming-- your omelet turns to ashes in your mouth. The university requires Alphas and Omegas to give estimates of the days you have to be absent because of ruts and heats. That’s why Zachariah insists on vetting your schedule even though he’s utterly indifferent as to your field of interest. He’s been following your cycle for the past two years, at least.

Swallowing the bite in your mouth, you smile at him, coquettish little Omega. “Yeah. I’m a little nervous, but Dean was so nice at the party.”

“Oh boy,” Zachariah sighs. “Sweetheart, there isn’t an easy way to tell you this so I’m just going to tell you. Out of his ever-present briefcase Zachariah pulls a folder stamped with the Sturley and Kline logo. Your blood runs cold when you see the name printed on the tab-- WINCHESTER, D.M.

“The escort service Dean works for wasn’t totally honest about his background,” Zachariah says as you flip open the folder. “Because Dean’s bonded we assumed he had no criminal record. He doesn’t because it was all sealed as part of a plea bargain-- the prosecution agreed to seal his juvenile record and drop an assault charge on the condition he enlist in the Army.”

This is shocking but not for the reasons Zachariah thinks. Your flip past photocopies of newspaper columns you’ve already read. Based on the biographical information provided by the escort service and the things Dean had told you . . my God, in this exact spot, you’d gone and done a little research. In the process you’d gathered enough background about the Winchesters of Lawrence, Kansas to confirm Dean’s story-- the fire, his mother’s death, his father’s eroding sanity, everything. You know the “assault” charge was Dean breaking some high school senior’s jaw when he caught the bastard beating up his little brother. You also knew his father lived in Kansas instead of Michigan because he was forbidden to leave the state as a condition of his suspended federal prison sentence. John Winchester’s luck with evading the law had finally run out when he was caught with a cache of narcotics and a bunch of bomb fixings and assault weapons. Homeland Security had even gone so far as to put John on a terrorist watch list, never mind he’d been living quietly in an assisted living community in Topeka since his sentencing.

“Wha-- what are you saying? You think Dean might hurt me?” you ask in a tiny voice.

“I think where there’s smoke there’s fire. He spent years living on mail fraud and credit card scams while his crazy father ran around screaming about the end of the world. I know, you’re a tough kid but you’re still so young. I don’t want to take the chance of him claiming you and acting like he can help himself to your money.”

“No, no he wouldn’t do that,” you say, mind racing to write the script a few lines ahead. “Besides, except for pocket money I don’t have anything to my name except my car.”

“I know that but he might not,” Zachariah says, leaning forward into intimate space. “Don’t worry baby. When Chuck called the escort service they terminated the contract and offered us another Alpha.”

“No!” you snap, panicking. “Uncle Zachariah, I can’t go to bed with a total stranger. I can’t, I can’t, please don’t make me--"

“Hey hey hey, shh, that’s enough,” Zachariah soothes, pulling your head forward and kissing your forehead. “If it makes you feel more comfortable we’ll wait until your next heat.”

You nod, sniffling back genuine tears. “Thank you.”

Zachariah settles back into his seat. He takes your hands at the wrists, encircling them like handcuffs. “I know it hurts,” he says, “going through your heats alone. Hopefully this one will be the last one. The escort agency offered to keep this Alpha available for you if you want.”

Just what you always wanted, your very own professional mistress. “And Dean?”

“You’ll never have to see him again. Chuck has Mr. Ketch tailing him. Last report says he’s driving towards St. Louis in that ridiculous land yacht of his.”

You nod, gulping. “Thank you, Uncle Zachariah.”

“Just looking out for my favorite niece,” he says, with that who-loves-ya-babe smirk. He gets up, leaving his food barely touched. “Go home, get some rest. Do you want some company? I could call Rebecca to come stay with you--"

“No thank you Uncle Zachariah.” You paste a weak smile on your face. “I have a paper I need to finish. I wouldn’t be very good company.”

Zachariah doesn’t have a reply to that, and after an uncomfortably close embrace he leaves.

Once he’s safely out of sight you plonk your head on the table and concentrate on keeping your food down. You manage, but it’s close.

“You okay sugar?” Ellen, the Filling Station’s owner and manager asks, coming over with a fresh pour of coffee. “Something wrong with Ash’s cooking? I’ll fire him right now if you want.”

“Not the food. The food’s fine,” you say.

“Who was that guy?” Ellen asks as she tops you off.

“My uncle,” you say. “And after the conversation I just had I may never eat again.”

---

You didn’t tell me you got fired.

The dots dance.

they didnt fire me I quit

“What?” you ask it as you type it.

More dot polka. This time it goes on for a full five minutes. Finally, a text pops up.

do u hav time 4 vid chat?

You look around from your driver’s seat. The parking lot is empty and deserted. A wind sweeps at stray oak leaves with a sound like castanets clacking. Autumn in Michigan can get pretty damn dreary, you think. Right now you don’t mind, it matches your mood.

You call and a moment later Dean’s face fills the screen. He looks tired, but his smile is still like the sun coming up. “Hey babygirl.”

“Hi Dean.”

“What’s wrong? You look like a guest at your own autopsy.”

“Zachariah ambushed me on the way out of church this morning. He told me the escort agency terminated your contract because you lied about having a criminal record.”

Dean’s smile dies. “Babygirl I can explain.”

“Dean.” You hold up your hand. “Please don’t be mad at me.” You explain about what you’d found on the Internet.

“You couldn’t have just asked me?” he says, and you can tell he’s fighting not to lose his temper.

