nancymcl

[nancymcl]

SPN snapshot fic: "The new camera"

A part of @ambiguous-avery's Summer Snapshot Challenge. 1000 words or less.

Word count: 946 Characters: Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester, Original Female Character. Warnings: None Summary: Dean makes sure Sam has a happy sixteenth birthday.

Source: Soaphub.com

The new camera

The impala’s taillights disappeared down the road in a cloud of California dust. “Stupid son of a bitch,” Dean mumbled to himself while kicking a rock across the parking lot, angry that he never had the courage to say that to his father’s face. Leaving them high and dry at a rundown motel, and right before Sam’s birthday? This sucked.

He combed his fingers through his hair in frustration and turned around to see Sam looking at him from the motel window. Even from here, he could see Sam’s tears glinting in the light from a passing car. No, this won’t do. Not this year. Not when his brother is turning 16. If John didn’t get Sam something nice, Dean had to make sure he did something. Anything. An idea formed in his head and he signalled to Sam that he’d be back in 10 minutes. Sam nodded and disappeared; shoulders slumped.

The next morning, Sam woke up to a grey package on his bedside table.

“Happy Birthday, Sammy!” Dean emerged from the bathroom, already showered and sporting a red shirt he had never worn before, along with a black pair of shorts.

“Thanks, D…” Sam answered before looking up and spotting Dean’s attire. “Okay, Magnum, what’s up with the shirt?” he laughed.

The elder brother frowned and held his hands out. “What? A guy can’t wear a comfy shirt to the beach now?”

“One: You’ve never worn anything but leather jacket, plaid and t-shirts, dude. Two: What do you mean beach? And three: What’s this?” He held up the grey lump of badly taped something.

Dean huffed and sat down on the bed next to Sam, slapping his brother’s head. “Your birthday gift, stupid. Open it.”

The paper almost fell off on its own to reveal a camera. Not a new, fancy one, but it was grey, with steel details and a lens you could turn around to focus.

“Aw, Dean. Thanks!” Sam bumped his shoulder against Dean in gratitude and immediately started trying to figure out how to wind the film and adjust the focus, before snapping a few pics of Dean’s nose and the motel door.

“Alright, loser. Get out your shorts and pack some towels. We’re off to the beach.” Dean got to his feet and started counting the cash John left them: Should be enough for a bus ride to the beach, some food and back again before nightfall.

45 minutes later and the Santa Monica beach was laid out before them – just like they’d seen on Baywatch: Sand, pier, waves and scantily clad women all over the place. Dean grinned and Sam gaped.

They found themselves a little spot to put their towels on and Sam was quick to run into the waves like he was Mitch Buchanan himself. Dean could almost hear the theme music in the background as he watched his younger brother jump over the smallest waves and dive headfirst into the water when he couldn’t run any more. He emerged, grinning from ear to ear and waving his wet, ridiculously long hair all over the place like a puppy, making Dean laugh at his antics.

Somehow, Sam ended up throwing ball with some random teenagers while Dean was still on his towel with his sunglasses on and trying not to be too obvious with where he was staring. A blonde woman with short hair and a red bikini was sitting a few feet to their right, on her own blue towel, looking like she too belonged in a Baywatch episode: Long legs, hardly any tan lines, but already with bronze coloured skin, spreading sun lotion on her arms. Dean couldn’t take his eyes off her.

As she finished putting on her lotion, she had already spotted him and lowered her own sunglasses. “Hey, why don’t you just take a picture. It’ll last longer.”

Dean almost jumped out of his skin, spluttering “I… I’m not… I didn’t…” Searching for words and feeling less cool by the minute, looking everywhere but at her now.

“I’m kidding,” she laughs, obviously amused by his blushing face. “What’s your name?”

“Dean. I’m Dean.”

“Hi Dean, I’m Carrie.” She held her hand out and Dean jumped up to greet her, taking care to bring the camera he had gotten Sam. Wouldn’t want someone to steal it already. She eyed the camera. “You know: I was kidding about the picture thing.”

“Oh,” Dean laughed. “Yeah, no… It’s my brother’s camera, he got it for his birthday today so I figured I would keep it safe.”

“Your brother, huh?” She glanced at Sam, still throwing ball with the other kids. “That him? How old is he?”

“Sixteen. Figured he earned a day on the beach.”

“Sixteen, huh?” She pressed her lips together, still looking at the younger brother. “So you’re just here making sure he’s having a good day?”

Dean nodded at that, trying desperately to keep looking at her eyes and not her… bikini covered areas. Finding his courage, he cleared his throat and imagined himself having the confidence of Don Johnson from Miami Vice. “So you, uh, you wanna help me make his day even better? Happy sixteen and all that?”

She turned to him again, curious, those damn lips still pursed. “What did you have in mind?”

Dean merely held up the camera and grinned. She nodded and leaned back on her towel already posing and he wasted no time snapping a few shots of her. Sam would flip out when they developed the film later! Dean would make sure to grab a few copies for his personal collection too, but he didn’t plan on telling Sam that.

------------

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[nancymcl]

A Quiet Place to Fall

Main Masterlist Big Sky Masterlist

Go to...Part 2 ?

Pairings; Beau Arlen x reader

Genre; slow burn, small town fiction, found family, single dad romance, soft male lead, cozy slice of life

Warnings; past divorce and emotional grief, mild profanity, themes of loneliness and emotional vulnerability, age gap romance, family and co-parenting dynamics

Summary: Beau visits a small library for his daughter’s birthday and finds an unexpected connection with the kind librarian—opening the door to healing and new beginnings.

1982 words

The little library on Maple Street didn’t look like much.

A squat brick building with ivy on the side and chipped paint around the window trim. But inside, it smelled like lemon polish and old paper, and it had a warmth Beau couldn’t quite explain. He’d been there twice before — dropping Emily off, picking her up — but he’d never stepped past the front mat.

Until now.

He pushed the door open, the tiny bell jingling overhead. His boots felt too heavy for a place like this. Too loud. But Emily had asked for a book.

Not a specific title. Just "something from that little library, Dad."

She was sixteen today. Sixteen going on forty, and smart as hell. He figured this was her way of including him in something she cared about — or maybe he was just desperate to keep some piece of her, now that she was starting to pull away in little ways.

“Good afternoon,” came a soft voice.

Beau turned. And there she was.

He’d seen her before — once or twice — behind the desk. Always with a calm expression and a mug of tea that never left her hand. Her cardigan sleeves were rolled to the elbows today, and her hair was loosely tied back. She looked… steady. Kind. Like a sigh you didn’t know you needed.

“Hey,” he said, awkward all of a sudden. “I, uh… I’m looking for a book.”

Her smile didn’t change, but it deepened somehow. Like she’d been expecting him.

“For you or someone else?”

“My daughter. Emily.”

Something flickered in her eyes — recognition.

“She’s a good kid. Reads a lot of historical fiction. Likes strong female leads. And she always puts the books back perfectly straight.”

He blinked. “You remember all that?”

“She talks to me sometimes. About you, mostly.”

Beau shifted, the weight of that statement landing somewhere behind his ribs.

“She does?”

“She thinks you’re a good man. A little sad. Kind of stubborn.” Her lips quirked. “She said you like things you don’t admit to liking. Like lemon cake and poetry, apparently.”

He huffed. “That girl talks too much.”

“Only to people she trusts.”

Beau rubbed the back of his neck. “She really set me up, didn’t she?”

“A little,” the librarian admitted with a small, knowing nod. “She said you might be coming in. Told me to ‘recommend something that’ll make him feel things but not cry.’ Her words.”

He laughed under his breath. “She knows I hate that.”

“She said you’d pretend not to like it even if you did.”

That made him smile. He hadn’t realized he’d been holding his breath until it left him. The silence between them wasn’t awkward — it felt like a pause. A rest.

She walked out from behind the desk, barefoot in soft flats, and gestured for him to follow.

He did.

She moved slowly, gently, like the whole world was softer inside this building. She picked a book off the shelf and turned, holding it out to him.

“This one’s about a father and daughter who get lost in the mountains. There’s no death, no clichés, but a lot of heart. And the dad’s a little like you.”

Beau raised an eyebrow. “Grumpy?”

“Protective,” she corrected. “And good. Even when he doesn’t believe he is.”

Their fingers brushed when he took the book. It wasn’t electric. It was something else — quiet.

“She thinks I’m lonely,” he said suddenly. It wasn’t a question. Just something that needed air.

“I think she wants you to be seen.”

He looked at her then. Really looked. She was young — probably no more than twenty-six. She had the kind of calm he’d only seen in people who’d already survived something. People who didn’t waste time on noise or games. She didn’t ask anything of him. Didn’t push.

And for the first time in a long time, Beau Arlen didn’t feel like a man grieving what he’d lost. He felt like someone… noticed.

“Thank you,” he said, meaning more than just the book.

“You’re welcome.”

She walked him back to the desk, and when he reached for his wallet, she shook her head.

“Emily’s birthday,” she said with a small smile. “Consider it a gift.”

He hesitated. Then asked, “Could I bring something next time? For you?”

Something softened behind her eyes. “If you do, make it lemon cake.”

Beau smiled as he left, book in hand, heart a little lighter.

Emily was waiting in the truck, headphones in, pretending not to watch him. But she smirked when he got in.

“So?” she asked, biting her cheek.

Beau handed her the book. “Thanks, kid.”

“For the book?”

“For the librarian.”

Emily just grinned. “Told you she was your type.”

It had been four days since Beau stepped foot in that little library.

Four days since her voice curled in his ears like smoke. Since her eyes said more than her words. Since her fingers brushed his when she handed him a book and he felt something stir that he’d put away years ago.

Today, Emily was with her mom. And Beau was walking into that library on purpose — no kid, no excuse.

In his hands: a brown paper bag with a bakery label and a slight smudge of powdered sugar on the fold.

The bell above the door jingled again, and this time, it didn’t make him flinch.

She was there — behind the desk, mug in hand, cardigan sleeves rolled, as always. And when she looked up and saw him, that same quiet smile bloomed across her face like spring coming early.

“You came back,” she said, setting her mug down gently.

“Told you I would,” Beau said, lifting the bag. “Didn’t want to show up empty-handed.”

She walked over, curious in her steps. He handed her the bag.

She opened it carefully, like it was something delicate — which it was. Inside sat a slice of lemon cake, homemade-looking, thick frosting curled on top like clouds.

Her eyebrows lifted. “You bake?”

“Hell no,” he chuckled. “But the lady at the farmer’s market does. I asked for the best slice she had.”

She looked at him with something warm. Not surprised. Just pleased.

“Thank you,” she said, softly, sincerely. “You didn’t have to.”

“I wanted to.”

A pause.

She motioned to the back reading nook. “Want to sit for a while?”

He did.

The two of them sat near a window in a cozy corner chair-and-couch setup that looked like it had seen its fair share of whispered conversations and dog-eared paperbacks. She brought two forks and split the cake between them.

Beau didn’t talk much at first. He just watched her take a small bite, eyes closing in approval. He found himself watching her like someone might watch rain after a dry season — slow, quiet, needed.

“I’ve been divorced a long time,” he said eventually. “Still got… some things I carry.”

She didn’t flinch or fidget. Just listened. God, she was good at that.

“I figured,” she said gently. “Emily mentioned you don’t really… try anymore. With people.”

Beau smiled dryly. “Yeah. That kid doesn’t hold back, huh?”

“She doesn’t talk about you like she’s complaining. She talks like she’s worried.”

He leaned back. “I used to be good at being alone. Didn’t bother me.”

“And now?”

He looked at her, really looked. Her calm. Her presence. The way she made space without taking anything.

“Now it feels quieter,” he admitted. “Not in a peaceful way.”

She didn’t say me too. But something in her expression told him she knew the feeling.

Beau hesitated. “You ever get tired of being the calm one?”

That surprised her. Her lips parted, then curled faintly. “Yes,” she said. “But I’ve never had anyone notice enough to ask.”

“I notice.”

They were quiet again. This time, it was a warm silence. A silence that meant something was coming, not ending.

She glanced at him, fork resting on her plate.

“You know there’s a big age gap.”

“I do.”

“And your daughter might’ve set us up like a middle-aged parent trap.”

“She did.”

“And you’re not looking for something casual. Or messy.”

“I’m not.”

She smiled — small, real. “Neither am I.”

Beau let out a breath, slow and steady. His shoulders, tense for years, dropped a little.

“I don’t know what this is,” he said honestly. “But I’d like to find out.”

“I’d like that too,” she whispered. “Come back again?”

“Only if you promise not to charge me for the overdue flirting.”

That made her laugh — full and soft. “You’re forgiven.”

Beau reached for the last bite of cake, and split it in two. Offered her half. She took it with a smile, and their fingers brushed again.

This time, it felt like the beginning of something.

Emily was halfway through a grilled cheese sandwich at the kitchen counter when her dad walked in, humming.

Beau Arlen didn’t hum.

The man didn’t even whistle.

She looked up from her plate, brow raised.

“Okay,” she said, suspicious. “What the hell is that face?”

Beau blinked. “What face?”

“That face,” she said, pointing at him with a chip. “The soft ‘I pet a kitten today’ face. The ‘I didn’t yell at anyone in traffic’ face. That is not your default setting.”

He shrugged. “Maybe I’m in a good mood.”

“You’re never in a good mood after you deal with Mom’s insurance crap. That’s what you were doing today, right?”

“Was,” he admitted, grabbing a soda from the fridge. “Stopped by the library after.”

Emily paused. Slowly set her chip down. A smirk tugged at her mouth.

“Oh?”

Beau shot her a warning look.

“Oh,” she repeated, leaning her chin into her hand, full smug mode activated. “Did you talk to anyone in particular at the library? Maybe someone with cardigans and magical emotional insight?”

He grunted. “Maybe.”

Emily gasped, full drama now. “Dad. You did talk to her! I knew it!”

He shook his head, hiding his smile with the soda can. “You’re insufferable.”

“I’m a genius.”

“You’re a manipulative little—”

“Matchmaker.” She grinned. “You’re welcome.”

“She didn’t say yes to anything yet.”

“Yet?” Emily repeated, eyes lighting up. “Wait. Wait-wait-wait. You asked her out?”

Beau cleared his throat and leaned on the counter, suddenly very focused on the scratch in the laminate.

“I said I’d like to spend more time with her,” he mumbled. “Maybe take her out sometime.”

Emily nearly choked on her water. “Oh my God, you like her.”

“Jesus, Emily.”

“No, like you like like her.”

Beau shot her a side-eye. “You are sixteen. Maybe stop acting like you’re my nosy aunt.”

Emily grinned wider. “You brought her lemon cake, didn’t you?”

He froze.

“I knew it!” she shouted, pounding the counter like she’d just won the lottery. “You’re so dating her. You’re in deep. You’re already husband material. Oh my God, what if I get a librarian stepmom?! That’s so aesthetic.”

Beau buried his face in his hands. “I regret everything.”

“You should be thanking me!” she said, smug and victorious. “You were single for, like, ten years, Dad. Ten. You didn’t even flirt with the waitress at the diner. I had to take matters into my own hands.”

Beau groaned. “You’re grounded.”

“No, I’m not. Because you’re happy.” She smirked. “I should start charging for my services.”

He looked up at her, arms crossed, expression flat. “You’re not a dating app, Em.”

“I’m better. I’m custom-coded for sad divorced dads who need emotionally stable women.”

“You’re the worst.”

She walked past him, smug as hell, patting his shoulder on the way to the sink. “You owe me so much.”

Beau watched her go, shaking his head — but smiling.

Maybe she was the worst.

But damn if she didn’t get it right.

Taglist: @globetrotter28

[nancymcl]

Parking Lot Heat

Main Masterlist Big Sky Masterlist

Pairings; Beau Arlen x girlfriend!reader

Genre; romance, erotic, smut, contemporary, realistic, fluff, drama

Warnings; explicit sexual content, masturbation, public sexual behavior, strong language, mild exhibitionism

Summary: Beau catches his girlfriend masturbating in her car and takes over, making sure she’s completely satisfied.

574 words

The car windows were fogged up. Not much, but enough that Beau knew something was going on. He was pulling into the overlook to surprise you with coffee after his shift—figured he’d catch the last of the sunset with his girl. But as he eased his truck to a stop behind your car and stepped out, he saw your silhouette.

Head tipped back.

Eyes closed.

And your hand… moving.

Beau froze. Mouth slightly open. His heartbeat thumped—half in shock, half in arousal.

You didn’t notice him yet. Not with your fingers working under the waistband of your leggings, your chest rising and falling, a low moan escaping your parted lips. He could tell you were close. Your other hand gripped the steering wheel for support, legs shifting wider apart in the driver’s seat.