“I did ask you,” you point out. “When I found your Dad’s arrest record, I figured you’d tell me when you were ready.” You take a breath. “Dean, I don’t care. If you were the kind of Alpha Zachariah wants me to think you are, you wouldn’t care enough to be kind to me.

“I’m seducing you, you idiot. I do it for a living!”

“Oh yeah, a cup of coffee and a fingerbang and we might as well be bonded. Take me, I’m yours,” you drawl sarcastically. “Besides, Zachariah probably made it a point to tell you every single last thing about me, up to and including the time I got caught shoplifting candy bars from the party store near my parents’ cottage in Indian River.”

“Three Musketeers?”

“I was a nougat fiend at the time.” You replay your last sentence. “I was kidding but he seriously told you about that?”

“Said your mom had you on a diet that summer.”

Thank God, it looks like you’ve pulled the fangs from Dean’s anger. “What do you mean, you quit?”

Dean sighs. “It’s why I’ve been having to go out of town so much lately. The place Dad lives in isn’t cheap, but they can make sure he stays sober and keeps up with his meds. If I can come up with enough money to buy into his building, Medicare and Social Security will cover the monthly facility fees.” Dean pauses. “I’ve been fighting not to, but Sam finally talked me into selling our grandma’s old house in Lebanon. Between the sale and what I got saved, I have enough. Just barely.”

“Why hang onto the house for so long?” you ask.

“I always planned on moving back to Kansas after Sam finished school,” Dean says. “Sam kept telling me I could do that anyway and we needed the cash more than the memories.”

You nod. Given what you know of Dean, it was the memories that mattered, not the asset.

“Babygirl,” Dean goes on, “I didn’t say anything because it didn’t matter. I don’t want to be with you because of a job, and . . .” he trails off a moment, thinking. “I went in to see Becky and told her I wanted to stop doing full service. She said that wasn’t acceptable, shit got spoken, and I walked.”

"Zachariah said the agency had another Alpha lined up and ready to go," you say. "I told him I wanted to wait until my next cycle."

Dean doesn't say anything. His eyes have gone glacial, and you're suddenly glad he's not in the car with you.

"I bought us some time. Didn't I?" you ask, hating a little how small your voice sounds.

"I'm not angry at you, babygirl," Dean says, reading your face perfectly. "I want you to get what you need to hole up for a few days and go home. Do you still have the folder the agency gave you with the contract in it?"

"Yeah, it's on my desk."

"Look for the sheet with the red border. It's the form saying you officially refuse the agency's services. The instructions will tell you to take a picture of the form with your phone after you sign it and send it straight to Becky. When someone from the agency calls for the follow-up report, tell them you got cold feet when you found out about my record. After that, Zachariah stops being a concerned uncle and starts being a fucking pervert.”

"What about you? Zachariah told me he has Mr. Ketch following you to make sure you stay away from me."

"Don't worry about me honey, I've dealt with guys who’re a lot scarier than him. Give me fifteen minutes and a good rush hour. I’ll lose him on the Indiana turnpike."

You nod. "Dean? I'm scared," you admit. "I never really noticed it before, but Zachariah's always freaked me out a little."

"That's your Omega instincts, babygirl. They knew he was bad before you did."

"But what if he decides to make a move? I mean, directly? I already changed meds this morning, I can’t risk skipping a cycle. Last time I tried I had to go to the hospital.”

"Seizures?"

"Yeah."

"Don't do that. Get home, lock the doors. I’ll be there when I can. Just hang in there. You hear me?”

“But what if he pays somebody to--”

“Another Alpha touches you,” Dean says, his tone so cold you shrink in your seat, “over my dead body.”

---

The next hours feel a little anticlimactic by comparison. You bury yourself in Statistics homework, seeking refuge in the total focus and concentration required. When the elevator buzzer goes off you about drop dead of a heart attack. "Miss?" Harold the parking lot concierge calls over the speaker in the foyer. "There's a lady here to see you. Says she’s from the agency."

The representative from the agency Dean mentioned. "Yeah. Buzz her through."

A minute later the elevator opens and an attractive redheaded woman in a black overcoat and power boots strides in like she owns the world. Dark green eyes light on you and she smiles. "Good evening. I'm Abbadon."

"Hi," you say, your throat suddenly dry. A scent of cinnamon candy and grilling meat is crawling up your nose, sharp and savory. "You're here from the agency, right?"

"Yes darling. Here at your service," she says, in the least servile tone you've ever heard. She tsks, looking at you. "Such a shame, to hide such a beauty," she says.

She's an Alpha. Your brain blanks. Trans-designations -- female Alphas and male Omegas -- are rarer than red diamonds. You've only met one in your whole life, an Omega in high school everybody called Mick. Abbadon pulls a deep breath in through her nose. "You smell like roses, right after a rainstorm," she says, closing her eyes and sighing in pleasure.

"I think there's been a misunderstanding," you say. "I signed the cancellation sheet and sent it to Ms. Rosen a few hours ago. Your services aren't required."

"From that pretty blush," Abbadon says, coming closer and fixing your eyes with hers like a hypnotizing snake, "my services are very much required. Your heat is coming, isn't it sweet?" She closes her eyes and takes another draught of the air. "So sweet."