Goddamn.

He moved to the passenger side, opening your door so suddenly it startled you—your gasp sharp and raw.

“Beau—!” you yelped, yanking your hand away.

But Beau’s eyes were dark, lips curled into a slow smirk.

“What’s this, baby?” he asked, voice husky. “Couldn’t wait till you got home?”

You swallowed, flushed and panting, caught in the act. “I—I was just... I missed you.”

“Mm.” He climbed in. Shut the door behind him. “Looks like you need me, sweetheart.”

You blinked, breath catching as he leaned over and grabbed your chin gently between his fingers, tilting your face toward him. “You always touch yourself like that when you’re thinkin’ about me?”

Your silence was answer enough.

He chuckled, deep and low. “Let me take care of you.”

Before you could reply, his hand slipped past the waistband of your leggings, finding you wet and swollen. You gasped, hips twitching.

“Shit, you’re soaked already,” he murmured. “You were really about to finish all by yourself, weren’t you?”

“I was trying—”

“Yeah? Let me help you try harder.”

Beau’s fingers moved expertly, circling your clit in slow, deliberate strokes while his lips brushed your jaw, then your neck, sucking gently until your head tilted for him.

“Mmmf—Beau, that’s—”

“Too much? Or not enough?” he rasped, slipping two thick fingers inside you.

You whimpered, gripping his wrist.

“Yeah,” he whispered, pumping slow and deep. “Let me hear those sounds, baby. Don’t hold back now. Nobody’s around. Just you and me, and I’m gonna make you come so hard this car shakes.”

He bit your earlobe and you moaned, body clenching around his fingers. The pleasure built fast, higher than before, hotter with him whispering filth and praise in your ear.

“Such a needy little thing, huh?” he said. “Touching yourself in public like this, just ‘cause you missed my cock.”

You trembled, legs shaking. “Beau—I’m gonna—”

He kissed you, deep and rough and his, as you cried out into his mouth and shattered. He worked you through it, never letting up until your body stopped jolting.

When he finally pulled his fingers out, he sucked them into his mouth with a satisfied hum. “Damn. You taste even better when you’re desperate.”

You exhaled shakily, eyes fluttering open. “That was… I didn’t expect you—”

“To catch you?” he teased. “Or to help you come so hard you forgot your name?”

You smacked his chest lightly, but he only laughed and leaned in for another kiss.

“You’re mine, baby,” he murmured, thumb brushing your swollen clit one last time just to watch you shiver. “Next time, wait for me. I’ll always take care of you.”

Taglist: @globetrotter28

[nancymcl]

BOMBPOP.

premise ; you’re eating a bombpop, and it gives dean an idea.

content warnings ; est. relationship . blowjob . bunker era .

wordcount ; 717.

the wind was cool, carrying the buzz of cicadas around like an orchestra. the sun was beaming down on the freshly mowed grass, bugs and worms crawling and burrowing into the heated dirt. the sky was clear and blue except for a few stray clouds. and you were soaking it all in.

it was the middle of summer, how could you not?

you were sitting on a lawn chair outside the bunker, shorts low on your hips as your pink and orange bikini popped against the dull grey tone of the building behind you.

your lips were already beginning to stain red. you had a bombpop in your hand, the melting popsicle coating your tongue at each swirl of the tip. a drip fell onto your chest, trailing down quickly due to the summer heat. “fuck,” you muttered before looking down and swiping it up with a finger, licking it off quickly.

dean had walked out of the bunker right as you took the patriotic treat back into your mouth, sucking up and licking the melted drips before they could fall. he watched the way your tongue curved against the popsicle, dragging up from the blue all they way back up to the red.

he felt a familiar twitch in his now tightening jeans, along with the warm flow in his lower abdomen. he looked down to see himself already half hard before glancing back up at you.

you were glistening—glowing.

the sun casted its light on your skin nearly majestically. and the shadows from the curvature of your breasts in that bikini—the one he got you a year ago on a whim—you were heavenly.

“how’d i get so lucky?” he questioned out loud, catching your attention. you jumped in your seat, relaxing instantly at the sight of your boyfriend. “what’re you talkin’ about?” you asked with a smile. your eyes locked onto his approaching figure, sneaking a downward glance at his prominent bulge.

“you. what lottery did i win to get ya, sweetheart?” he spoke smoothly. he pulled at your bottom lip with his thumb, watching it bounce back into place. a slow grin pulled against your red lips at the sound of dean’s zipper going down.

he slowly pulled his hardened cock out. you were practically drooling at the sight of him, popsicle now long forgotten on the grass below you, melting into the green blades. “no lottery,” you hummed, “just love.” you grabbed onto his shaft, pumping him slowly.

“just love, huh?” he tilted his head. his eyes were hooded as they stared down at you, roaming over your body under the sun. “mhm—all of it,” your breath fanned against his tip as you leaned in closer, dean taking more steps toward you. “yeah? show me then.” he smirked, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear.

you gave his slit a kitten lick, watching him groan at the sensation of your tongue dipping in. he pushed past your lips, hips thrusting slightly. your mouth stretched around his girth as your head moved back and forth, tongue swirling and curving against him.

dean could feel the stickiness of your popsicle coated lips, and the stain was beginning to spread on him faintly. he couldn’t keep in his noises. your mouth was so warm, red 40 all on your tongue. you could still taste the faint cherry from the bombpop, now mixed with the taste of dean’s skin and his precum.

“fuck, sweetheart—doin’ so, so good,” he cooed. he slid his hand into your hair, a signal that he’s getting close. you had sped up your pace already, getting sloppier the faster you went. he was hitting the back of your throat repeatedly, and the vibrations of your gags only lulled him closer to the edge.

“cum—ming! oh, god, m’cumming, baby, fuck!” he whined before spilling down your throat. he held you still, hands gripped on your head. you stared up at him as you swallowed all he gave.

you pulled back, finally being able to breathe properly. you gave him a smile, glancing to the ground where your popsicle was now a purple puddle with the stick floating in the middle. “fuck, my bombpop! dean!” you pouted, making him laugh while he stuffed himself back into his pants, promising to get you another one.

gabs yaps ; happy 4th of july... boooo 🍅🍅🍅 ANYWAYS i have a 4th of july blurb for totc that i might post tmrw!! also i’ve had this idea for dean since i first started back in feb 😭

tags ; @starzify @sunsbaby @sturnsflirt @ateotdwinchester @southernimpala @sacr1ficialang3l @littlejoels @fairychris @tinas111 @bruisedfig @ccupidzbvnni @mahi-wayy @jensenacklesballsack @lanasgirlfr @halsteadwichester @deanwinchestersgirl8734 @angelically-yours + wanna be on the taglist?

[nancymcl]

short and precise

[nancymcl]

"𝐈’𝐦 𝐍𝐨𝐭 𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐦" - 𝐬.𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: you and sam just can’t seem to stay away from each other. no matter how many times you break up, go no contact, scream and shout at each other. you always find your way back to each other.

sam x fem!reader, yearning, SFW

wc: 1.8k

m.list + sam m.list

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · · · · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · · · · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

you and sam couldn’t stay away from eachother no matter how hard you both tried. you’d break up and within the day you’d be back in eachother arms. it was love, it was toxic sure, but god… you loved him so much. and he loved you.

you just didn’t work very well, there was always something that caused you two to break up. whether it was an argument, jealousy, the hunting life- it always caused arguments.

usually one would text the other:

“i miss you.”

“come home?”

and that’s how it always was, you two didn’t last long apart.

but this time was different.

you were arguing about something stupid, by the time the argument had ended you honestly couldn’t even remember what you were arguing about. but it was bad.

“you’re an asshole, sam!” you shouted through tears.

“oh im the asshole? fuck you!” his voice was that deep anger that you only ever heard a few times, but never towards you.

“fuck this!” you said as you grabbed your phone and keys. “i don’t need this bullshit, i don’t need you!” and then you stormed out.

that was 3 weeks ago.

you and sam hadn’t spoken in 3 weeks. was this real? had you two actually broken up? usually he’d call you a few hours later, just to hear your voice. and everything would be okay. he’d be yours again.

but now? now you weren’t.

you couldn’t take it anymore, every night without him was like torture. you cried every night, wiping your tears with his hoodie he’d left at yours and you’d never given back. luckily you both had each other locations, so you checked his. he was at a motel about a hours drive away. so you got in your car once your eyes were dry enough to see straight and drove without a second thought in your mind.

you needed to see your boy. your sammy.

you eventually pulled up at the ‘red vines’ motel just off route… you honestly weren’t sure. all you thought about the entire way her was sam. you sat in your car for a couple of minutes contemplating wether to get out.

what if he’d moved on? what if he didn’t wanna see you? what if he had another girl in there? or what if he wasn’t even in?

you shook your head. you were spiralling. you took a deep breath and turned your car off, getting out and shutting the door. your eyes scanned the parking lot, you couldn’t see the impala. that could mean one of two things: he wasn’t there, or he was but dean wasn’t. you were praying it was the second one.

you went to the front desk, looking at the rooms which had been booked. sam usually chose the cheapest floor, and from what you could see that was floor 4.

“excuse me?” you asked softly, you sounded exhausted.

the man behind the desk looked up from his computer and gave you a polite smile.

“how may i help?”

“has a man come in here? about 6’5 brunette, would’ve been with his brother…? a little shorter?”

the man had a puzzled expression on his face before checking the bookings. you could see his eyes scanning the page.

“most likely payed in cash?”

that seemed to spark something.

“ah! here we go, smith and kendall?”

kendall. that was a fake last name sam had used a few times. you nodded.

“yes… what room are they in?”

again, a puzzled expression. you let out a small nervous chuckle.

“i’m uh… my names abbie smith. i’m the shorter man’s sister. he told me to come here?” being a hunter meant you were good at lying on the spot.

he looked at you a little skeptical and then nodded, despite the fact you looked exhausted and had a hoodie on that could only be someone’s that was twice the size of you, you looked presentable. he smiled and nodded.

“room 207. will you need a key?”

you shook your head and thanked him before going up 4 floors, looking as the door numbers ascended as you walked down the corridor.

204…205…206…207.

you took a deep breath, you were nervous and could feel tears welling in your eyes. you raised your hand to the door and hesitated for a moment before knocking lightly on the door.

sam was inside, currently reading through a book. he was trying to keep his mind off you. these last 3 weeks had been hell for him- and he’d been to hell, this was a close match. you were his everything and without you he couldn’t function properly. despite the pain you could sometimes bring him, you also brought him an unexplainable amount of happiness. the way his heart would leap just at the mention of your name was enough to ensure that day would be good.

when he heard the door knock he furrowed his eyebrows, dean had gone out. and had a key. there’s no way it was him. maybe… no. it couldn’t be. you hadn’t text or called him in 3 weeks.

he stood up and made his way over, opening the door. his heart dropping when he saw you. you looked so broken, you were wearing a worn out blue hoodie of his. one he ‘forgot’ to ask for when he left it at yours, your sweatpants were a off-white colour and your hair was in a bun that looked like it had been there for a few days atleast.

but that wasn’t the worse part.

the worse was when his eyes met your face, the way your eyes watered and your bottom lip jutted just enough for it to look as if you were pouting.

his sweet, beautiful girl. and this is how she was?

“i miss you…” you said which finally brought him back to reality, the shake in your voice absolutely broke him. his breath caught in his throat just at the sound of it. he didn’t move for a moment, neither did you. until finally.

“cmere…” he said barely above a whisper as he wrapped his arms around you, bringing you close to him with one hand on the back of your head as the other sprawled across your back. he put his cheek ontop of your head, a soft sigh coming from him as he felt your body jitter with cries.

“i’m so sorry sammy…” you mumbled against his shirt which was slowly getting soaked by tears.

“shh… sh sh..” he said softly, he eyes squeezing a little at an attempt to control his emotions. after a moment he kissed the top of your head and walked backwards to bring you inside the room and shut the door, his arms didn’t loosen around you once.

after a moment you pulled away a little to look up at him.

“it was all my fault sammy… im sorry just- just please ca-“ your voice cracked as you spoke, you sounded so hurt. so lost without him. but when you went to continue, he shushed you again.

“sweetheart, please. please don’t cry..” he gently ran his thumbs under your eyes, wiping the tears and then holding your face between his hands.

“god i love you so much… you have nothing to be sorry for- i should be apologising for not calling or texting.”

you looked up at him, your bottom lip still shaking a little as a few choked sobs escaped. god you were a sight for sore eyes.

“my sweet girl… i’m so sorry i’ve hurt you so much.” you could tell by the way his eyebrows stitched together that he felt terrible, that seeing you like this hurt. but when he called you his girl? it seemed to calm something inside you. you sniffled up a little.

“i’m still your girl?” you asked quietly.

his gaze softened.

“oh, honey..” he kissed your forehead, the kiss lingering for a moment more than it should’ve. he then met your gaze. looking so deep into your eyes he was seeing your soul.

“you will always be my girl, forever. no argument or breakup is going to change that. i swear.”

you nodded and then put your head back on his chest, he felt the weight of you against him. he knew that meant you’d relaxed. he wrapped his arms around you, gently rubbing your back over your hoodie- his hoodie. after a moment he broke the silence.

“thought you said you couldn’t find this hoodie?” he asked softly, teasing you about your white lie.

you laughed softly as he spoke.

“i couldn’t..” you said continuing the lie.

he let out a small huff of laughter.

“well… let me know when you find it.”

you looked up at him and smiled.

“promise…” you said quietly. he then brushed a strand of hair that had fell from your bun away from your face, leaning down to kiss those soft lips he’d missed so much. the kiss took your breath away, despite how gentle it was.

once he pulled away he looked down at you.

“cmon..” he said as his hands moved from your back, down your arms until his hands entertained with yours. he then guided you to his bed, pulling you under the covers with him and waiting for you to get comfy.

you picked your usual place, cuddled up next to him with his chin on your head. as you stayed there your hand gently went up his shirt, your nails softly moving against his abs.

he smiled at the action, he always loved it when you did that. he shifted to sit up a little, you furrowed your eyebrows as he did so. but then it made sense when you saw him taking his shirt off, it wasn’t anything lustful. he knew how much you liked skin to skin contact with him. so after a moment you did the same thing, removing your- his - hoodie.

nothing else was said that night, it didn’t have to be. he just held you throughout the night and you slept better than you had in weeks.

sam knew you so well, he knew what you hated and what you loved. he knew what made you cry, and how to fix you when you cried. he knew exactly how you liked your coffee after only telling him once.

so yeah, you were toxic. but you were still inlove.

and always will be.

tgs: @whoisar1anna @gh0stlightss @summerr2006 @fernsplace

[nancymcl]

So true. Especially Dean 😏

[nancymcl]

his camgirl

( synopsis ) — finally getting a break away from sam and away from all the hunting. he visits his favorite girls stream, yours. happy to spend all of his money on you if it meant he could relieve himself.

( warning ) — mdni, smut, camgirl, lingerie, sex toys, dean praising u thru chat, dirty talk, male masturbation, deepthroating, dacryphillia if you squint. this is a reupload from my old account.

Was Dean the type of man to indulge in something like this? Absolutely. More than anyone else he knew, Dean was aware, unapologetically so, that this was exactly his kind of thing.

He sat alone in a dimly lit motel room, the familiar creak of the mattress beneath him as he leaned back against the headboard. Sam was out, running errands or maybe chasing a lead on his own, and Dean knew he had time. Time to unwind in his own way. With one hand he began to unbutton his jeans, the other deftly maneuvering the mouse of his aging laptop until he landed on a site he knew far too well.

BecomeACamGirl.com

His preferred distraction. His favorite money sink. Hundreds of dollars funneled through fraudulent credit cards, all to indulge in moments of digital intimacy that felt far too real. He justified it easily.. if the money wasn't theirs to begin with, then why not spend it on something that made him feel something?

And then there was you.

Or rather, Sugar, your screen name, sweet and simple, but with a bite that matched your smile. You were his weakness. The way you spoke to him in chat, the way you said his name.. moaned his name.. it drove him to the brink every single time. It wasn't just lust. It was obsession, tangled with the illusion of connection.

He clicked through to your profile. You were live. Thank God.

It had been weeks since he'd had the chance. Sam had been glued to his side lately, and solo moments like these were becoming rare. But now, now he had you.

"Dean," your voice purred through the speakers, sultry and teasing. You sat on the floor of your softly lit bedroom, framed by plush carpet and shadows. Lingerie hugged your curves like a second skin. "Nice of you to join. Was starting to miss my favorite boy." You smiled, biting your bottom lip just enough to make his heart race.

Dean let out a breathless chuckle, jeans and boxers shoved down in one practiced motion. He typed with one hand, the other already gripping the base of his aching cock as he sent a $50 tip along with a message.