She strokes your jawline with a finger, turning her wrist up. On reflex, you scent her skin. Abbadon's candy and cooking meat scent is pleasant, but that's all. The memory of Dean’s perfect smoky sweetness makes you want to turn your nose up like an offended cat

"Oh dear," Abbadon says. "It's Winchester isn't it? You've imprinted on him and it makes you think you'll never quicken for another Alpha again." She shakes her head, her expression warm and sympathetic, except for her eyes. Her eyes are cold as lumps of green glass. "That's normal, but it isn't real. We provide company,” and she takes your hand, stroking the soft skin across the back, “and pleasure. Not mates.”

“Unless you’re here to take down my reasons for refusing your service,” you practically squeeze the words out in a stilted run-on of sounds, “I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

“There’s no need to be frightened, Omega,” Abbadon says, still low and smoky. She comes in closer, and you’re horrified to find yourself softening in the core.

“I’m straight,” you croak, “I don’t like girls.”

“When you’re wrapped around my knot, that won’t matter. Designation always wins, Omega.” One hand, then the other, slides up each side of your neck. You grab her wrists but she’s strong, you can’t pull her hands away. Her palms press down against the pheromone glands in your neck and you gasp. The glands are swelling with blood, filling the air with your enticing Omega scent. The pressure sends a trickle of heat down through your body and your legs start to tremble. “Designation always wins,” Abbadon repeats, coming closer and closer.

The elevator door buzzes and slides open. You and Abbadon both jerk like you’ve been shot, and just like that whatever spell she’d been weaving breaks up and floats away.

Castiel comes in calling your name, and just behind him comes a tall, beefy man you don’t know. “What’s going on?” he asks, looking at you with his striking blue eyes.

“It’s all right, I’m from the escort service, Rosen Entertainment?” She smiles at Castiel. “We were just introducing ourselves.”

“I thought she was here to do an exit interview,” you say, willing some strength back into your legs. “I don’t want any servicing.”

Castiel, bless his bumblebee tie tack, deliberately shuffles a little to one side, putting himself fully between you and the woman Alpha. “I believe there’s been a misunderstanding. Consent has been withdrawn.”

Abbadon’s red lips part in a predatory grin. “The Omega’s body is consenting. It’s calling for an Alpha.” She scents, and sighs. “So sweet. You smell it too, don’t you?”

Castiel’s shoulders go stiff. “You’re in rut.”

She what? You sniff the air, trying to sort out competing scents. As you do, your knees do that wobbling thing and you sit on the coffee table.

“Of course. The smell of an Alpha in rut relaxes timid Omegas. They can’t help it. You know that--"

“I do believe,” the beefy man says, his voice soft and round and Southern, “that you’ve been asked to leave. However good this little girl smells she obviously don’t want what you’re sellin.”

He must be a Beta, you realize. Otherwise he’d be reacting to the miasma of scent in the air. He looks over at you and smiles. “Hi there. M’name’s Benjamin LaFitte. Call me Benny. I’m a friend of Dean’s. He said to tell you he’s still got ‘em in his pocket. Said you’d know what that meant.”

Groaning, you hide your red face in your hands.

“Figured it was sumpthin dirty.” Cajun? You think you can hear the French lurking under his sentences.

Abbadon’s not smiling any more. “Sweetheart, this is ridiculous. You need a knot. You don't have be shy about your body and what it wants.”

“I said no,” you say. You see the portfolio with the agency’s original contract and snatch it, flipping it open and showing the red-bordered page with your signature and date at the bottom. “See? Service refused. I do not want this.”

“That only applies to Winchester’s service contract,” Abbadon says as though explaining something dead simple to a stubborn child. “A new arrangement’s been made.”

“Nevertheless,” Castiel says.

All the softness disappears from Abbadon’s body language. “That Omega is mine,” she snarls. “Get out of the way.”

Benny comes up beside Abbadon. “I do believe the lady's said no.”

Snarling, Abbadon throws herself in your direction. Castiel takes the hit, immovable as granite. Benny grabs her by the arms and bodily drags her to the couch across the room. “Stop it with those heels,” he grumbles as Abbadon’s spiked heel rips his pant leg. He puts her down and keeps her there as she tries another lunge. “Uht-uh lady, we’re all gonna sit quiet and behave ourselves. Understand me?”

“Are you all right?” Castiel asks you.

“Yeah.” You look up at him as your brain starts trying to make the last ten minutes make sense. “What are you doing here? Either of you?”

“I have a monitoring program on the accounting software that tracks the Family’s cash accounts. About an hour ago three large sums were wired out. The destination accounts were Rosen Entertainments, Rebecca Rosen’s personal deposit account, and another deposit account under the name Abbadon Diablo. I found the incident alarming enough to contact Balthazar, and he asked that I come to make sure you were all right.”

“I got a call from Dean this morning askin me to catch a plane to Detroit,” Benny takes his turn. “Said he was havin trouble shaking a tail.”

“Why didn’t he just fly in himself?” Castiel asks.

“The Chief’s scared of planes. Our last tour, the corpsman had to give him a shot to keep him from throwin a hissyfit all the way to Kabul.” Benny shakes his head. “Not afraid of heights but terrified of flying. Who can figure?”

“You guys were in the service together?” you ask.

“Sure were cher. First time I met him was when he dug me out from under a truck.” He slaps one leg. “Put a tourniquet on it. Wasn’t for him, I’d’ve bled out or be walkin with a peg leg right now.”

You ask the small talk questions. Benny answers-- he’s from Metarie, Louisiana, served five years before getting discharged for failing a drug screen, works as a bouncer in a bar in Baton Rouge owned by his wife Andrea.

“And you just hopped on a plane?” you ask.