Dean: Missed you, sweet thing.

You glanced to the side to read it, your smile widening as you spoke. "You remember the last time you were here? Bought me something off my wishlist?" You leaned off camera for a moment.

Oh, he remembered. A white lace lingerie set.. soft, delicate, almost innocent. He'd imagined you in it for days. Then, he imagined it crumpled on his bedroom floor.

You returned, holding the set between two fingers like a promise. "Should I go put this on for you guys?" you asked, your voice light with a playful lilt. You giggled as you scrolled through the chat.

Dean didn't hesitate. His body moved on instinct, fingers flying over the keys as the tension in him built higher.

Dean: Fuck yeah.

After stepping off screen for a few moments, you return to view. Dean's white lingerie hugging your curves, your hair now loose around your shoulders. With a coy, knowing smile, you sit back down, settling gracefully as you flash a bashful grin to the camera.

"Do you like it?" you murmur, your voice soft and teasing.

Leaning back on your palms, you subtly adjust your posture, striking a few flattering poses to show off your body in all the right angles.

On the other side of the screen, Dean exhales sharply. Without hesitation, he spits into the palm of his hand and rewraps it around the base of his cock, slicking himself up slowly, his eyes never leaving the screen.

You reach off camera and return with a pastel pink dildo, bringing it into view with a lazy smile. You drizzle lube into your free hand, the bottle making a soft sound as you apply it, then start stroking the toy with practiced ease.

"God, baby... you're so big," you whisper breathlessly, eyes flicking up toward the camera, every word dipped in desire.

"Let me taste you. Please? Want you in my mouth," you plead softly, your lips forming a pout as you lean in, giving the silicone tip a slow, deliberate lick while holding eye contact with the lens.

Dean lets out a low groan, whispering as if you could actually hear him. "Yeah... you can," he mutters, nodding to himself, immersed entirely in the illusion that you're in the room with him.

His breath catches as he watches you take the toy fully into your mouth, lips stretched around the shaft until you reach the base, tears stinging your eyes. When you pull back, a glistening string of spit connects your lips to the toy, and his grip tightens reflexively as he watches the tears slowly drift down your cheeks.

Dean's imagination runs wild, wondering how your throat would feel around him. Could you handle all of him? Would you gag? Would you moan around him, would your eyes wet as you took every inch?

You moan softly, your free hand rising to cup your chest as you begin sucking on the toy once more, slow and sensual.

"Fuck, sugar," Dean groans, closing his eyes for a moment, hips jerking upward into his own hand as pleasure courses through him.

"Cum for me, baby," you whisper sweetly, pulling off the dildo and stroking it slowly, resting your cheek against it as you gaze into the camera with wide, glistening eyes.

"'m cumming, sugar... fuck," he gasps, his voice low and broken. With a series of quiet grunts, Dean finishes into his hand, his body tensing as he rides out the wave, breath stuttering in his chest.

You smile softly, reading through the flood of chat messages and generous tips rolling in. One by one, thank you notes and donations appear, until Dean's $300 tip pops up, rocketing him from second place to the coveted top spot: your highest tipper of the night.

Dean: Until next time, sweet girl.

"Thank you all for coming tonight. Thank you, Dean." you say gently, your voice dripping with satisfaction. "You were amazing. I'll see you next time, yeah? And don't forget, there's a new chat option if you ever want to talk."

Dean's eyes narrow with interest at that last line, watching as the camera clicks off and your profile reappears on screen. He grabs a towel from beside the bed, cleaning himself off as he scans the new feature you teased.

A direct message option.. private access to you, his favorite camgirl. For $20, he could talk to you directly, one on one.

He smirks.

He might just have to give that a try.

[nancymcl]

No One Noticed

Dean Winchester x Fem!reader

Synopsis: The aftermath of Dean and yours breakup is rough-especially when you run into each other during a hunt.

Warnings: Slight swearing, Crappy angst, happy ending, fluffy ending.

A/N: Hiya! This is my first piece on this account and I hope you excuse my poor writing, but otherwise enjoy! (I did a brief editing before posting so hopefully it aint that bad.)

Maybe I

Tears were streaming down your face-a common occurrence as of late.

The stuffy motel air was suffocating, or maybe that was the neighboring man with his cigar.

You had checked your voicemail for the 6th time today, but alas all 4 messages were from Sam Winchester. Not his brother, who had broken your heart not even 2 weeks ago.

Lost My Mind

Sam had been sending voicemails updating you on their lives, carefully leaving out any mention of Dean flirting with random women along the way-he had no idea what was going on in his brothers head to try and move on quick. His hypnosis was that Dean yet again was trying to bury the pain behind liquor and women.

You clicked on Sam's latest message-letting it play as you cleaned your guns.

"Hey Y/N! Just wanted to let you know we finished that werewolf hunt in Arkansas and we're back on the road again. Please call me back, We'r-I'm getting worried. Please call me when you get this. I just want to know that you are ok."

The voicemail ended and you decided it wasn't to late enough to call Sam.

The ring of the phone echoed through the room-before a small "Hello?" was heard.

You took a deep breath before replying, "Hi Sam." You heard a gasp on the other end.

"Y-Y/N! How are you? Where are you? You are safe right?" Sam was feeling a mixture of emotions, hurt, relief, and most of all concern. All of these emotions were heard clear by you through his rapid talking.

You chuckled dryly, "I'm ok Sam, I'm currently on a easy salt-and-burn case in Missouri. I'm as safe as I can be-how are you doing?"

"He was a jerk" Was all Sam replied with-another chuckle came out of you.

"Yeah, tell me about it. You are doing fine Sam, right?" Sam was like a little brother to you-concern was the base of emotions you always felt for him.

No One Noticed

He sighed, "Yes I'm-We're ok, I'll keep you updated so you don't worry." You sigh in relief-despite already hearing that they were fine from the voicemail.

"All right Sam, I'll let you go. Just didn't want to burden you with worry. Love ya'." A sad smile crept on your face.

"Alright, stay safe. Love You too." He hung up after a second of silence and words went unsaid.

No One Noticed

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

Two weeks had passed since that call with Sam. Heartbreak still heavy in your heart concerning the older Winchester.

You were now in Illinois for another simple salt-and-burn.

You had already talked to the victims family and done all the boring research-you were now gathering your equipment to burn the ghost.

The ghost had been an older women who been murdered by her own son-must've been some disagreement.

You were checking your phone again, for who you? you didn't know (Dean Winchester).

Its Getting Old (I'd Kinda Like It If You'd Call me)

The grave was dug up and you were just coating the bones in gasoline before throwing in a lit match. Job completed.

You were driving back to your motel when you saw a flash of a familiar car.

You slouched in your seat and sighed-you finally reached the conclusion you were going crazy.

All Alone ('Cause I'm So Over Bein' Lonely)

The motel room felt more lonely than ever. You were alone as usually lately-but you never felt more alone than after a hunt when it used to be spent with your favorite people.

May Have Lost It (I Need A Virtual Connection)

After a steaming hot shower you cozied up in bed-yet again caught yourself checking your phone again. No messages from the person you wanted.

A rumble of an older sounding car woke you up from your almost asleep state. You grumbled in annoyance as it just reminded you of him. But what were the chances he and Sammy would be here. Too slim.

I Have Lost It (Be my Video Obsession)

You checked the time on your phone, as the alarm clock was broken next to your bed. It read 12:04 am enlisting a groan out of you.

You checked your messages again...

1 new message from Sammy ;)

"Hey Y/N! Just wanted to let you know we are in Illinois for a case involving a Ghost. Please call me back and let me know you're still safe."

You sat in the musty motel sheets in shock.

There was no way

You were just going crazy and it couldn't have actually been the impala driving in the parking lot. No-they were at another Ghost hunt that coincidently resided in Illinois.

A peak outside to ease your conscience wouldn't hurt, right?

You put on some shorts and a hoodie over your original sleeping outfit before peaking out the window. Which didn't give you as much of a scope of the parking lot as you wanted.

The smell of rain hit your senses as soon as you walked out the door. You walked out and let your self take in a deep breath of the fresh air.

You were walking around the pathway next to the rooms when it started pouring again. You looked up thankful that there was cover over your head.

You were scanning the parking lot for the familiar car but stopped when you heard his voice.

No One Tried

"No Sammy, I'm not going down this road with you again!" He yelled at Sam, they were clearly talking about a tough topic with the way Dean was closing himself off.

Your heart sped up as you started speed walking back to your room. "Jeez how far did I walk" You mumbled to yourself, so lost in your frenzy that you didn't hear their room door slam shut.

To Read My Eyes

"Y/N." The words sent a cold chill down your back, but effectively making you stop in your tracks.

You turn around facing your fate and their he is.

Dean.

No One But You

You felt like you could drop dead any moment now with how fast your heart was racing.

facing him again like this, unprepared, it was brutal. completely unfair.

"Dean." You finally gained the courage to cut through the tense silence.

It hurt looking at him again, even with 10 feet in between you.

Wish It Weren't True

"You following us or somethin'?" He speaks. But the words have a painful hold. An accusation is the first thing he says to you besides your name.

If only you could laugh.

Instead you shake your head in disbelief and hurt. You turn back around and decide to cut through the parking lot to your room.

Anything to get away from him.

"Y/N, wait." His voice echoes, even through the harsh rain.

You shake your head and continue to walk. It hurts to much.

Maybe I (I'd Kinda Like It If You'd Call Me)

"Stop. Where are you going?" His voice was closer now-and a little more uneasy.

You felt a hand pull yours back. "Stop, please." He whispered.

You turned around, his hand still holding your wrist. You try your best to hold a blank expression. The stinging in your eyes told you it wouldn't last long.

it's Not Right ('Cause I'm So Over Bein' Lonely)

"Why are you here?" Dean asks with tenderness in his voice, not trying to hide it. He rubs his thumb on the back of your hand.

You pull out of his grip.

"I'm not hear because of you, I finished the Ghost case so you guys can leave." You turned your nose up at him to seem stronger and more controlled than you felt.

Make You Mine (I Need A Virtual Connection)

A look of concern flashed over his face-but quickly morphed into that of anger.

'You've been hunting by yourself?"

"Yeah? Why? Did you think I wouldn't?" What was his deal?

"It stupid of you to being hunting alone. Have you had anyone with you?"

Take Our Time (Be My Video Obsession)

"No, and not like its any of your business I have just been doing salt-and-burns, just ask Sam." You cross your arms around your torso, trying to protect yourself from him. Not physically, just emotionally.

Come on, don't leave me, it can't be that easy, babe

A little bit of hurt is seen on Deans face, most likely because you mentioned keeping in contact with his brother, even though he was the one who ended things.

"Goodbye Dean." You start heading back to your room, now completely drenched in rain.

if you believe me, I guess I'll get on a plane

"I wasn't done talking to you." His voice stops you before you make it far from him.

"And why would I continue to talk to you? You Hurt me Dean. Our last conversation-if you can even call it that-was by far the most hurtful we've ever had. So I really don't want to talk to you in case it happens again." The pain in your heart was starting to throb.

Fly to your city, excited to see your face

You look at him, making eye contact with those eyes you loved so much.

Hold me, console me, and then I'll leave without a trace (maybe I)

His eyes were pleading for you to talk to him.

Come on, Don't Leave me, It Can't Be That Easy, Babe (It's not right)

"You wanna talk fine-You left me." You decided to cut through the silence.

He looked down to the ground with shame.

"You left me after the argument. Where you basically told me you didn't love me anymore!" Tears mixed with the rain, what a great day for rain.

Dean looked up from his shoes and his eyes found yours. His completely overflowing with regret. Yours with hurt.

If you believe me, I guess I'll get on a plane (make you mine)

"Are you going to say anything? I talked-now its your turn." Seeing him after what you thought would be the last time hurt.

Silence hung in the air

You scoffed and turned around. It was bad enough he tried to make you feel guilty-but it was worse when he didn't try to explain himself.

Fly to your city, excited to see your face (take our time)

"I never said I didn't love you." a mumbled voice is heard.

You turned back around quick enough to give anyone whiplash.

"What?"

Dean was staring at the ground in front of him. What a coward move.

"I never said I didn't love you." Dean spoke up this time

Hold me, console me, and then I'll leave without a trace

Dean looked up and his eyes searched your-both his and yours on the search for the connection you still hoped was there.

"So why did you push me away? You ended things." You said quietly, stepping closer to the magnetizing force that Dean was.

"It was to protect you." Bullshit.

You took an angry step towards him, taking a calming breath before responding.

"I have been with you through so much, I'm sorry I assumed you thought we were equals. Not something to look down upon." You both stared into each others eyes. You remembered the late nights in the bunker-the whispered declarations of love, all of the sweet memories.

He shook his head denying the claims. He placed his hands on your shoulders-essentially latching onto you.

"No-No, I would never look down upon you. You are just as capable-if not more-than Sam or I."

Quiet silence ensued.

"I just didn't want to lose you." Dean had tears in his eyes now, you had just taken in how his eyes had red rims around them-showing he had been crying a lot before.

"Why didn't you call?" was the only mix of words that would be able to leave your mouth.

I'd kinda like it if you'd call me (it's not right)

Dean shook his head again

"I wanted to-so bad, but I thought you would hate to hear from me again. I know I hurt you, and that-that tore me apart much more than anything else.

You placed you hand on the side of his face-he leaned into it almost instantly.

"You cant push me away because you are scared." Your heart melted at the familiar feeling of his face in your hands.

'Cause I'm so over being lonely (Make you mine)

Deans hand reached up to enclose your own that held his face. He gently pulled you hand to his lips and he kissed them tenderly. His eyes met yours again as he did so, a sorry present in his eyes.

"I cross my heart, sweetheart."

I need a virtual connection (take our time)

Butterflies filled your stomach as you pulled your hand from his-placing them on his face again and pulled him in.

He let out a shaky sigh of relief as soon as he kissed back.

In between kisses you spoke, "You can't let this happen again, Dean. I Love you-I don't want to be split from you again."

"I don't want you to split from me again too." He muffled in-between kisses.

You pull away, hands still on both sides of his face. Dean looked like he was in a love sick daze as you both separated.

"I'm serious dean." His hands snaked around your waist and pulled you in.

"I am too, It hurt to much to watch you go. And its never going to happen again." Dean had never looked at you with so much sincerity before.

You nod before wrapping your arms around him and pulling him into a hug.

"I missed you so much." You say as you hug him tighter.

He hugged you back just as tight, "I missed you too, darling. Way too much."

Comfortable silence was all you bother could hear. Nothing but the sound of nature surrounding the area singing.

"Did you already solve the hunt?"

"Yup"

He chuckled, "Thats my girl."

Be my video obsession

A/N: I hope you enjoyed and thank you for reading! Love ya! <3

[nancymcl]

Danneel Ackles for Maxim, 2007

[nancymcl]

Jensen, Danneel & JJ arive at NBC Studios in NYC - 06/23/25 [X]

[nancymcl]

Danneel Ackles photographed by Steve Shaw for Maxim, 2009

[nancymcl]

The edge of hate

Pairing: Mark Meachum x Y/N Female reader

Summary: Y/N is a desk agent who has love hate feelingso for Mark

Warnings ⚠️ Smut, 18+, mdni, nothing to over the top.

A little in honour of/ or gift for @radioactivatedspider ❤️

The hum of fluorescent lights buzzed overhead like a mosquito too far away to kill. Y/N tapped away at her keyboard with practiced precision, half-listening to the muted chatter of analysts around her. Her headset was balanced between ear and messy bun, sleeves rolled up, glasses slipping a little down her nose. She didn’t care. No one ever looked at her anyway.

Except for him.

Mark Meachum.

That smug, insufferable, arrogant, leather-jacket-wearing James Bond reject with too much swagger and not enough shirts that covered his entire chest. Women swooned. Men envied. Y/N glared.

He was the kind of guy who walked into a room like he owned it—and for all she knew, maybe he did. He had the reputation. Ex-SAS. Now uncover agent their newly assembled team under the Prime Directive Initiative. Codename: Countdown. And Y/N? She processed reports, decoded chatter, and filed paperwork about what he broke.

He was reckless. Dangerous. Loud.

And dammit, sometimes he smelled like cedarwood and gunpowder. And her body betrayed her every single time.

“Hey, Pet Cemetery.” His voice came like a whip crack over her shoulder.

She didn’t turn. “That’s not my name.”

“Sure it isn’t. You like cats or ferrets?”

“I like peace and quiet. You’re destroying both.”

He chuckled. A deep, warm sound that vibrated into her spine and made her hate herself just a little more.

“You free this afternoon?”

She blinked. “Excuse me?”

“You’re my new wingman.”