“Sure did.”

“To come babysit a stranger a thousand miles away.”

“Course,” he shrugs, like it’s something people just do.

“Why? You don’t know me, you don’t know what kind of a shitstorm you’re walking into here.”

Benny looks at you. His eyes are blue too, paler than Castiel’s, clear and striking. “I owe Dean one. A big one.”

Something else occurs to you. “How did you guys even get in? Harold should’ve stopped you at the elevator.”

“Balthazar gave me a spare access card just before he left for Buenos Ares,” Castiel explains.

“I ran into bumblebee here trying to talk the doorman into buzzin him up,” Benny says. “He’ll be all right but he’s gon’ have a sore jaw when he wakes up.”

---

The waves of fury Abbadon’s putting out strangles any further conversation. You keep your seat on the coffee table, curling up more and more as the heat really starts sinking in. Abbadon watches you like you’re the most fascinating thing ever, and every minute goes by her smile gets a little wider. Her rutting scent is calling to you, and to your shame your body is calling back.

“You poor thing,” she says when you hiss through a cramp.

“Quiet,” Benny rumbles. “Like an itty-bitty church mouse.”

Even Castiel can feel it. Red slowly creeps up from under his collar and he starts to shift a little in his seat. You hope that he and Hannah are still an item. He needs someone to be nice to him, you think. It’s not his fault he’s better with bees and butterflies than people.

Finally, finally, the elevator buzzer goes off and you bolt across the room. Dean opens his arms just in time to catch you and pull you into a tight hug. You take a deep breath from his neck. Alpha’s scent, strong and sweet, blowing Abbadon out of your head like a wind blowing away smoke. Every cell in your body trembles. Slick starts to seep between your legs.

“Babygirl,” he breathes between soft kisses. “What happened? Are you okay?”

“I am now,” you say.

“Hola, Chief,” Benny says, shaking Dean’s hand and smiling. “Commet ce vas?”

“Thanks a bunch Benny, I just spent ten minutes talking Harold out of calling the cops.”

“Is he okay?” you ask.

“Yeah, nothing hurt but his pride. What happened?” Dean takes a sniff at the air and freezes. His eyes go dark and his upper lip lifts in a snarl.

“Well, if it isn’t the white trash Adonis,” Abbadon sneers.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Dean asks. Gently, he pushes you behind him.

“Cleaning up your fuck-up, Winchester,” she says. "And earning myself a big fat bonus in the process."

"Good evening," Castiel greets Dean, introducing himself and telling him what he'd told you about the money. "I believe Zachariah specifically requested a female Alpha because he reasoned she would not admit a man."

"Correctly," you mumble. "God I'm an idiot."

"Not your fault," Dean says, pulling you close to kiss your forehead.

As he pulls back you notice his cheekbone is swollen and there's a scrape going up into his hairline. You touch it gently. "What happened? Why didn't you call me? Why didn't you answer your phone?"

"Ketch," Dean says. "Did you know he used to work for the SAS? He got the drop on me just outside Kankakee. Bastard broke my phone."

"Jesus Christ-- are you all right?" you ask, patting Dean over anxiously, looking for more injuries.

He smiles. "It's just bruises, babygirl. I'm fine."

"What'd you do with him?" Benny asks.

"Left him tied up in a Porta-Potty with the door bolted shut. The construction crew'll find him tomorrow morning." You bark out a laugh. You've met Mr. Ketch once, and that was one time too many.

Dean holds a hand in front of Abbadon. "Phone," he orders, snapping his fingers. When she doesn't move, Benny rolls his eyes and digs out her pockets.

"Are you there yet? The feeds are still dark," a woman's voice answers.

"Hi Becky," Dean says. "Feel like explaining why you sent fucking Abbadon to service a virgin Omega who'd already red-sheeted us?"

"Dean! Hi!" Rebecca Rosen, the proprietor and manager of Rosen Entertainments chirps. "Now you gotta know I can't disclose the terms of a contact to third parties--"

"I'm not a third party!" you snap. Now that Dean's here and it's really sinking in what almost happened, what might have happened if Castiel and Benny hadn't shown up, you're pissed. "I put it in fucking writing I didn't want any of your Alphas!"

"Y-you did?" Ms. Rosen stutters. "Oh my God-- I am so sorry, our e-mail servers are being exchanged, I never got--"

"Red sheets go to your phone. Which is working," Dean says. "You wanna try again? Boss?" When Rosen doesn't answer, Dean growls, "Answer me, or the next call I make is to Detective Mills in Lansing."

"You wouldn't," Ms. Rosen says.

"Wanna bet? How much is Adler paying you?"

Castiel reads off some figures. Some astronomical figures. Figures far above and beyond anything you could imagine anyone spending on one thing, and for someone used to hanging around your idle rich cousins that’s saying something. "Le je vous Salue Marie," Benny whispers.

"What did he want you to do to me?" you ask Abbadon, clenching your hands together to hide the shaking.

"Oh, stop acting like a frigid little prude," Abbadon sneers. "All I was hired to do was help you through your heat. Knot you like you're supposed to be knotted."

"He said maybe the problem was you liked girls but were too shy to tell him so," Ms. Rosen says.

"He told you to take her to the cottage, didn't he?" Dean says. A wave of scent pushes out of him and you curl in on yourself. Alpha is angry, Alpha is in a rage. The pointed tips of claws sprout from the tiny ridges under his nail beds, and you can see his canid teeth have dropped and twisted into full fangs. The skin over the pheromone glands in your neck twitch. That's where Alpha will put his mark and claim you, and the thought makes slick pulse out of you.