Her hands froze on the keyboard. “I think you mean wingwoman.”

“No, I don’t. I mean someone who doesn’t shoot me in the back."

“I don’t do field.”

“Everyone else is out. You want to keep filing threat assessments while the world ends or actually do something?”

“I don’t—”

“You’ve read the intel. You’re brilliant. You know more about the Breach Targets than anyone. And we need someone brilliant. With a gun.”

“You know I’ve only qualified twice—"

He leaned closer, voice a murmur. “You’ll do fine. Besides, you’ll be with me.”

Her stomach dropped.

Shit.

---

The mission was supposed to be routine. Observe and report. Except Mark didn’t do routine. He antagonized, escalated, and antagonized again. And now they were in a warehouse in LA, pinned by a Russian gunrunner with an itchy trigger finger.

Y/N had never been this scared.

Her heart thundered in her chest as she crouched behind a stack of crates, clutching her weapon with both hands. She couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think.

And then she saw him. Standing in full view, a gun pointed directly at his chest.

She gasped. “Mark—"

But he didn’t move. He just turned his head slowly, eyes shadowed under the dim overhead lights, and gave that smirk.

That awful, dark, sinfully calm smirk.

Like he wanted to see how close to death he could get. Like he knew he’d survive. Like he lived for this moment—chaos, destruction, and the quiet beat of his own heart daring the world to stop.

Her breath hitched.

Her entire body locked.

She hated him. Hated that he was arrogant, reckless, and a textbook womanizer.

But right now?

He was so goddamn hot it hurt.

Her mind screamed no but her ovaries screamed yes, please, right here on this dirty floor. The danger, the confidence, the promise of violence held just barely in check. He looked like a storm wearing a smile.

She ducked behind the crate again, trying to steady her breath.

She was not turned on.

Except she absolutely was.

---

After the explosion—because of course there was one—they limped out of the wreckage, Mark’s arm slung over her shoulder, blood dripping down one side of his temple.

“You alright?” he asked, grinning through the pain.

“You’re insane,” she muttered, still shaking.

He winked. “Thanks for noticing.”

And just like that, something in her cracked. Maybe it was the adrenaline. Maybe it was the fact that she'd faced death and lived. Maybe it was the memory of that smirk and the way he shielded her with his body when the bullets started flying.

But she realized—Mark Maycomb wasn’t just a womanizer or a walking cliché of alpha male swagger.

He was dangerous.

He was alive.

And for once, she felt alive too

---

The ride back to Mark’s apartment was silent except for the purr of the engine and Y/N’s teeth chattering in the aftermath of adrenaline. Her thigh throbbed from where she'd scraped it on a jagged crate. Her face was smudged with soot, and her shirt had a tear under the arm that kept slipping further.

"You're freezing," Mark said, barely glancing her way. "You need a shower."

She opened her mouth to argue—on principle—but the dried blood crusted on her sleeve did a good job arguing for him.

By the time they got to his place—a sleek, masculine loft high above the city—her body had given up fighting and accepted the gentle fog of exhaustion.

He handed her a towel and pointed toward the bathroom. “Shower. I'll get you something to wear.”

She blinked at him. “You sure you don’t want to just throw me out the window instead? You know. For fun?"

He smirked. That infuriating, dark-eyed smirk that made her pulse stutter. “Tempting. But I figured I'd at least let you borrow my hot water first.”

The shower felt like a baptism. Warmth soaked into her muscles, steam curling through her hair, rinsing off the fear. She stayed in longer than she should’ve, but when she finally turned the water off and stepped out, she found only a single item waiting for her on the counter:

His bathrobe.

It was heavy and plush and wrapped around her like a weighted blanket. It smelled like cedarwood, warm musk, and him. She should’ve been annoyed, but her tired limbs leaned into it.

As she walked into the bedroom barefoot, drying her hair with the towel, while Marc passed her, "I placed some cloths on the bed." Before he slipped in the bathroom.

She spotted the clothes laid out neatly at the end of the bed.

A blouse. Tight black jeans. A lacy bra and underwear set.

All women’s clothing.

Her heart dipped—and then spiked with heat. Not the good kind. Rage kind.

He had a stash.

Of women’s clothes.

In her size.

Of course he did. Arrogant prick probably kept trophies. Maybe it was his thing. Dress ‘em up, strip ‘em down, send ‘em home in an Uber.

Petty and proud, she crossed her arms and climbed onto the bed in just the robe, refusing to touch the clothes. She pulled her knees up, arms crossed, wet hair sticking to her cheeks, and scowled at the bedroom door.

Five minutes later, Mark came out of the bathroom with a towel slung over his shoulder—only in boxers.

Y/N almost choked on her own breath.

He didn’t seem fazed. Just raked a hand through his damp hair and said, “Thanks for not using all the hot water.”

She didn’t answer.

He blinked. “You okay?”

Silence.

Then: “You left me some random girl’s clothes, Mark.” He frowned slightly. “Yeah. I figured you wouldn’t want to sleep in your dirty field gear.”

She stood, robe falling to her knees. “You figured I’d be fine playing dress-up with your leftovers?”

“What?”

“You keep women's clothes in your bedroom like it's a goddamn brothel. What, you bring your flavor-of-the-month agents home for debriefings? And what, they just leave their panties behind like war medals?”

He stared at her, dumbfounded. “Y/N—”

“I’m not one of those girls. I don’t screw my coworkers because I’m bored. And I don’t wear other women’s clothes just so some field agent can get off on it.”

He raised an eyebrow. “I never said—”

“I’m not a conquest,” she snapped. “And if you want someone to suck your dick and keep their mouth shut, maybe call whatever hooker left that bra on your dresser.”

He blinked once.

Then… he smirked.

That slow, devastating, infuriating smirk.

Her blood boiled.

“Stop looking at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“That. That fucking smirk. You know what that does to me.”

“Oh?” he said softly, stepping toward her.

She didn’t back up. Wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. But her spine locked as he closed the distance, feline and slow, like he could hear her heartbeat ticking out of rhythm.

He leaned close—too close—and whispered near her ear, breath warm and maddening:

“Those are my sister’s clothes, actually. She stays over sometimes. Lives in Munich now.”

Y/N blinked.

“And for the record,” he murmured, fingers brushing the belt of the robe, “I would love nothing more than for you to not wear anything at all.”

And with that, he pulled the robe open.

It hit the floor with a soft thud.

Y/N stood there, breathless, bare, wide-eyed—but she didn’t cover up. Didn’t shrink.

She just stood.

And Mark?

He looked at her like she was art. Dangerous, flawed, beautiful art.

He stepped forward, hands sliding along her hips.

“Still hate me?” he whispered against her collarbone.

“Yes,” she breathed, head tilting back.

He smiled against her skin. “Good. Hate’s hot.”

She was naked.

He’d made her naked.

And she hadn’t stopped him.

The robe lay in a heap by her feet, a crumpled symbol of the walls she used to hide behind. Her breath was uneven, her skin flushed from the heat still rising in waves off his body. He was close now—so close she could feel the tension in his muscles, smell the warm clean scent of his skin and something darker, something primal.

Mark’s eyes raked over her, slow and consuming. No mockery, no smugness—just hunger. Controlled. Dangerous. Hot.

“You’re beautiful,” he said, voice low, rough. “Even when you’re yelling at me.”

Her chest lifted sharply. “I’m still mad at you.”

“I’m counting on it.”

His hands found her waist, dragging her against him. She gasped when she felt how hard he was—pressed against her belly through nothing but his boxers. Her hands landed on his chest, meant to push him away, but instead her fingers curled into the lines of his torso, drawn to the heat, the solidity of him.

“This is a mistake,” she whispered.

“Yeah,” he murmured against her mouth. “But you’re going to love it.”

Then he kissed her.

It was not gentle.

It was wild and immediate, lips crashing into hers, tongue licking into her mouth like he needed to taste all of her or he’d die trying. His hands gripped her thighs and lifted her—just lifted her like it was nothing—until her legs wrapped around his waist and her back hit the bedroom wall with a soft thud.

She moaned into his mouth.

He swallowed it.

Her hands were in his hair again, nails scraping along his scalp as he rocked into her, grinding hard through his boxers, letting her feel every inch of him. She whimpered, her body lighting up like a fuse wire.

He pulled back just enough to look her in the eye.

“Tell me to stop,” he rasped.

She didn’t.

Didn’t even think to.

Instead, she tugged at his waistband with shaking fingers. “Take them off.”

His lips twitched in a dark smile. “You sure you’re not one of those girls now?”

She gritted her teeth. “I swear to god, if you don’t fuck me right now—”

“Say it again.”

Her eyes flashed. “Fuck. Me.”

He let out a groan like she’d just handed him the keys to heaven and hell at once.

The boxers were gone in seconds.

He carried her to the bed and laid her down like she was something breakable, even though they both knew she wasn’t. She was fire and fury and sharp words and bottled loneliness—and he was going to worship every inch of her.

He dropped between her thighs, kissed the soft skin of her inner thigh, sucked a bruise into the top of her leg just to see her flinch and whimper. Then his mouth found her core, hot tongue licking slow, lazy strokes like he had all night to ruin her.

“Mark—”

“Say it again,” he growled against her, voice vibrating where she needed him most.

“Mark—god—don’t stop.”

Her hands clutched the sheets, body twisting under the assault of his mouth, his fingers. She was wet, aching, already teetering on the edge. And when he slipped two fingers inside her, curling just right, she shattered like glass.

She gasped his name like a prayer and a curse.

And he didn’t stop.

He kissed up her body, licking her nipple into his mouth, dragging his teeth over the sensitive skin as he positioned himself between her thighs. When he finally slid into her—slow and deep and so thick she could barely breathe—she arched off the bed.

“Jesus Christ,” she whispered, eyes wide.

“Not quite,” he smirked, and thrust again.

Hard.

She saw stars

His pace was relentless, hips snapping against hers, one hand fisting in her hair, the other gripping her thigh. He kissed her like he wanted to shut her up and fuck her like he never wanted her to speak again.

“Still mad at me?” he groaned against her throat.

She clawed down his back.

“Always.”

“Good.”

They moved together in a rhythm that was chaos and music and war, sweat slicking their skin, teeth and hands and tangled sheets. And when she came again—this time with his name on her lips and her nails dug into his shoulders—he followed with a deep groan, spilling into her as he buried himself to the hilt and held her there, panting against her shoulder.

For a moment, they were silent.

Just breath. Just skin.

Just them.

And then he spoke, voice quieter now, softer somehow. “Stay the night.”

She blinked up at him, still wrecked and dazed. “Why?”

His eyes softened. "So I can make you breakfast. And piss you off all over again.”

"I-I eh.. I"

"Y/N?"

"Y/N?"

---

She blinked. The room around her flickered back into focus.

“Y/N.”

Her boss’s voice. Loud. Dry. Amused.

She was in the briefing room.

The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. The long conference table was full of agents and analysts. A slideshow was paused on the screen. And all eyes were on her.

Mortified, she straightened like a spring snapping loose. Her cheeks went full crimson.

“Sorry,” she stammered, fumbling through the stack of papers clutched in her hands. “I—I have the data sheets.”

She moved down the table in a rush, handing out the intel packets to each agent, each handoff somehow clumsier than the last. Her voice squeaked something about confirmed coordinates and intercepted comms, but it was barely intelligible past the pounding of her heart.

And then she got to him.

Mark.

He didn’t even waotzd9 for her to give the file. Just looked up at her, all cool-eyed ease, and took it directly from her fingers, letting his touch linger over hers. Skin on skin.

She forgot how to breathe.

He smiled like he didn’t know he was trouble. Like it was the easiest thing in the world to wink at her like they shared something.

He had no idea.

None.

He probably didn’t even remember her name.

She made it to the front of the room and stood beside the director, clutching her hands in front of her like she was trying to disappear into her own cardigan.

The director droned on about extraction plans and encrypted relays.

She stared at the floor.

And then… she felt it.

That prickling awareness. That heat.

She glanced up. Mark was looking at her. Head tilted, mouth twitching.

She took a half-step back, just enough to put the director between them, blocking his view. Her cheeks still burned. She was never going to fantasize about him again. Ever. Never again.

---

Back at her desk, Y/N buried herself in files. She wasn’t reading them. She was pretending to read them. Highlighting random lines, nodding to herself as if decrypting top-tier intelligence.

She didn’t notice the footsteps.

Not until she felt him behind her.

“Hey,” Mark said casually, leaning an arm on the edge of her desk.

She froze. Looked up.

He was standing close. Too close. His voice dropped, smooth and low.

“What were you dreaming about, sweetheart?"

Her heart dropped straight into her stomach. Her entire body flushed. She turned redder than a fire alarm.

She made a strangled noise, stood up so fast her chair rolled back into the partition behind her with a thunk, and bolted.

Coffee corner. Coffee. Anything.

She didn’t look back.

Didn’t dare.

Because if she had looked back, she’d have seen Mark watching her go, head tilted, mouth curled into a crooked, fascinated smirk. His eyes followed the sway of her hips in that slightly-too-tight skirt she didn’t think anyone noticed.

“You gonna ask her out or keep teasing her 'til she quits?” asked Finau, walking up beside him.

Mark didn’t look away.

Not even a little.

“She hates me,” he said.

"Dude, aren't you lister I get every girl I want? Prove it."

Mark then added, under his breath, “She’s not every girl.”

--

taglist: Jensen: @jackles010378 @libby99hb @winchesterwild78 @suckitands33 @mostlymarvelgirl @deans-baby-momma @ancles @tulipsvanilla @thesilmarillionblog @jays-bonnie-on-the-side @kr804573 @kamisobsessed @hobby27 @globetrotter28 @kindollss @muhahaha303 @shadysoulangel @lyarr24 @spxideyver @impala67rollingthroughtown @panickedbitch @deansimpalababy @livya99 @yvonneeeee @ladykitana90 @stoneyggirl2 @imsiriuslyreal @panickedbitch @roseblue373 @n-o-p-e-never @ariasong11 @lmpala1967 @sherlockstrangewolf @spnaquakindgdom @writtenbyhollywood @mishkatelwarriorgoddess @healojane @star-yawnznn @deanswifeyy @lmg14

[nancymcl]

True Blue Steele (Dean’s Hot Like A Sunrise)

Read on AO3 || Main Masterlist

Dean Winchester x Aussie!Reader

In Australia we have a guy called Bubble O’Bill. He’s an icon. A delicious blend of chocolate, caramel and strawberry ice cream with a chocolate back and bubblegum nose. This is Dean’s reaction to him. 1000 words (don’t count them 😜)

A/N: I planned to give Dean a Bubble O’Bill ice cream, I conquered - and squeezed in as much Aussie slang as I could. Glossary below the fic for any non-Aussies who dare to read. This was written for @ambiguous-avery’s Summer Snapshot Challenge

There’s nothing like an Aussie summer. It’s no different from anywhere else you’ve been in the world, if you’re honest, but that isn’t what you tell people. No Australian does.

You’ve already warned Dean about the drop bears and their love of Vegemite sandwiches. Told him to avoid standing under any tree. And, hey. You once had him believing Crocodile Dundee was your uncle. Lived down the street from you growing up. That part was half true.

Jokes aside, there’s something magical about the sunburnt country. The sea air on the coast, the fragrance of wattle and eucalyptus swept through it. The sand, the dirt, the bitumen on the road that sticks to your thongs and breaks the fuckers, leaving most of the population barefoot and shirtless.

That was you once. A feral kid running around town.

But there’s a monster to hunt now, for some rando reason, and you and Sam and Dean are here hunting it down.

Only sometimes you need to refuel.

Sometimes Dean does too.

While he’s living it up with his newfound addiction to meat pies and sausage rolls, and Sam’s god knows where, you’ve wandered across the street to the servo, gunning for lollies, chips and, best of all, the ice cream you’ve been craving since you hit the ground.

You step out onto the main drag. The edging of the famous bright blue and pink wrapper in your hands.

It’s been a long time since you’ve had one, and you might just have two more in your bag.

You’re quick to draw, much like your beloved is with a real gun, tearing the plastic open, careful not to lose his nose. You pinch the stick between finger and thumb as you get rid of your rubbish. Take your first delicious bite and cross the street.

The sun draws a sheen to your head, but the creaminess of Bill’s chocolate hat and crispy chocolate backing counteracts the heat. Soothes the tip of your tongue.

“You didn’t tell me they do bacon ones, too,” Dean says as you step up to the picnic table he’s all set up at. White paper bags and empty tomato sauce sachets littered in front of him. Hints of bottle-green paint chipped below it, all blending into the grass before you. Even the ocean looks green today.

“It’s just diced ham. Nothing special.” You shrug. Take another bite of your ice cream, only to splinter the base in two.

Your palm reaches out to catch a large flake, lip swiping low to reach a sliver of the strawberry layer that caught your chin as you moved.

“What’s that?” Dean’s pastry lined shadow points to the cowboy in your hands.

“A Bubble O’Bill.”

Dean repeats it like the name is holy. Eyes lit up as he comes closer to inspect the face, nose to nose, with yours and with Bill’s. “Is that what I think it is?”

“It’s an ice cream,” you say.

“Yeah. But-but it’s a cowboy one. You guys don’t have cowboys here.”

“No one has cowboys anymore.” You snort. “But, yeah, he’s a cowboy. You want one?”

Dean’s eyes light up like it’s the last smile he’s ever going to give. His freckle-dusted cheeks, as pink as the bubblegum nose on your Bill.

“You got me one?”

“I got you two.” You’ll just pretend you hadn’t planned on eating all three. Not when he looks the way he looks. A child on Christmas. One who’s been given a million bucks, and out too long in the unforgiving Australian sun.

You’ll forgive him this once for not listening to you about slip, slop, slapping. He’s the Rhonda to your Ketut, hot like a sunrise, raccoon eyes and all. Looking mighty adorable as he takes his first bite. His brilliant greens, candy-like against the equally green gumball nose.

“So what’s with the cowboy?” he says.

“Dunno, why?”

“Figured you guys’d have that blue dog or that guy with the bucket for a hat as an ice cream over a gunslinger.”

You stare into the distance for a moment at his comment, dumbfounded. Not sure whether to be surprised he knows who Bluey is or that he’s heard of Ned Kelly.

“How the hell do you know who either of them are?” you say as you pluck out your gumball with precision so you can finish the strawberry centre.

Dean just looks at you like you insulted John Wayne. But while his eyes narrow at you, his tongue still works his Bill. “Hey, Ledger’s no Leto,” he says between licks, twisting his arm to scoop up a drip forming at the side. “But he sure beat Nicholson. And that dog is cute like Dory.”

Cute comment aside, “Don’t you mean Nemo?”

“He’s not blue.” He swipes his head through the air, matter-of-fact, and you’re just as dumbfounded as before,

“She’s not Aussie.”

“She wouldn’t go for a guy like me, either.” His non-eating hand grabs yours, intertwining his fingers, squeezing gently. “Not like you.”

“Well, I’m not a fish.”

You turn towards the surf, sticking the whole stick in your mouth to get the last morsels of ice cream, dragging it back with your teeth. You pucker and pop your lips when you release it, knowing he’s watching.

“No, you’re not.” He chuckles. “You’re making mighty fine work of that stick, though.”

You grin. Wiggle your brows and hips a little. Play into the sultry look he’s giving you and rub your thumb over the back of his hand. “If you don’t hurry up and eat that other ice cream, I’m making work of it, too.”

There’s no way you’re letting that thing go to waste. You’d gladly eat it and get two more. Who cares about the belly ache after?

But Dean’s grabbing it and peeling back the wrapper, before you can so much as blink.

“Get your own,” he says.

“It was mine,” you spit back, and he feigns hurt to insult, to a playful smirk.

He puts the bullet-hole end of Bill’s hat up to your mouth, but you don’t bite, knowing he’ll just pull it away. You know him too damn well, so you do what any sweet girl would do in a pinch, and push it into his nose instead.

Of course, you don’t leave him this way.

You kiss the strawberry off his chin, lick the caramel from his top lip and let him taste them both on his tongue. “But you’re mine, too.”

Obligatory Jensen chewing gum because why not.

True Blue Aussie Glossary

True Blue: genuine, quintessentially Aussie. Someone or something can be true blue.

Drop Bears: feed on the tourists. Give them a Vegemite sandwich and they might leave you alone.

Vegemite: that black, salty spread no one outside of Australia likes. I’m telling you guys, it’s delicious on toast when done right. Even Mark Sheppard says so.

Sunburnt country: it’s a nod to a poem we (at least, my generation) learnt in school.

Wattle: is a native Australian tree. Bright yellow and tiny flowers.

Thongs: lol - just in case anyone’s scratching their head who hasn’t seen me or anyone else use this one before. Flip-flops are sticking to the road there, not the underwear kind (we call them g-strings or g-bangers - I don’t know why).

Rando: random. We shorten everything.

Servo: short for service station. AKA a gas station.

Lollies: candy. Except it’s anything but chocolate. Think gummy bears, bubblegum, lollipops as a collective.

Slip, Slop, Slap(ping): a campaign we had here to wear sunscreen. Slip on a shirt, slop on some sunscreen, and slap on a hat.

Rhonda and Ketut: the greatest love story of all time (it’s a bunch of TV commercials selling car insurance). Rhonda has a beautiful brake foot, and she’s hot like a sunrise. Ketut is her Balinese toy boy. In one of the commercials her sunburn forms raccoon eyes where her sunglasses had been.

Bluey: that adorable blue heeler. If you don’t know her, you’ve been living under a rock.

Ned Kelly: a famous name in Australian history. He was a bush ranger. Heath Ledger played him in a movie based on his life. I figured Dean’s love of movies might make him aware of the role.

Ten points to Gryffindoor if you spotted any extra slang or references!

I wanted to squeeze in another pun about Rhonda and Ketut at the end, or a “I just want milk that tastes like real milk,” but they just didn’t fit. Hope you enjoyed ❤️

Dean Taglist #1

@globetrotter28 @ambiguous-avery @arcannaa @jollyhunter @zepskies @reluctanthalfwayoptimism @supernotnatural2005 @jackles010378 @kaz-2y5-spn @applelovesposts

@jaydensluv @foxyjwls007 @deans-spinster-witch @roseblue373 @waynes-multiverse @kazchester-fanfiction @maddie0101 @ladykitana90 @luvr4miya @amyjam78

@stoneyggirl2 @winchesterwild78 @missywinchester15 @deansbbyx @kr804573 @lyarr24 @salemslostwitch @mostlymarvelgirl @ladysparkles78 @multiversefanfics

@31miw-inkpsycho @yoursrosie @Theantisoci-alone @roseamie13 @krazykelly @my-stories-vault @amberlthomas @levine-23 @ultimatecin73 @district447

@hobby27 @aylacavebear @stellawritesstories @middleearthlife @yeehawgiddyup13 @redwinexsupernova @artemys-ackles @kimxwinchester @bejeweledinterludes @impala67rollingthroughtown

[nancymcl]

Confessions Can Be Sweet

╰┈➤ Mark Meachum

Mark Meachum x reader

request: request with a type 1 diabetic reader. + angst + hurt/comfort + enemies to lovers + miscommunication + sick/comfort + trapped together.

estelle yaps: okay, first off.. i LOVED this request. Mark would totally be the sweetest if someone was sick no matter who they are to him. I also hope I did this justice. I read up on type 1 diabetes and I hope I wrote the symptoms correctly (or well, at least!).

cw: discussions about murder. mentions of violence. mentions of death. swearing. medical emergency for reader. being trapped in an elevator. name calling [ sweetheart ]. fluffy. proof read!

word count: 3.9k

divider by @uzmacchiato

When you walk back into the precinct bullpen, sneakers scuffing softly against the tile floor, you don’t startle when you see Mark.

When thinking about all the things you knew about Mark, the word ‘workaholic’ could slip off the tongue the easiest. And that wasn’t a bad thing. You’d been working alongside him for the last year on different cases. He would come in guns blazing, and he didn’t stop until the job was done; the perp being behind bars. Mark was like a tiger in that respect. He came upon cases and pounced, not daring to let anything slip from his jaws.

The next big case filling up your days was the Valerie Scouts case. A woman had been found dead in her kitchen. Her clothes had been shredded, blood seeping through her shirt from thirty stab wounds. The images of the scene were gruesome, and walking the perimeter was even worse. It always felt like walking along a graveyard. The knowledge that someone had once been living—standing in perfect health until someone came along and stole that from them—in the same vicinity where you had stood was deafening.

It was horrible. It was scary.

Like with any other homicide case, you’d taken up OT. Someone was running around the LA streets getting away with murder. If there was anything you could do to decrease that time, you would damn well do it. Sometimes, over time felt like the only thing you could do. There were always downsides to it, of course. When there’s a dead end. You’re holding your breath, waiting, because that’s the only thing you can do, for another body to drop. It’s a taxing job; but being able to bring justice and the full weight of the law onto those scumbags always outdid the long hours.

And tonight would hopefully be one of those times. This case was so close to being solved. You could feel it in your gut, that levitating feeling in your gut that always left you with a smile. So, it was no issue to be staying so late. Everyone else had gone home, the precinct now quiet from the events of the day.

Your eyes narrow through dimmed light, glaring over at Mark. With an aura of confidence, he’s perched in your chair. Feet kicked up on your desk like an untrained dog. Like he owned that desk. His jaw is set tight with an unreadable expression. He was reading through your notes on the case.

Of course.

“You missed something,” he roughs out, eyes not once looking up from the file.

Mark’s got his sleeves rolled up to the elbows, red pen in hand like a damn teacher. But there was nothing casual about the way he was speaking. It was cold. Clipped. Like he’d been waiting.

A soft hum leaves your lips, walking over to look down at him expectantly. Your hands rest on your hips, body language already showing you were in the early stages of being annoyed. Although you could keep a straight face, your body was tired from a long day. And skipping dinner to finish your report wasn’t helping at all—you could already feel your blood sugar dipping.

“Get out of my chair, Meachum.”

“You left this out.” He extends his arm, a piece of paper waiting in his hand. He waves his hand around in an aggravated way, eyes not once looking up to see if you were reaching for it. There were red marks all over the page from his pen. The ink was bleeding from how hard he pressed into the margins and scribbled under sentences. “Report says COD was stabbing. ME told us asphyxiation was the cause. The stabbing occurred postmortem.”

You want to let out a curse, squinting down at the tiny letters on the page. He’s not wrong.

“We got a different cause of death from the consult,” you say tightly, taking the page from his hand. “This is my report from the consultant's statement.”

Mark finally looks up. His eyes flick to yours, gaze hardened. His eyes burn a deep shade of green. “You didn’t specify that.” His words are clipped, head tilting back to look down at you as if you were a child. As if he was your superior, not your coworker. “If it doesn’t hold up under cross, the case is scrapped.”

“You think I don’t know that?” you finally snap, the words tumbling out harsher than wanted. You’re running on adrenaline and a headache that was blooming behind your skin—the same one that had only been occurring around Mark.

His eyes narrow, sharp slits of emerald green. His brows furrow in time with the change of atmosphere. It’s not an abrupt change. It’s slow, it’s in the curve of his lips as a snarky smirk upturns the corner of his mouth. It’s in the way he straightens, legs swinging off your desk. It’s in the way he tosses your report, heavy file smacking against the wood. It’s a loud sound, demolishing the quiet around your charged energies.

“Maybe you don’t,” he grits, shaking his head as if he’s flabbergasted by your question. “Or you didn’t care to. You’re good at that.”

That strikes you silent for a moment.

The comment strikes a soft chord of guilt in your chest. Of course, he’d been referring to the incident that had happened last month. Which now you understood was the reason for his cold, clipped demeanor towards you.

Mark had asked you out. He had done so in his own clunky way, sarcastic comments about how he couldn’t believe the two of you hadn’t celebrated wins at the bar. He had smiled back then, soft grins that lingered in your mind whenever you tried to fall asleep at night. Back then, you had been the same. You told him you’d be glad to celebrate a closed case with a soft grin.

And so plans had been made. He’d told you to scrap the bar idea—he wanted to take you out to dinner. He put a real spin on his reason—claiming you needed a good meal after all the nights you spent living on chicken and weird fruit snack packages you kept in your desk. Back then, Mark had cared. He was kind.

Then, on the night of your planned outing, your body had decided it had other plans. Maybe it was a cruel joke—the universe always needed something to laugh about. Happiness couldn’t last too long in your job, and the universe had been hellbent on forcing that fact to bleed into your personal life. Your sugar had dropped. And a terrible drop at that—you weren’t even sure how it could have happened. You had checked your levels twice more than needed that day.

You canceled on Mark. It was a last-minute decision with shaky hands, a dizzy mind throwing out the reason for any sort of explanation. And when your body finally felt normal again, it was well into the night. And shame had buried itself into your chest. You’d never told Mark about your condition, deciding you’d apologize to him on Monday morning.

But that Monday, he hadn’t acknowledged you at all. His responses were sharp. Gone was the soft-tongued, sarcasm-flavored honey that fell from his lips. In the space of half an hour, you’d decided you had dodged a damn bullet. If that was how he reacted to a canceled date, when normally you were always punctual, how would he react to something worse?

In the dim lighting, your eyes narrow at him. Your chest feels tight with guilt and anger. It twists deep in your chest and spreads through your nerves like splashed ink, overbearing your lines of softness. “Get out of my chair, Mark.”

He stands abruptly, tall frame towering over you. He turns and practically stomps back to his desk like a toddler throwing a tantrum, eyes downcast from you as he stews in whatever the hell was going on in his mind.

Your eyes roll, fingers coming up to pinch the bridge of your nose as you sit down at your desk. After standing for so long, you felt a small wave of dizziness wash over your senses. It wasn’t a bright, wild light of dizziness. It was the soft start of a warning of dizziness.

Your hand drifts down to your drawer where you kept snacks and juice boxes for cases like these. There’s a slight tremble in your hand as your fingers curl around the handle, pulling it open. The sight below you causes annoyance to blossom in your chest.

Somehow, you’d forgotten to restock your drawer. Which was something you had never done before—hell, you kept an alarm set on your phone that went off every few weeks to restock the thing. Your mind thinks back to the past few weeks. Mentally, you scroll through memories to find out how this could have happened.

Then you stop. Last week your phone didn’t charge. You had woken up and saw the stupid thing dead, the plug pulled from the wall. And you had left your phone there when you went to work, knowing your work cell would have been enough.

It obviously was not.

A soft scoff leaves your lips at your own actions, mentally scolding yourself. You lean down, ignoring the spike of dizziness in your mind as you grab your bag to root through. Moving stray papers, pens, files, notebooks, and other things around, you find nothing. Not even glucose tablets.

Perfect.

Your eyes glance over to your filed report. Mark's words swirl in your memory—and despite how annoying he’d become, he was right. If they solved the case and it went to trial, your report would not be admissible in court. So, with a mental groan, your hands grab a sticky note and jot down the note to change your report and stick it against the paper.

You’re quick to collect the papers and stick them in the folder dedicated to the case, filing them away in your desk drawer. You had about half an hour before things went sideways.

Just fifteen minutes to your apartment. You’ve done this before.

When you stand and shoulder your bag, you feel it. A pair of eyes on your back. The only other person in the entire bullpen—maybe even precinct—being Mark.

“Where the hell you goin’?” His voice is a sharp drawl, cutting through the silence the two of you had found yourselves in.

“Home,” you quip, weaving past desks on your route to the elevator. You don’t look back, your hand tightening on the strap of the bag. “I’ll finish tomorrow.”

Behind you, the soft scrape of chair legs is heard. Mark’s on his feet, grumbling about something before joining you. His voice is too quiet to catch, but you knew it was something about you.

His footsteps are slow behind you. Steady. Close.

By the time you reach the elevator, you can feel his presence looming behind you. His presence is thick behind you, shadow looming over like a weighted blanket. The quiet pressure of his presence presses against you like a storm front.

When you let yourself glance over quickly, you see his bag slung over his shoulder. His bag is neat and compact, hanging off his shoulder as if he’d been ready for hours. Yours is a haphazard mess of papers and pens.

“You make it a habit of leaving halfway through fixing your mess?” he asks, voice low. His hand comes out to press the elevator buttons again, impatience rearing its head as his folly.

“You make it a habit to follow people to the elevator to be an asshole?” you ask him, a soft huff leaving your throat.

The old elevator dings with a tired groan, metal doors taking their time to peel open. You walk in first, not looking over at Mark. He follows, his shoulder bumping your shoulder just enough to dredge up more annoyance. Then the doors slide shut.

The number above the door blinks softly from six to five, then four.

You adjust the bag on your shoulder, saying nothing as your fingers silently tap against the strap. The stupid thing truly couldn’t go any slower.

Mark is leaning against the wall opposite you. His eyes are cast off, looking anywhere but at you. His gaze drifts from the ceiling to the floor, then settles on the button panel—as if the inanimate objects were great conversation partners.

And in reality, you were fine with this. He was a jerk. You could suffer through three minutes of this to be able to get home.

His mood radiates off of him, sourness changing the energy of the whole elevator. If you hadn’t been focused on getting home, you probably would have asked him what it was like always having a stick shoved up his ass.

The red number blinks to read floor three.