"Mr. Winchester," Castiel says, putting a hand on his arm. His own Alpha scent of honey and wildflowers has thickened, but bears none of that sense of threat.

"Don't get in my way Cas. There's not a jury in the world that would convict me if I tore this bitch's fucking head off right now."

"That might be true Chief but is that really what the situation calls for right now?" Benny asks. "The bitch ain't really the core problem here if I'm reading things right."

"No," Castiel agrees. "Ms. Rosen, by accepting Zachariah's money you've made yourself and your business an accessory before the fact to an attempted rape. I've examined the," you can hear him put it in quotation marks, "'red sheet' and found it in order. A forensic examination of your phone will prove it was received and all instructions were followed."

"The red sheet only voided the contract between us and Mr. Adler that named Dean as the service provider--"

"You're not that stupid Becky," Dean cuts her off. "Zachariah hired you to provide a rutting knothead, and paid extra to take her to a place where he could film it happening."

"What?!?" you cry.

"The cottage is a house Becky owns just outside Rockford. It's wired for video and sound. We take clients there that want to star in their very own pornos," Dean explains.

You grope out with one hand. Benny, bless his silly golfer's cap, grabs the nearest wastepaper basket and holds it under you as you vomit.

"An associate of mine will be contacting you shortly. I strongly suggest you call your lawyer and go on record that he will have your full cooperation," Castiel says, and if he wasn't acting the dominant Alpha before he is now. "If you choose not to," his raspy voice deepens and he seems to grow a foot in front of you, "I swear by the Lord God I will break you."

Dean knows a dramatic cue when he hears it and disconnects.

“There. That should buy us some time,” Castiel says.

“What d’you mean, jellybean?” Benny asks.

“He was bluffing,” you explain, wiping your mouth and grimacing at the aftertaste of bile. “He’s an accountant, not a lawyer. He doesn’t have associates.”

“Not exactly,” Castiel admits. “Balthazar’s flight is scheduled to land at Ford International in twenty minutes. I’m sure one of his associates can secure Ms. Rosen’s cooperation.”

Dean stares at Castiel for a long moment. "You're all right, Cas," he says.

“Splendid,” Abbadon says. She stands and plucks her phone out of Dean’s hand. “As my contract has been cancelled I believe I’ll--”

“Aht-uh, I don’t think so,” Dean says, shoving her back down on the couch. “You’re not stupid Abbs, you know Becky’s gonna throw you off the cliff to save her own ass the second the cops start talking deal. I’d take some time and think seriously about your options.”

“This’s nice place to get some thinkin’ done,” Benny points out. “Quiet. There food in the kitchen cher?” You nod. Benny takes off his coat, and you gasp when you see a gun tucked into a shoulder holster. He follows your eyeline and smiles. “Your man’s prob’ly packin too. I bet my boots that’s what he was doin in Kansas.”

“One of the things,” Dean says. He reaches around his back and pulls out a chromed pistol.

“You brought a gun here?” you hiss.

“Let’s hope nobody’s stupid enough to make me use it,” Dean says, putting it back where he got it.

A wave of heat rolls through you, bringing hot blood under your skin and a fine film of fever sweat. Your pussy trembles, clenches, throbs. “Alpha,” you whine under your breath.

“Hey.” Dean pulls you close and cuddles you against his chest. “Just breathe, babygirl.”

“I think we can handle things here Chief,” Benny says. “You need to get your girl somewhere safe.”

“Benny is right,” Castiel says. His face is red but, God bless him, he’s composed otherwise. “I’m not confident Zachariah will react rationally when he learns his scheme failed.”

“Yeah me neither. Can you walk?” Dean asks you. “I need you to go pack. Just the essentials-- your toothbrush and enough clothes for a few days. Make it quick.”

You nod and head for your room. Picking out some jeans and T-shirts takes maybe five minutes. Talking yourself out of taking every piece of frilly underwear you own is harder. Packing up the work you need to get done before you go back to class-- the thought is almost surreal after everything that’s happened, what’s still happening. Is normal even a thing any more?

You emerge from your room with a backpack, a stuffed duffel bag, and a hardshell suitcase on wheels.

“That’ll work,” Dean’s saying to Benny. “Andrea’s threatening to carve my knot off again isn’t she?”

“Just cuz she loves you don’t mean she don’t want to kick your ass Dean,” Benny says.

“Tell her I love her too.” Dean looks you over and takes your duffel from you. He smiles into your frightened face. “It’s okay, babygirl. I’m just taking you somewhere safe. I know a place.”

“Where?” Castiel asks.

Dean gives him a look. “You don’t need to know.”

Castiel’s stance softens. “You’re right. Of course.”

“Your job,” Dean says, “is to do whatever you gotta do to nail her uncle. My job is to keep my Omega safe.”

“What’s my job?” you ask.

Abbadon laughs. “Get on your belly and take a big fat knot, Omega,” she says. “Your body’s crying for it, I can tell. You were born to be on your knees, sweet.”

“Shut your mouth,” Dean growls.

“Or what?” Abbadon taunts. “She smells so delicious. You can’t wait to get her alone and fuck her. You never could own up to just being a shitty mutt sticking his knot--"

“That’s enough,” Benny cuts her off. “Can I borrow your tie, Mr. Castiel?”

Castiel pulls off his tie and holds Abbadon by the arms as Benny gags her with it.