“You know,” he mutters, voice low in octave but sharp in tone, “you’re really good at wastin’ people’s time.”

You bristle, hand clenching around the bag strap. “Funny. I was just thinking the same about you.”

Out of the corner of your eye, you catch as his jaw ticks. Then you feel his gaze shift onto you. It’s like an eclipse—dark and heavy.

“Don’t act like everythin’s okay. You’re rushing. Skipping crucial steps like an—”

“I’m working.” You cut over him, voice sharp.

You were about to keep going, the anger bubbling in your tummy. You wanted to quelch your anger with a comment that shut him up—if that was possible. But then the elevator jolts. It knocks you toward the wall, back thumping softly against the metal. It lurches once.

Then the elevator stops.

The overhead lights flicker quickly, almost unnoticeable to anyone who wasn’t paying attention. But your senses were on high alert. The lights steady, but the panel of buttons goes black. Your stomach drops, anxiety already starting to claw up your throat.

“No,” you mutter, staring at the machine as if it had threatened your life.

In reality, it just had.

Mark pushes off the wall silently, pressing the button that’s supposed to open the doors. Nothing happens. It doesn’t even light up. He huffs and presses the ‘emergency call’ button. Again, as if the universe was plotting against you with an evil grin, nothing happens.

“No, no, no.” You mutter, panic spreading through your nerves. Your hands fumble in your pocket, taking out your phone with shaky fingers.

“You claustrophobic or just dramatic?” Mark huffs, shaking his head as he gazes over at you.

Your back slumps against the wall of the elevator, cool metal biting at your skin through your clothes. There’s a tightness curling in your chest—something far more horrifying than panic. Something chemical.

“Do you have service?” you ask him sharply, biting your lip as you stare down at your phone screen. You have no bars.

Mark checks, an annoyed sigh leaving his lips. “No.”

You shake your head, vision starting to get fuzzy around the edges. You blame it on the flickering lights. And the anxiety was starting to make you sweat. This was fine. It was just late. You just needed to get back home. You just needed those damn doors to open.

You slide down the wall, legs folding under you as your bag drops like dead weight. All the chaos was making you feel it faster. Your limbs were feeling heavy, pinprick static crackling in the nerves of your fingers.

“Stop bein’ dramatic,” Mark roughs out, pressing against the emergency call harder. He glances over at you, his gaze faltering for a second. He could see your skin paling. He wanted to scoff, not wanting to believe you were actually gonna have an anxiety attack over something as trivial as this.

“Sugar’s low,” you murmur finally, voice thin. “Didn’t get to eat. Thought there was time.”

Mark shifts his body toward you, muscles taut under his clothes. He had stiffened, the gears in his mind turning. His mind offers up memories—seeing you take fruit snacks and juice boxes from your desk, padding off to the bathroom periodically after you ate.

He himself starts to feel dizzy.

How could he have been this stupid? The signs of this were obvious—even upstairs as you were walking toward the elevator. The slight temple in your step. The far-off look glazing over your eyes. He had missed something so important.

When he sees your eyes flutter shut for a second too long, he springs into action.

His bag is slung in front of him, ripping the zipper in half. “Shit,” he breathes, looking through the neat, organized chaos inside his bag. His heartbeat had started to quicken as he remembered any training he had on something like this. He’d been through the police academy training program that only spent a few days on diabetic sugar crashes. He wanted to curse.

Mark takes his bag off his shoulder, dumping the contents onto the floor. He crouches down to sort through it. With sweat starting to bead on his temples, his ivory fingers curl under papers and toss them about like a madman. “Just hang on a minute f’me, sweetheart.”

He sorts through files, gum wrappers, half-dead pens, and broken pencils. Nothing. He digs deeper, a string of curses leaving his throat. Then, finally, like a miracle from above, his mouth cracks into a grin. He sighs, holding up a lollipop.

It’s a little dusty from being in his bag for so long. But it’s sugar. It’s gonna be at least a little helpful.

He tears the wrapper off with a tremble in his fingers, tossing it behind his shoulder somewhere. Mark drops to his knees and practically crawls over toward you. His hand comes under your jaw gently, his calloused hands surprisingly soft against your skin.

“There we go,” he murmurs as you take it, your hands grazing his as you take hold of the stick. “Look at that. You’re gonna be fine, sweetheart.”

His hand comes down next to your leg, anchoring him. Guilt settles over his chest and rips through his nerves, clawing at his heart. He’d asked you out. You disappeared. He was a jerk. And now, here, he was watching a sugar crash. The probable reason for you canceling on him. He leans in slightly, body wanting to crack from the weight of the words he wanted to say.

“You should have told me,” he mutters softly, gaze drifting over your features. It was slow, but he could see the color coming back to your cheeks. “We would’a figured it all out.”

Silence settles over the two of you again. This time, the silence isn’t from a place of aggression. It’s a bit softer than that. It stretches thin as minutes pass, only punctured by your shallow breaths. Mark doesn’t take his eyes off you once. He stays kneeling at your side like he’s afraid to move.

He wants to say something more. But the words die off on the tip of his tongue, not able to find a good enough string of words to form a sentence. So instead, he lets himself sit in the feelings he hadn’t let himself feel.

Then the lights flicker once, and the soft buzz of mechanical whirring is heard.

The groan of metal licks up the elevator walls, a crack ringing out. His gaze flickers over to the panel above the door. It blinks to life, the floor indicator seemingly fixed.

Mark’s hand clenches next to your leg, gaze stuck on the door until it opens. He holds his breath.

A rush of fresh air gets let into the elevator as the doors peel open, a hum of voices drifting in. Maybe it’s the maintenance men. Maybe security. Mark can’t tell—he’s just thinking about you as he barks out orders to the men standing in front of him.

As he tries to stand, he feels your hand gently curling around his wrist. It’s a silent communication asking him to stay. Or not go far. Either way, he was going to comply easily. Mark nods, holding onto your hand as he helps medical assistance hold you up.

They insisted upon checking you in the med room—standard protocol, they said, as they led you and Mark down the hallways of the precinct. You’re hooked up to an IV, sugar tabs in your system, and a juice box tucked away in your lap.

Mark is standing outside the glass door. He doesn’t move. He doesn’t say anything. He’s standing like a guard dog outside the door, overseeing your behavior and flat-out refusing to leave. When he catches your gaze, he hesitates, a flash in his emerald eyes. He takes a moment before stepping through the threshold—steps tentative and slow.

“You didn’t have to wait,” you murmur softly, voice scratchy.

“Didn’t want you waking up alone,” he replies, sitting down in the chair next to you.

A beat of silence.

“I wasn’t unconscious.”

“Close enough.”

Silence swallows you both again. It’s different from all the other silences between you. Heavier.

Mark exhales, hand resting against his neck. He scratches his skin awkwardly, stopping to rub the back of his neck. Something you’d never seen him do before.

“I was mad, y’know.”

By the sound of his voice—soft but taut on his tongue—you realize he isn’t talking about the whole elevator incident. He’s talking about last month. The almost-date.

Your gaze drifts down to the juice box in your lap, the straw seemingly the most interesting thing ever at that moment.

“I figured.”

He sighs. “Not ‘cause you canceled.” He shifts the chair a little closer to you. “I mean, yeah, it sucked. It took two weeks to work up the balls to ask you. But I was mad because you never said anything. No explanation-”

“It wasn’t personal-”

“It was to me.” His voice is quiet. Firm. “I figured you changed your mind. Figured out that a man like me wasn’t who you wanted to bring home.”

You go still beside him.

“But now I know it wasn’t that,” he sighs. “And I feel fuckin’ awful, sweetheart.” His eyes glance over to catch yours. His gaze is soft, something you can’t quite place swirling in his eyes. “You were caught up in your own shit—scared. Hell, I’m scared right now.”

You swallow, looking over at him, letting his words absorb into your mind.

“But I need you to know if I knew—if you had told me—I would have scheduled something different. I would have showed up. Like I’m doing right now.” His hand drifts over slowly, grazing your knuckles. Almost like he’s scared you’ll vanish if he really touches you.

He hesitates. Then his voice comes out softer than before.

“I’m tired of pretending I don’t care, sweetheart.”

The room is quiet now. So quiet. So quiet you could hear your heart slowing to something a little steadier, calmer in the chaos of the last hour. Your hand grazes his, thumb gently rubbing against his knuckle.

“When you’re ready,” he almost whispers, eyes set on your fingers, “I’d like to take you out for real.”

Your fingers curl around his. Soft. A promise.

“I’d like that.”

estelle yaps some more: hello, my love! if you liked this, my other works are here. my requests are open! and if you really liked it, join a taglist!

[nancymcl]

✨Nanny Call - Pt. 1/2✨

Summary: You weren’t expecting much when Jared Padalecki called. And definitely not to end up living with Jensen Ackles and his three chaos-loving kids. But now you’re in deeper than you planned, balancing bedtime battles and forbidden tension with a man you were never supposed to want.

-requested-

Pairing: Jensen x Reader

Warnings: Language

Word Count: 5944

DISCLAIMER: Everything is purely fiction. I do not intend to attack or hurt anyone. The story is, of course, entirely made up and meant for entertainment purposes. I love them all.

You weren’t expecting much when Jared Padalecki called. Maybe a short congratulatory text for graduating college. What you didn’t expect was to be thrown headfirst into the life of Jensen Ackles.

“I swear, you’d be perfect for this”, Jared had said over the phone, voice light but insistent. “Jensen’s drowning a little. He’s got the kids alone for the next few months, and the show’s shooting schedule is brutal. He needs someone he can trust. And you’re great with kids”.

You hesitated. Sure, you loved kids. And sure, you’d babysat a lot during high school. But Jensen Ackles? That was a whole different universe. You’d grown up hearing about him through your older brother, one of Jared’s longtime friends, and of course, you’d seen Supernatural. He was larger than life. A celebrity. A dad.

But somehow, Jared talked you into it. You told yourself it was just temporary. Just until Jensen got his footing or found a full-time nanny. No pressure.

The first meeting was at Jensen’s temporary place in Vancouver, where he’d be staying for the next few months while filming season sixteen of Supernatural. It was tucked into a quiet neighborhood just outside the city, a rental that looked nice enough from the outside, but already showed signs of life within. Toys peeked out from behind the curtains, and a little pair of sneakers sat abandoned on the porch.

You tugged at your sweater as you walked up the steps, heart thudding harder than you liked to admit. This wasn’t just a gig, it was Jensen Ackles. And his kids.

Before you could knock, the door swung open, and there he was.

Jensen looked… exhausted. Comfortable, though. Barefoot, in joggers and a faded Texas Rangers t-shirt, his hair still damp from a rushed shower. He leaned against the doorframe like he'd forgotten how to stand still, his expression caught somewhere between curiosity and mild regret.

“You’re Y/N?”, he asked, eyebrows raising slightly as he gave you a once-over.

You nodded, offering a smile that felt steadier than you expected. “Yep. Jared sent me”.

He exhaled through his nose, not quite a sigh, but close. “Yeah. He did”.

There was a pause, just long enough to be uncomfortable. You weren’t sure what you expected, but it wasn’t the faint frown that tugged at the corner of his mouth, or the way he looked past you like he was still debating something.

“I gotta be honest”, he said, rubbing the back of his neck, “I wasn’t really sold on this”.

You blinked. “Oh”.

“It’s nothing personal. You’re just…”. He motioned vaguely, trying to find a polite word. “Young”.

You bit your tongue to keep from saying something defensive. Because yeah, you were young. Fresh out of college. But you weren’t stupid. And you weren’t unqualified.

“And inexperienced”, he added, just twisting the knife a little deeper.

You shifted your weight and crossed your arms, lifting a brow. “I worked with kids through all of college. Daycares, summer camps, tutoring, kind of the whole shebang”.

He nodded slowly, but his eyes still held that wary edge. “Jared said you were great. He practically wouldn’t shut up about it. Said you were mature. Reliable. Said you’d be good for them”.

“And you don’t believe him?”.

“I believe Jared believes it”, he said. “But I’ve got three kids, a full-time shooting schedule, and not a lot of margin for error. I just…”. He trailed off, sighing again. “I need help. I just don’t know if this is the right kind”.

You let the silence settle for a beat before speaking. “Look. If it doesn’t work, it doesn’t work. But give me one day. Let me show you I’m not just some college kid who can’t tell a diaper from a juice box”.

That finally cracked something in him, a smile, small and dry, but genuine.

“Alright”, he said. “One day”.

Then, almost as an afterthought, he added, “But if one of them ends up on the roof again, it’s on you”.

You blinked. “Again?”.

But he was already stepping aside to let you in, muttering, “You’ll see”.

You’d barely stepped into the living room when a voice floated down the hallway, sharp and matter-of-fact.

“Dad. Zeppelin’s drinking maple syrup. Again”.

Jensen closed his eyes like this was a recurring battle he had long since lost. “JJ”, he called back, “can you grab it from him before he chugs the whole bottle?”.

“I’m eleven, not a miracle worker”, she replied, though you could hear her footsteps heading toward the kitchen anyway.

A few seconds later, she appeared, tall for her age and already carrying herself with the weariness of someone twice it. Her long hair was pulled back into a slightly lopsided ponytail, and she eyed you with a quiet, measuring gaze as she handed Jensen a half-empty syrup bottle.

“That’s JJ”, he said. “My little general”.

JJ gave a small shrug. “Hi”. Then, to you, flatly: “Are you the new sitter or just here for the interview?”.

“Guess we’ll see by the end of the day”, you answered with a smile.

JJ’s eyes narrowed slightly, like she was deciding whether to like you or not. She didn’t answer, but she didn’t walk away either, which felt like a tiny win.

Then came the thundering footsteps, real ones this time. Zeppelin burst around the corner, shirt on backwards, sockless, and grinning like he’d just committed a heist and gotten away with it.

“Hi! Are you the new mom?”.

“Zepp!”, Jensen’s voice cracked in disbelief. “No—no one is the new mom”.

Zeppelin blinked at you. “Oh. Okay. Are you gonna live here?”.

“I’m just the babysitter… maybe”, you said quickly, kneeling down to his eye level. “But thanks for the enthusiasm”.

Zepp nodded, then turned around and yelled, “Arrow! She’s not the new mom! You owe me five bucks!”.

Jensen pinched the bridge of his nose.

Just as Zeppelin’s yell echoed through the house, Arrow appeared like a storm in mid-formation, arms flailing, one sock halfway off, and a suspicious smear of glitter across her cheek. Her eyes locked on you like a hawk spotting prey.

“You’re the babysitter?”, she asked, marching right up to you. “You look like a teenager”.

“Technically not anymore”, you said, trying not to laugh.

“Do you know how to cook? Because Dad burns everything”.

“Hey!”, Jensen called from the kitchen. “I make great grilled cheese”.

“You burned it twice last week!”, Arrow shouted back. “The toaster still smells like smoke and sadness!”.

You glanced at Jensen, who was muttering to himself as he refilled his coffee. He looked seconds away from either laughing or walking directly into traffic.

Arrow turned back to you, eyes narrowed. “Do you let kids swear?”.

“Depends”, you said slowly. “What kind of swearing are we talking?”.

She beamed. “Like, ass and crap, but also sometimes Zeppelin says shit when he’s mad and I like it”.

Zepp gasped from across the room, clutching his chest like she’d betrayed him.

Jensen groaned. “Arrow…”.

“I didn’t say I said it. I appreciate the intensity”.

You bit your lip, struggling not to break. “Appreciated intensity. Got it”.

Arrow tilted her head. “Are you cool? Because if you’re not cool, we can tell. JJ’s like, a people scanner. And Zeppelin’s too dumb to lie, so he always ruins it anyway”.

“Hey!”, Zepp protested.

“I’m cool”, you said, smiling. “But I’m also not afraid to put toys in timeout”.

Arrow’s eyes lit up. “You’re bluffing”.

“Wanna bet?”.

She stared at you. You stared right back.

Jensen, now watching with a fresh mug of coffee, leaned against the counter and said under his breath, “That’s the face she makes right before she sets something on fire”.

You believed him.

After a moment, Arrow broke first. She huffed, muttered something under her breath that might have been another swear word, then plopped down cross-legged in the middle of the floor.

“She likes you”, JJ said quietly beside you, like she was admitting to something grudgingly earned.

“Yeah?”, you asked, a little surprised.

JJ nodded. “She didn’t bite you”.

“That’s… comforting”.

Zeppelin came over and leaned against your side like he’d known you forever. “I bit a sub once. Got kicked out of class. They said it wasn’t ‘normal behavior’”.

Arrow grinned. “It was funny though”.

Jensen let out a long, slow breath. “So. Welcome to the circus”.

You looked around—Arrow whispering to her bunny, JJ pretending not to smile, Zeppelin braiding the fringe of your sweater like it was a sacred mission—and somehow, it already felt like you belonged.

“Thanks”, you said, looking back at Jensen with a smirk. “I’ve always wanted front-row seats”.

He shook his head, grinning despite himself. “Let’s see how you feel after bedtime”.

-

The house had finally gone still.

It had taken a full hour of negotiations, two bedtime stories, one lost toothbrush, and a dramatic meltdown over mismatched pajama pants, but the whirlwind trio was finally asleep, or at least quiet enough to fool you. You stood in the hallway for a moment, just breathing in the silence like it was oxygen.

Then you padded into the kitchen to find Jensen already there, leaning against the counter with the kind of posture that only came after surviving battle. His shoulders had relaxed, though, and when he looked up and saw you, something in his expression softened even more.

“You’re still here”, he said, reaching into the cabinet above him.

“Barely”, you said with a smile, sinking into one of the barstools. “I feel like I just ran a marathon. Blindfolded. In a thunderstorm. While carrying three feral raccoons”.

Jensen chuckled, pulling down two tumblers and a bottle of whiskey. “Then you had the full experience”.

He poured a generous splash into each glass and handed one to you. The rim felt cool in your hand, the amber liquid catching the soft glow of the under-cabinet lights.

“To surviving bedtime”, he said, raising his glass.

You clinked yours against his. “And to not getting bitten”.

He smirked. “A rare first-day win”.

You took a sip, smooth, smoky, warm going down. The kind of drink meant for winding down, not winding up. You let the silence stretch for a moment, comfortable now, not awkward like earlier.

“They’re great kids”, you said eventually. “Really. Just… a lot”.

Jensen nodded, staring into his glass. “Yeah. They didn’t use to be this… wound up. Not all the time. But things are different now. They know it, even when I try to keep things normal”.

You didn’t say anything right away. You just let him speak.

“Danneel and I, we tried. We really did”, he continued. “But when it got bad, we agreed not to let the kids be in the middle of it. So now we’re doing this thing—few months with me, then they go to her. It’s fair. But it doesn’t mean it’s easy”.

His voice was quiet, heavy in a way that made you feel like he wasn’t used to talking about this. Or maybe just not used to talking to someone who wasn’t already in his life.

-

Six weeks in, and you were convinced you’d aged at least a decade.

You hadn’t meant to become a live-in babysitter. It had started with a few overnights when Jensen’s call times stretched too late or started too early. Then one night turned into three. Then the guestroom slowly became yours—your phone charger on the nightstand, your sneakers by the door, your hoodie borrowed by JJ more times than you could count.

The kids had settled into the rhythm of you. Breakfast with you. School drop-offs. After-dinner dance parties. Bedtime battles that ended with Arrow curled in your lap, Zeppelin sleep-talking nonsense, and JJ quietly laying her head on your shoulder in the dark, just for a moment, before pretending she hadn’t.

But Jensen? They barely saw him.

The show was in full swing. Night shoots. Early calls. Script changes. You’d catch him in the mornings sometimes, half-awake and nursing a third cup of coffee while tugging on a hoodie and whispering goodbye to a sleeping Arrow. Or late at night, when you were cleaning up Lego landmines and found him sitting on the couch, too tired to even shower.

Tonight was one of those nights. It was nearly midnight when the front door finally creaked open.

You were curled into the corner of the couch, wrapped in the worn blanket Arrow insisted you “borrow forever”, the TV playing something you weren’t really watching. You’d made popcorn an hour ago and hadn’t touched it. Sleep felt impossible, like your mind refused to power down with so much of your heart stretched across a house that wasn’t technically yours.

Jensen stepped inside and paused, keys still in hand, like he was surprised to see the lights still on. His eyes found yours almost immediately.

“You’re up”, he said quietly, his voice rough around the edges from another fourteen-hour day.

You gave him a tired smile. “Couldn’t sleep”.

He didn’t answer right away. Just slipped his boots off and crossed the living room in socked feet, collapsing into the armchair across from you with a low groan. His head fell back, and he let out a long breath, one that sounded like it had been trapped in his chest for hours.

“Rough night?”, you asked.

He cracked an eye open. “Rough week”.

You nodded, tucking your legs underneath you. “The twins had a glitter explosion in the bathroom. I think Arrow tried to make soap out of toothpaste and hand sanitizer”.

He sighed, a smile tugging at his lips. “At least she’s creative”.

“She also called her teacher a ‘dictator in skinny jeans’”.

Jensen choked on a laugh, rubbing a hand over his face. “Geez”.

“I didn’t even punish her. I was too impressed”.

His smile faded slowly as he looked at you—really looked at you—and something in his expression shifted. A weight, maybe. Or a recognition.

You would’ve been lying if you said you weren’t attracted to him.

Of course you were. How could you not be? Jensen was Jensen. He was rugged and quietly kind, his tired eyes somehow still full of fire, and he carried himself with the weight of someone who loved too deeply and didn’t know how to put that love down, even when it hurt.

But attraction was dangerous. Especially here. Especially now.

This wasn’t the life you’d imagined for yourself. Playing second mom at twenty-something, falling asleep in a guest room that felt more like your own with every passing night, building a routine around three kids and a man who barely had time to breathe—this wasn’t what you had planned.

So you kept your distance. You held the line. Even if that line was getting harder and harder to see.

You sighed and rose from the couch, brushing the blanket off as you stretched. “I’ll heat something up. You probably haven’t eaten since noon”.

Your sleep shorts—tiny and soft and comfortable—rode up a little too high as you stood, and you reached to tug them down, not thinking much of it, until you turned, just a glance over your shoulder. And caught him.

Jensen’s eyes were locked on you. Not subtly. Not in passing. No flick of a gaze quickly averted. He was staring. Right at your ass.

For a second, he didn’t even seem to realize he’d been caught, his jaw slightly tight, one hand still resting on his knee. It was instinctual. Unfiltered. And when your eyes met his, something passed between you so fast and sharp it left the air between you charged like static after a storm.

His mouth parted just slightly. Your breath caught.

Then, slowly, his eyes dragged up to yours and he didn’t flinch. Didn’t look embarrassed. He didn’t pretend it hadn’t happened. He held your gaze. There was heat there. Interest. Hunger he wasn’t saying out loud.

You swallowed, pulse thudding in your ears. The room suddenly felt a few degrees warmer, like the silence itself had turned into something alive and watchful.

“I—uh—”, you said, breaking eye contact as you turned fully to the kitchen. “Pasta. Right. Shouldn’t take long”.

You busied yourself with the microwave, but your fingers fumbled more than once, and you hated the way your hands shook just slightly as you hit the buttons. You didn’t even know what you were flustered by more, being caught looking back at him, or the fact that part of you liked the way he’d looked at you.

The microwave hummed to life behind you. You kept your eyes down, heart racing.

Then his voice—low, measured—cut through the silence. “I’m sorry”.

You froze, turning to face him again. “For what?”, you asked.

Jensen rubbed a hand across his jaw, rough with a day’s worth of stubble. He didn’t look at you right away. Instead, he stared down at the plate you’d just handed him like it held some kind of moral compass.

“For… ”, he muttered. “The staring. It’s been a long night. Hell, it’s been a long year. And I haven’t…”. He trailed off, then shook his head. “It’s been a while since I’ve even looked at someone like that. It wasn’t appropriate. You work here. You take care of my kids. You’re younger. Too young”.

You leaned back against the counter, arms crossed loosely, not defensive, just… trying to hold something inside you still.

“I didn’t mind”, you said quietly.

That made him look up.

“I mean…”, you hesitated, cheeks burning, forcing yourself to keep your voice even. “I noticed. Obviously. But I didn’t mind. It’s not like you were being gross about it. You just… looked. And honestly? You kind of caught me off guard”.

His brow furrowed, a question behind his eyes.

You gave a small, half-shy shrug. “I didn’t think you found me attractive”.

Jensen’s eyes darkened, the disbelief flickering behind them.

“Until a few minutes ago”, you added, voice softer now. “And look, I get it. You’re dealing with a lot. You have the kids, the show, the divorce still hanging in the air. But… I’m not naive, Jensen”.

He sat back slightly, his fork untouched, giving you his full attention now.

“I’m not looking to complicate your life… I’m not asking for anything serious”. You paused, then tilted your head slightly, meeting his eyes with quiet certainty. “But… if you want to blow off some steam, I’m not saying no”.

The words hung in the air like smoke, bold and unfiltered, the kind of honesty Jensen had come to expect from you. That was one of the things he liked most, how you never danced around your truth. No games. No pretending. Just you, direct and grounded, even when the stakes were quietly rising around both of you. But right now…

Jensen’s jaw tightened, his breath a little shallower now. He wasn’t expecting you to make it that easy. Or that real.

Because the truth? He’d been thinking about you. More than he should have. At first, it was small, quiet admiration. The way you moved through the house like you’d always belonged. The way you soothed the kids without forcing it, met chaos with calm, and met his exhaustion with understanding. It was comforting. Familiar.

Then it shifted.

It started the night you came into the kitchen in one of his t-shirts and bare legs and didn’t even notice the way his brain short-circuited. The night you laughed at something stupid he’d said and threw your head back and looked at him like he was someone worth laughing with.

It turned into late-night thoughts when he was too tired to sleep. Quiet, unspoken fantasies in the shower. Wondering what your skin felt like under those shorts. What your mouth would taste like if he just let go. It wasn’t just attraction. It was desire. Gnawing, growing. Dangerous.

And now? Now you were standing in front of him saying it out loud. Jensen let out a slow breath, his eyes tracing you like he couldn’t help himself. But even as his hand hovered near your waist—so close, so damn close—he didn’t touch you. Not yet.

His jaw clenched, and you could practically see the war going on behind his eyes.

“Damn it”, he muttered under his breath, stepping back just enough to break the moment, but not far enough to escape it. “This is such a bad idea”.

You stayed where you were, heart thudding hard, lips parted. “Because I work here?”.

He looked up, the corner of his mouth twitching with something like guilt. “Because you live here. Because you’re wrapped up in all of it—me, the kids, the mess I’m barely managing. I’ve already blurred so many lines, I don’t even know what’s safe anymore”.

You nodded, trying to steady your voice even as your body buzzed from the almost of it all. “I’m not asking you to marry me, Jensen. I’m just saying you don’t have to be alone tonight”.

“I should be alone”, he said, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck like it might shake sense into him. “Because if I start this with you—even if it’s just physical—it won’t be simple. Nothing in my life ever is”.

You gave him a small, understanding smile. “You think I don’t know that? I’ve lived with you six weeks”.

That shut him up for a moment.

You stepped a little closer now, careful but deliberate. “I’m not fragile, Jensen. I knew what I was walking into. And I know this is messy. But you’ve been trying so hard to do the right thing, you’re forgetting you’re allowed to want something for you”.

Jensen was quiet, but his eyes burned into yours like he was holding onto your words, trying to find the flaw in them and failing. The conflict in his expression softened, just slightly—like the fight in him was losing ground to something warmer, deeper. Need.

“And you’re okay with this being just…”, he began, but the words trailed off.

You nodded. “Just physical. I’m not asking for more than that”.

He searched your face for a long moment, and you let him. You didn’t flinch or backtrack. You let him see the certainty in you, the steadiness, the want.

And something in him cracked.

His hand found your waist again, more confident this time. The heat of his palm burned through the thin fabric of your shirt, grounding and possessive all at once. You sucked in a breath, and before you could say anything else, he dipped his head and kissed you—really kissed you.

It wasn’t hesitant anymore. It was heat, and pressure, and pent-up hunger finally breaking loose.

You answered it with equal fire, your fingers finding the hem of his shirt, dragging it up as his mouth moved against yours like he couldn’t get enough. His hands were everywhere—your waist, your thighs, your lower back, like he was mapping the parts of you he’d only thought about before tonight. You tugged at his shirt until he broke the kiss just long enough to pull it over his head and toss it to the floor.

The moment his skin met yours, it got harder to breathe.

He lifted you effortlessly onto the counter again, your legs parting to let him step between them like he belonged there. Like he knew he did. Your fingers tangled in his hair as his mouth dropped to your neck, his stubble scraping gently against your skin, sending sparks down your spine.

You gasped when his teeth grazed your collarbone, a shiver running down your spine. Your fingers dug into his shoulders, anchoring yourself to the moment, hot and real and finally.

Jensen pulled back just enough to breathe, his forehead resting against yours as his chest rose and fell against yours.

“no one can know about this”, he murmured, his voice gravel and restraint.

You looked up at him through heavy lashes, breathless but still steady. “I figured”.

“I mean it”, he said more firmly, like he needed to say it before he lost all grip on logic. “Not the kids. Not Jared. Not a soul. This doesn’t leave this room”.

You smirked, tugging gently at the back of his hair, leaning in just close enough that your lips almost brushed his again. “Relax, I’m not planning to live-stream it”.

Jensen exhaled a half-laugh, half-groan.

You tilted your head, grin teasing, voice a little breathy but still playful. “Besides… I’ve already been working here six weeks. I know most of your dirty little secrets already”.

That made his eyes narrow, curious and amused, suspicious in that half-scolding dad way he did with the kids, but a whole lot darker when it was directed at you.

“Like?”, he challenged.

You let your nails drag lightly down his chest, just to feel the way he tensed under your touch. “Well”, you drawled, like you were ticking off items on a mental list, “I know you only ever jerk off in the shower. And only at night. After the kids are asleep. Like clockwork”.

His mouth dropped open just slightly, stunned into silence.

You leaned in, voice near his ear now, wicked and warm. “You’re quiet, but not that quiet. The pipes in this house are ancient. And sometimes I’m doing laundry late”.

He stared at you, deadpan for a beat. Then shook his head slowly, grinning in disbelief. “You are such a little brat”.

You gave him your most innocent look. “You hired me”.

“I must’ve been out of my goddamn mind”.

You kissed the corner of his mouth. “You’re definitely out of your clothes”.

He groaned, then pulled you in harder, his hands gripping your thighs as he pressed you back against the counter. “Say it again”, he growled, low and amused and barely holding back.

“What?”, you teased, breath catching.

“That you don’t want anything serious”.

You bit your lip, eyes dancing. “Just something to blow off steam… remember?”.

Jensen's mouth was still on yours when his hands slid under your thighs, lifting you off the counter in one smooth—but slightly breathless—motion. You instinctively wrapped your legs around his waist, arms looping around his neck as he steadied you against him.

You smiled against his lips, the kiss breaking just long enough to whisper, “You sure you’ve got me?”.

He let out a low grunt, adjusting his grip with a quiet, “Barely”.

You laughed, nuzzling against his jaw. “Wow. All that muscle and you're winded already?”.

“I just filmed fight scenes for twelve hours”, he muttered, huffing slightly as he started down the hallway with you clinging to him. “Cut me some slack”.

You bit your lip to keep from smiling too wide. “I don’t know… you were acting like such a big, strong guy back there in the kitchen”.

He gave you a pointed look, but didn’t stop. “You’re lucky I like mouthy”.

“I know you like mouthy”, you whispered near his ear, your breath hot against his skin. “You wouldn’t be hauling me to your bedroom right now if you didn’t”.

Jensen huffed a laugh—half aroused, half exasperated—as he kicked open his door with his foot and stumbled just slightly when the edge of the bed bumped his shin.

“You okay there, old man?”, you teased, one brow lifting as he finally dropped you onto the mattress with a soft thud.

“You’re enjoying this way too much”.

You stretched out beneath him, legs still bent around his hips, your shirt riding up dangerously high. “Maybe. Or maybe I’m just enjoying watching you work for it”.

He braced himself over you, staring down with a smirk tugging at one corner of his mouth, his hair slightly tousled and his chest rising and falling faster than before.

“You keep running that mouth”, he said, voice low and thick with warning, “and I’m not gonna be so nice”.

You tilted your head, smirking back. “Good”.

And that was all it took.

He leaned down again, and this time the kiss was rougher, more urgent. The heat between you burning past the banter, curling into something heady and consuming as you finally gave into everything you’d both been holding back.

Jensen was shirtless above you, skin warm and solid, every muscle under your palms tensing with anticipation. You were still fully clothed, your shirt rumpled from where he’d gripped your waist.

Then his hand slipped lower. Beneath the waistband of your panties.

And when his fingers found just how soaked you already were, he pulled back from the kiss with a low, guttural groan, rough and broken, like the sound had been ripped from his throat.

“Fuck”, he muttered against your neck, his breath hot, his voice wrecked. “You’re—fuck, you’re soaked”.

You couldn’t even find words, you just arched into him slightly, pulse thundering in your ears, your fingers curling in the back of his hair as his thumb teased a little more pressure.