“Benny, I--” Dean starts.

“Go on now. We can handle things here,” Benny says. He smiles at you. “Sure was a pleasure to meet you, miss. Don’t you worry ‘bout a thing now. Me’n the bumblebee got it covered.”

---

You sit in the shotgun seat of Dean’s Chevy, trembling as your fever intensifies. You have no real idea where you are. Absent a stop at a Thrifty Acres to get some groceries, Dean’s been driving on side roads and two-lane blacktop with flat-footed confidence, constantly checking his mirrors and sometimes telling you to duck down out of sight. You’re trying to keep yourself still, not break his concentration. It’s hard. Slick is oozing from you in a steady trickle, so much you can feel it’s soaked through your jeans. Dean’s reacting to it, you can tell. He’s all but squirming in his seat. His scent’s turning darker, more intense. You keep thinking of how it felt, when Dean made you come just by touching you through your panties, when you were a good girl for him. You can feel your heartbeat between your legs, making everything swollen and sensitive and ready for Alpha, for Dean--

Finally, after a long crawl down a rutted track through some second-growth tangles of tamarack plants and tree saplings, you spy the dark outline of a house. Dean pulls the car next to it and kills the engine. “Here we are,” he says into the silence.

“Where?” you ask.

“Friend of my Uncle Bobby owned this place,” he says. “It’s got propane and a generator for the lights and a well and septic for water. We can hole up here until everything blows over.” He reaches past you and punches open the glove compartment. “I’m gonna go in first and make sure it’s empty. You know how to use a gun?” At your headshake, he pulls out a revolver. “Pull the hammer back,” he demonstrates, “and squeeze. I’ll be right back.”

After five minutes that feel like fifty fucking years, you hear a clack and a chug as a machine starts up. A dim yellow light flicks on inside the cabin. Dean comes back out, tucking his gun into the small of his back. “We’re clear,” he confirms and you sigh in relief, putting down the revolver. “Help me with the bags.”

Inside, the cabin is a one-room shack with a tiny part sectioned off in what you assume is the bathroom. The walls are knotty pine paneling and you can smell decades of old cigarette smoke. A woodstove slouches in one corner and there’s a galley kitchen against one wall. The cabin’s only furnishings are a bed, a saggy couch, and a little café table with a couple of chairs. Dean plugs something in and the refrigerator starts to hum. “Put the groceries away. I’ll get the rest of our things.”

A cramp seizes you as you finish putting the food away and you grind your teeth, bracing yourself on the counter. By now, at home, you’d be in bed full of muscle relaxants and painkillers, riding your heat out like a little boat in a choppy sea. “Keep it together bitch,” you mutter to yourself, straightening. Doing your absolute best to ignore the disgusting sensation of slick-saturated fabric between your legs.

Dean comes in and slings his duffel bag onto the couch. "The only other people who know about this place," he says, brushing by you without looking at you, turning on the kitchen faucet and nodding at the clear stream of water that results, "are my brother and Bobby. We should be safe here for at least a few days."

"That's good," you say. What's happening here? Why isn't he touching you? Your body is sobbing for him, you can feel it. Another cramp twists your insides and you suck in a breath. Oh, that's bad-- the room is filling with scent, yours and Dean's, mixing together into something that's squeezing your chest in a steel fist.

Dean turns around and braces himself against the kitchen counter. His eyes dart to the corner, where the bed waits, neatly made with a gray blanket. Your eyes dart below his belt and yes, even through his jeans you can see he's hard. He sighs, "God, babygirl, I am so sorry."

"What?" you ask, totally dumbfounded.

"This wasn't what I had planned at all," he says. "You deserve so much better than a dirty bachelor shack in the middle of nowhere for your first time--"

"Jesus Christ Dean, you think I give a shit about a little dust and mouse turds?" you cut him off. "Just how fucking shallow do you think I am?" You curl your arms around yourself, shaking.

"I don't," Dean says. "I don't think that at all. God, you're gorgeous and you're smart and you smell so fucking sweet." He gulps. "I've never-- you won't believe me, but nobody's ever gotten under my skin like this before. What the fuck are you even doing with a bum like me?"

"I thought," you gulp, "I thought you wanted to take care of me."

Dean's eyes darken and a fine tremor makes his body quiver. Slowly, he pushes himself upright. One step, two steps, and he's looming over you. He reaches out and slides his hand up your jawline, turning your head up and your eyes to his. This is happening, this is really happening, and you feel the knowledge like a punch straight between your legs. A tiny sound peeps out of you.

That must've been Dean's cue. His mouth slants over yours. The relief that sweeps over you makes you melt against him, clinging to keep your balance. Dean's hands are everywhere, strong and confident, pressing you against him. You moan when you feel him, hard and seeking through both your jeans.

"Gonna take care of you," Dean growls against your mouth. He touches your leg, feels the heavy cotton damp with your slick. "Your pussy's hungry for me, isn't it babygirl? I've been smelling it all fucking night. Got me hard soon as I got out of that elevator."

"Really?" you pant.

Dean nods. His hand curves around your shoulder and slides down. Your entire body shakes as his hand fits itself to your breast, learning the weight and the curve. His thumb finds your nipple and swishes back and forth over it, making it painfully hard inside your bra. Your head drops back and he kisses down your neck. More slick runs out of your pussy, hot and thick and slippery.

"Can I take this off?" Dean asks, pulling your shirt out from where it's tucked into your jeans. He kisses across your collarbones as you moan out a yes, raising your arms as he pulls if off over your head. Bare hands on your waist, feeling him skin-to-skin, your mind reels.

You're at the bed, Dean half-dragging you because your legs have quit working. The two of you topple over in a great squeak of stiff bedsprings and a puff of dust. You giggle at Dean's cuss, taking the opportunity to put some kisses of your own under his jaw, down his neck. His heart's hammering fast as yours, and the texture of his skin against your lips is a mystery you could spend the rest of your life exploring.

Groaning as you press down against him-- against his cock, you correct yourself, his Alpha cock, Dean sits up and shrugs out of his jacket and plaid button-down, shoving them to land on the floor somewhere. "Take my clothes off," he tells you as he pulls you to straddle his lap. You pull his T-shirt up and off. You undo his belt and the top button of his jeans. Dean lets out a sigh of relief as his trapped erection springs free, stretching out his underwear. Your bra clasp pops open with a twist of his fingers and you sling it off as your tits swing free. "Beautiful," he moans, tipping you back and covering your chest with kisses.

"Dean," you whine as he pulls a nipple into his mouth and sucks. The sensation goes straight to your pussy, which for God's sake is starting to burn.

"Told you," he says, his mouth full of your nipple and his fingers gently pulling the other one, "I needed time to take care of you. Nice," he says, suckling you long and strong and making you cry out, "and slow. Make you howl for me, babygirl. Unzip your pants for me."

You do as you're told like a good girl, and Dean rewards you by shoving his hand down your panties. He groans when he finds a puddle of slick. Your cunt clenches, more slick runs over his fingers. It was good when it was just pressure through your panties; skin to flesh, a rough palm rubbing over your clit and fingers gently threading through your soft inner lips, and you're almost weeping with need.

"Feel that?" Dean asks. "Your pussy's trying to lock around my hand, babygirl. You're so slick, I'm gonna just slide right in, right all the way in. Get in you so fucking deep, you'll feel me for days."

"Please Alpha," you beg, arching to rub yourself over his hand.

"Uht-uh," he grunts. The fingers that've been stroking you right where you open slip through and slide inside, finding tight and soft. They move, wiggling deeper, touching secret places you've never even touched yourself. "Gonna feel so good to make you come on my cock," he says, "feel your pussy lock my knot up nice and tight." His other hand takes yours and puts it over his tented underwear. Your palm curves around him and Dean moans. "That's it, babygirl. Feel how fucking hard I am?"

"Yes Alpha." Your hand reaches further into his open jeans and you cup his knot in your hand, feel it pulsing and swelling a little with each throb.

Gently, you squeeze and Dean groans your name. "Just like that babygirl. Not too hard-- wait, stop a second."

"No, please, I need you, I need your knot--"

Dean pulls your hand out of his pants and his hand out from between your legs. His fingers are running with your slick. Like he's got a palmful of syrup, Dean licks his hand clean. He presses a finger to your lips and you take a timid lick. It's . . . weird, salty and weird. Not bad, but weird.

"So good. Later," Dean says, kissing more of your taste into your mouth, "I'm gonna put you up on that table, and spread you out, and eat you out until you scream. I promise. Lay back."

You arch to lay back down Dean's legs. A laugh coughs out of you as he fusses with your jeans, helping you straighten and raise your legs high so he can pull them off. Your panties go with them, leaving you bare to Alpha's eyes. Under his burning gaze, you suddenly want to curl up and hide. You're barely rounded anywhere, skinny rather than slender, your bush spraying everywhere because it's never occurred to you that it might need trimming, much less shaving. Not like the lushly curved, voluptuous, beautiful Omegas he's probably popped his knot into on a regular basis.

"Hey hey hey," Dean says as you cover your tits with one arm and your pussy with the other hand. "Don't do that."

"I just--" you snap your hand back over yourself as Dean tries to pull it away from your bush, "look at me."

"I am," Dean says. "Be a good girl for me. Let me see you. Come on. Babygirl," he says, settling a hand low on your belly, rubbing down and making you shudder as you feel it deep inside your core, right at the source of all the burning, "you will never have to worry about disappointing me. Not ever. You hear me?" He leans over you, filling your vision with his face, with his eyes.

You seize his face and pull him down for a kiss. How easy it is, to wrap your legs around him. Dean unconsciously grinds against you. Frustrated little grunts pop from him as his clothes keep him from sinking into you. The glands in your neck start to ache, as your body puts out more and more scent. Alpha is here, right here, he’s rutting, he’s in rut, you need him, now, oh God now, before your body catches fire and burns away.

Grunting, growling, Dean pins your torso flat to the creaky mattress. “Let me go Omega, just for a second. Gotta get my pants off. Hold still, just for a second.”

You let your legs relax. Dean pushes himself up off you and reaches down under his waistband to free his trapped cock. Your first thought, as you get your first look at a cock, an Alpha cock, standing up from Dean’s groin like an iron bar and equipped with a pulsing mass of knot at the base, is disbelief. Dean’s fingers are long and thick and felt huge inside you. His cock is . . . to your inexperienced eyes it looks like a fucking baseball bat.

Dean busts out with a laugh and you flush, mortified. “I said that out loud didn’t I?”

“Just call me Miggy Cabrerra,” Dean teases, shoving his jeans down and peeling them off. You shift to roll over and Present properly. Dean stops you with a hand on your hip. “No babygirl. I need to watch your face.” You curl yourself upwards a bit to see what he’s doing-- putting his hand under your pussy and cupping his palm. The answer comes when he takes the slick that’s gathered and spreads it down his cock. The sight makes your cunt throb so hard it hurts. You drag a hand through your pussy and Dean jumps as you smear your slick down his shaft. His cock is a length of warm stone in your hand, the skin soft and fine, the softest skin you’ve ever touched. Dean shudders as you gather more slick and use both hands on him. “Good girl,” he says through a strangled throat, “getting me so fucking hard for you. Lay back.” He puts his hands on your thighs and pushes them as far apart as they’ll go. “God, perfect, spread yourself out nice and wide for me. Sit up a little.” A pillow slides under your back. “Now what did I say about reading minds, babygirl?”

It takes you a second. “That you can’t.”

“Yahtzee. If I do something that hurts or that you don’t like, you have to tell me. I promise, I will not be mad no matter how far gone we are. Tell me to stop and I will. Understand me?”

“Yes Alpha,” you say.

“Good girl. Being such a good girl for me,” Dean says, the words making you shudder. He smiles and tips your face up to look him on the eye. “You like being my good girl don’t you?”

You bite your lip and nod.

“Hold still. Keep being good for me, hold still.” You gasp as his fat, wet cockhead slides across your pounding clit. It slips down, a blunt mass seeking where your body unfolds. Dean says your name and points to his eyes. “Watch me. Right here.”

You fight to keep your head up and your eyes open, as Dean’s cock lodges between the innermost of your pussy lips. Between, and through. You pull a breath in through lungs that won’t inflate. He’s . . . big, thick, massive, heavy-- your brain runs out of adjectives. Your Omega instincts howl in completion.

Dean moans as you clamp down on him. “Oh my God. So fucking tight.” He holds himself still, puts a hand on your belly to hold you still. “You gotta relax, babygirl, relax, let me in, can you do that for me? Come on, you can do it. Let me make you feel good--” and your pussy unclenches and Dean slides straight in, all the way to the knot.

Oh.

So this is what all the fuss is about, is your first thought. Alpha’s cock filling you to the limit and his knot pressing against where your pussy will lock him in place. It . . . you ache, down there, where the nerves are going crazy processing new sensory input. Dean’s weight lays down against your belly. For a moment you can’t breathe and you squirm under him in a panic. Then he shifts and puts his forearms on either side of you, bracing himself and taking his weight off you. Never breaking eye contact, Dean’s hips roll. Sliding, friction, deep inside where you’re most tender--

Dean sighs, “Squeezing me so tight, Omega. Tightest little pussy. How does it feel, feeling me deep like this?”

“Full,” is the only word that comes to mind. “Feel so full.”

Dean smiles, brilliant but bracketed with tension. You breathe in his scent and it’s heavy and dark. You slide your knees up and your legs fall open wider. Dean shifts back, slipping away and he thrusts, filling you back up full and no, this is what all the fuss is about, this, this.

--mate knot breed mate knot breed mate mate MATE--

Groaning, Dean keeps moving inside you. Hot and alive. You’ve used knotting toys before, all Omegas do. Dean feels nothing like that. “C-c-can I go a little faster? Babygirl you feel so fucking good on my cock.”

You nod, gulping. Your eyes drift closed, going inside yourself, concentrating on the ache and the bliss deep within.

"Eyes open babygirl."

Your eyes fly open and you moan. Balancing himself on one arm, Dean brings his free hand to your face. "Suck on my fingers. Get 'em nice and wet for me. Good girl," he says as you lick down each of his first two fingers, take them both in your mouth and suck them. "You're gonna come on my cock, babygirl," he tells you. "Squeeze my knot so fucking tight. Lock me right the fuck up."

You cry out as his wet fingers find your clit, arching underneath him. Your bodies find a beat and you wind your arms and legs around Dean, kissing his lips, his face, his throat. You suck a bruise at a warm spot in his throat and Dean cries out your name. Your fangs drop and you only realize at the last second what you're about to do and duck your head, taking your mouth away from where Dean's mating gland throbs.

Dean's movements are getting shorter, the thrusting harder. You meet him as best you can, pulling him to you, wanting him to melt into your skin, become part of you. You cry his name as the pleasure just rises, and rises, and critical mass oh God--

You go rigid as you come, harder than you ever have in your life, your pussy squeezing around Dean and the muscles along the lips spasming. Dean cries out as his knot pops free of them, once, twice. His hips stutter and you feel him . . . inside you, painting your insides with his seed. His knot swells and your pussy clamps down, locking him in place as he comes. The Omega within you screams in completion. Dean's cock shifts and his knot pulls as his orgasm wrings him dry, the sensation making you whimper through another mini-orgasm as your body squeezes to keep him in place.

You lose a few minutes. When you come back to yourself, Dean's laying full on top of you. His hips stutter and jerk every few seconds, his cock twitching as he leaves little dribbles of seed. Weakly, he wraps an arm around you and rolls you both over, arranging you to lay draped overtop him. He strokes down your back, cards his fingers through your hair, brushes away tears that've leaked from your eyes. You don't remember starting to cry. His chest heaves under your ear and his heart is beating like it's about to burst.

"Dean--"

"Shh," Dean says, and you shush up. You kiss what skin you can reach, just to feel his skin against your face. It's so nice, not like what you'd imagined. Little aftershocks make your cunt flex around Dean, pulling little helpless noises out of him. Content, that's what you are, the burning under your skin mellowed to a pleasant heat. You want more. Later. Now is for laying in Alpha's arms.

---

continued in part b

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