Just then, somewhere down the hallway a door had shut. Hard. Both of you froze

Your entire body went rigid beneath him as your eyes snapped open. Jensen’s face hovered above yours, blinking like his brain was sprinting to catch up with reality.

Then he sat up fast, his hand disappearing from your waistband like he’d been burned.

“Shit”, he breathed. “Shit. That was a bedroom door”.

“Kid?”, you whispered, sitting up, your heart racing now for a whole new reason.

He was already standing, grabbing his t-shirt off the floor and yanking it over his head while padding to the bedroom door. He pressed his ear to it for a second, then opened it slowly, peeking out into the dark hallway.

Nothing.

He turned back to you, his voice low and urgent. “Stay here”.

You nodded, your hands tugging your panties back into place as the moment dissolved into adrenaline. You could still feel the ghost of his touch—warm and slow and so close—and now it clashed violently with the sudden fear of a kid standing in a hallway… or worse, hearing something they shouldn’t have.

You listened from the bed, heart still racing, as Jensen’s footsteps padded down the hallway. The house had gone quiet, but not for long. You heard the creak of a door, followed by a soft murmur, Jensen’s voice, low and tired.

Then, faint and groggy: “Dad?”.

You sat up straighter, instinctively still, every nerve in your body on edge, not from fear now, but anticipation. The heat of what had nearly happened still pulsed in your skin, but reality was pulling everything else into sharp focus.

“It’s okay, Zepp”, Jensen said softly. “Did you have a nightmare?”.

There was a rustle, a sleepy sniffle. “Yeah. It was about the spiders again. They were on the ceiling and one fell on Arrow and she turned into one and started hissing at me”.

You smiled despite yourself, rubbing your hand over your face.

Then came Zeppelin’s quiet plea: “Can I sleep in your bed tonight?”.

A pause.

You could feel the hesitation in Jensen’s silence, even from the hallway. Then a low sigh, weary but gentle.

“Yeah, bud. Come on”.

You climbed off the bed, heart still thudding in your chest, and tugged your clothes back into place. You barely had time to smooth your hair before Jensen returned, carrying Zeppelin, arms and legs dangling awkwardly as he did his best not to drop the very solid, very eight-year-old boy in his arms.

It clearly wasn’t effortless.

“Damn buddy”, Jensen muttered under his breath as he nudged the door open with his foot. “You gotta stop growing”.

Zeppelin’s head rested on his dad’s shoulder, blinking blearily at you through one half-open eye before mumbling, “Hey”.

“Hey, bud”, you whispered, offering him a soft smile.

Jensen eased him onto the bed with a quiet groan, adjusting the blanket around him as Zeppelin immediately curled toward the pillow, grabbing it like it might float away without him.

You stayed quiet, stepping back to give them space, the earlier fire now buried under layers of real life.

Jensen lingered for a moment, watching his son’s breathing even out. Then he slowly turned back to you, his expression caught somewhere between frustration and fondness, the weight of the night pressing heavily between you.

“I know”, you said gently. “It’s fine. I should go anyway”.

He didn’t argue. Just nodded, slowly.

You gave him a faint, tired smile—one that said we’ll talk later without actually promising anything—and then you turned, stepping lightly toward the door.

Your feet were almost silent on the hardwood, but the room still felt thick with sound. With breath. With everything left unsaid.

Zeppelin had already drifted off, his soft snoring the only noise as you slipped out into the hallway, closing the door behind you with a gentle click.

The second it shut, your shoulders sagged.

Your body was still humming, still burning from the weight of his hands on your skin, the heat of his mouth on yours. But it had faded now, muted by guilt, by timing, by the steady presence of a scared little boy who needed comfort more than you needed release.

You walked down the hall, barefoot and half-dazed, the house quiet in that eerie, late-night way. The kind of quiet that comes after tension, not peace. You opened the door to your guest room and stepped inside, the cool air making you shiver now that everything had settled.

You dropped onto the bed, not even bothering with a change of clothes. The sheets still smelled like your shampoo and the lavender laundry detergent Arrow insisted on helping you pick out at the store. You stared at the ceiling for a while, the shadows from the window playing across the drywall like slow-moving ghosts.

You could still feel the way Jensen had looked at you. Still hear his groan when he touched you. Still feel the sharp stop in your chest the second that door slammed, and everything real rushed in to remind you, this wasn’t a fantasy. This was his life. And now, it was yours too. In some unspoken way.

———————————

A/N: Please let me know what you think.🥰 

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Part 2

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[nancymcl]

CATASTROPHIC BLUES

Pairing: Mark Meachum x F. Reader

Summary: Nine months isn’t as long as it sounds. When you run into your ex-fiancé at a bar, he finds out what you've become. You find out the truth.

AN: Okay, so this was only supposed to be a 1K drabble sequel to DOWNGRADE for my lovely friend, @waynes-multiverse, but of course it snowballed on me lol. (And there’s a little more to come!) This is set during early season 1, let’s say between 1x02 and 1x03.

Song Inspo: “Hits Different” by Taylor Swift (YT)

Word Count: 6.3K

Tags/Warnings: 18+ only. Angst, drunkenness, skeevy men, Mark doing his best with an angry, hungover reader (bit of grumpy x sunshine), talk of cheating, what really happened, and other truths revealed…

Nine months. It should’ve meant something.

You should be able to go out with your friends to the club. You should be able to feel confident in one of your favorite dresses and the tallest pair of heels you could almost walk in.

You should be able to let loose on the dance floor, letting the closest attractive guy grind on your ass.

He later offered to get you a drink, his hot breath in your ear. An uncomfortable chill ran down your spine. But you know what? Fuck it.

You went back with him to the bar, taking the chance to rest your achy feet. He tried to make small talk with you, despite you being stiff and awkward now that you couldn’t distract yourself with the vibes of the music running through your body. Now the thump thump thump of the bass was too much, too distracting for a normal conversation.

Blake was an oxymoron—he dressed like a wealthy hipster and talked like a frat bro. He had the skinny jeans and a silky patterned shirt, a thin gold chain around his neck, an obnoxious gold pinky ring, and a trendy cropped haircut. You regretted letting him buy you a drink, but then again, you never wasted good vodka.

You also started to get suspicious when one of your friends “casually” came up on his other side.

“Ask her about her job,” Sarah whispered. You just barely caught it.

“Oh, yeah. So, uh, what do you do?” Blake asked you. You were pretty sure he was more interested in your cleavage than your job.

“I’m an assistant to the Head District Attorney of California,” you said blandly.

The guy blinked. “…Oh. Cool.”

“And what do you do, Blake?”

“Well, my dad owns an advertisement company, so I do some stuff for him every now and then. But mostly I’m a competitive gamer. Like, uh, League of Legends, Counter Strike, Mortal Kombat. What about you? You a gamer?”

Blinking slow, then sighing, you leaned over and locked eyes with Sarah, one of your best friends and a well-known esthetician in L.A.

“Where’d you find the trust fund baby?” you asked. “He one of your clients? Let me guess. He likes his asshole bleached the same shade as his hair.”

Sarah bit her lip in embarrassment. Blake coughed and spluttered into his scotch. You didn’t stick around for the predictable denial and slid off the bar stool. You gave him $15 for your drink, downed the rest of it in one long gulp, and savored the rush of it tingling through your head on your way out of the club.

“Wait!” Sarah called after you. Your other two friends just rolled their eyes and stayed behind to keep drinking and dancing. They were used to your antics by now, just like you were used to theirs. They'd been trying to set you up on dates for a couple of months now. This one was the sneakiest by far.

Sarah, for her part, never let you walk out alone.

“Next time you try to set me up with someone, can you please just tell me,” you said tiredly, “instead of pretending you want to hang out with me?”

Sarah deflated. “Look, we’re just trying to help.”

“I know,” you said, holding yourself against the chill in the air. “I know, okay? I know you guys want me to move on, because I’m a fucking bummer. I know I’m…I’m not handling all this as well as I should be. And I know they still talk to Rachel.”

Tears stung in your eyes, but you sucked in a subtle breath. Sarah’s blue eyes were sad and glassy with guilt, even if it was just by association.

“Go back inside,” you said eventually. “I’ll just take an Uber home.”

But you didn’t.

Instead, you ended up at a bar down the street. You barely ever went clubbing anymore, but you hadn’t stepped foot into a real bar in nine months.

“Come on, sweetheart. You really want to do this here?”

“You’re one to fucking talk! But you know what? Far as I’m concerned, there’s nothing left to say. I just…I don’t know how you could do this to me.”

“Please,” he said. The green of his eyes were desperate. It was the first time you ever heard him beg. “Just let me explain.”

You wouldn’t let him touch you, let alone try to hold you. The thought alone made you sick.

“I saw you, Mark. I saw the goddamn pictures. And my sister told me all about how your last night of ‘freedom’ went. But you know what? You’re fucking free.”

You put the ring in the palm of his hand. He stared down at it, jaw clenched. Meanwhile, hot tears streamed down your face.

You walked away first—out of the seaside bar in beautiful Venice, California, with every piece of your heart bleeding out into the street.

Another vodka cranberry at the end of the bar turned into shots you couldn’t name or count. You rebuffed men who tried to talk to you. You ignored the voice in your head that sounded a lot like your dad.

Sweet girl, what the hell’re you doin’?

You stopped trying to answer that question a long time ago. Just like your friends had stopped trying to get you out of the house after work. No more wine tastings or Sunday brunches. No more weekends at the beach. The coarse grains of sun-bleached sand would only remind you of Santa Cruz—a sweltering summer, a perfect day, now fractured and wrong in your mind’s eye.

A fucking lie.

Another empty glass hitting the bar counter drowned out the salty crash of ocean waves, but you finally had to stop when your stomach churned with alcoholic slosh. Your brain reeled when you tried to blink. Your eyes felt dry, irritated, and glassy at the same time.

You got up from your seat and used the wall like an anchor on your way to the bathroom. You checked yourself in the mirror there. Your black dress, your hair, and your makeup were still intact, so you supposed you still looked good, if absent in the eyes. Again, you blinked too hard. Fuck.

On your way back out, new noise was filling the bar. A whole group of four or five people came in and grabbed seats at the bar, laughing, ordering drinks, giving each other shit. They sounded like cops. You knew, because you’d grown up around them your entire life.

“All right, Oliveras. What’re you drinking?”

You stopped short at the voice, deep and rich like aged whiskey. In fact, you needed the back of an empty chair to hold you steady.

“What, you're buying?” she shot back.

Amber. You recognized her profile and the litheness of her frame. You two were old friends, since you roomed together back in college. You hadn’t heard from her in months though. She had called to give her condolences when your almost-marriage fell apart.

And now, your ex-fiancé had an arm draped casually behind her chair. His smile was effortless, charming, the crows’ feet around his eyes crinkled with amusement.

“Well, within reason,” he replied, inclining his head. “I think I’m in the mood for some good fuckin’ whiskey—”

You stumbled in your stupid heels. You nearly took a whole table with you, but two chairs broke your fall. Almost all the cops in the group looked your way, their heads swiveling with a trained response to sudden sounds. Your name fell from Amber’s lips, a small, shocked breath.

Mark’s mouth fell open, his eyes widening when you looked up at him on reflex. You were forced to take him in, his green eyes, the new haircut, the well-trimmed beard, the jeans and dark blue jacket. He had no fucking business looking that good.

But you were like two shocked deers not expecting to meet in a forest—neither one willing to move or speak, or even blink…

Until you stumbled again. Your weight on the unstable chair began to give way.

“Shit.”

He and Amber both jolted to help you. Mark’s hand reached for you first, but you firmly ignored it and somehow straightened onto your shaky feet. You smoothed down the dress and fixed the little straps the best you could, even though one was hanging down your shoulder.

Your arm got tangled in the thin chain of your purse, but you slung that over your other shoulder with all the grace of a toddler. Then you affected a “polite” smile that just came off looking like a grimace.

“Uh, hey. Of all the gin joints in the world and stuff, right?” You made sure to enunciate, hoping your hand wave was casual and not insane. “I’ve gotta go.”

You pointed toward the door before you made it your mission to actually get there. Your heart pounded loud in your ears. The rush of cool and quieter air was a balm to your frayed mind, but it wasn’t enough.

The way he looked at her…

The turning of your stomach became a violent roil. You closed your eyes against the movie reel torturing you in your mind. You imagined how their night would go, drinking, laughing, touching, stumbling back into his house at 2:00 a.m. Maybe he’d end up actually loving her, someone more like him. More than he claimed to have loved you.

The liquid contents of your stomach rebelled, and you threw up right on the edge of the street. You clung to a utility pole as you coughed and cried involuntary tears. You heaved and gasped for breath when you couldn’t stop.

“Hey, you okay, sweetheart?”

Alarm trilled in the back of your mind. You had enough awareness to look behind you. Finally, you noticed the guy. He’d approached you in the bar earlier, but you’d turned down his advances. You couldn’t remember what you said to him. He clearly remembered you, though. 

You waved him off, not even able to speak as you tried to stay upright against the utility pole.

He didn’t take the hint. He drew closer, wrapping the pretense of a helping hand around your arm. He fingered the edge of your leather jacket.

“You need a ride? I’ll get you an Uber or something,” he said, with the facsimile of concern. “Where do you live?”

“Hey,” a voice cut in, deep and with authority.

You tilted your head, and Mark’s stern face came into view along with the rest of him. Him and those damn bowed legs.

“Take a walk, pal. I’ve got her,” Mark said. He flashed his LAPD badge for good measure.

That made it even easier to knock away the foreign hands off your body and angle himself in between. His arm came around your shoulders, supportive and safe.

Half of you was grateful, the other half resentful, but all you could do was glare at him. He shot you a quirking smile.

The other man backed off, trying to hide his annoyance. He continued down the street with his hands in his pockets. Mark itched to do more than just scare him off. A familiar protective anger had burned in his blood, raising his hackles, but he had to focus on you.

He led you back to the front of the bar. He went slow enough for you in those red stilettos (ridiculous, he thought, no matter how sexy they were).

“Late night, huh?” he said.

“What d'you think you’re doing?” you said. Your tone would be more snippy, if you had any energy left. Your inner world was reeling, unfocused and barely conscious. You had no choice but to lean on him as you gripped his jacket, the dark blue denim rough between your fingers.

“Well, I’m thinking I could call one of your friends, have ‘em take you home. You came out alone?” he asked. He was trying to be civil, retaining his sense of humor, but there was no masking the concern in his eyes. Not completely.

“No,” you admitted, “but ‘m alone now. Obviously.” You snorted.

Mark’s lips twitched upward. He heaved a small sigh. “All right. Well, who do you want me to call? Sarah? Yesenia? Lauren?” 

After a moment, you shook your head, even though that just made it swim. Fuck.

“I can’t…don’t want them to see me like this,” you said. The confession provoked a sniffle, a tremble of your lips. This time, you couldn’t stop the sting of tears from flooding over. You covered your face, as if that could stop your embarrassment, your overwhelming emotions from clogging in your throat in a painful lump.

“Okay, it’s okay,” Mark said. His tone pitched deep and gentle. It was an easy reflex for him to give into as he soothed a hand over your hair to try and calm you down.

You didn’t know it, but there was a gaping ache in his chest that had never really faded away. Seeing you again, let alone like this, made it sharp and splintering.

He led you to his car, and he took you home.

For a moment, you saw it so clearly.

Tracing his brows, the line of his nose, and the cut of his chin while he slept. What his hair felt like between your fingers, loose and soft, or gripped tight with need.

The sound of his voice reaching deep into your bones. The way his arms allowed you to reclaim safety whenever he came back to you…

Worrying for your dad on his twenty-five-year beat in Homicide had transitioned into worrying for Mark. He was always quick to reassure you though, to downplay with his ridiculous sense of humor and good sex. The best, actually.

But it was the in between moments you missed the most.

The distant sound of a lock turning in the door had you waking, slowly, a silent struggle in your bed. Your eyes cracked open.

Were you okay now? Was that him? Was he home? Had the past year just been a cruel invention of your mind to torture you?

…No. Your throat momentarily closed up as you realized. This really was just your shitty reality.

You groaned as you picked your head off the pillow, pushing your body up until you were sitting on the edge of your bed. Your bare legs hung off the side. You still wore your wrinkled black dress from last night, but your heels were strewn forgotten on the floor. You didn’t remember taking them off. You didn’t remember getting back to your apartment, let alone to your bed.

However, it all started coming back to you when the door shut again. Fresh coffee wafted in from the living room, along with something sweeter.

Your bedroom door creaked open, and there he was. Mark fucking Meachum.

He held a tray with two hot coffees and a greasy brown bag from your favorite bakery. Your gaze crept up to meet his, though yours was decidedly grumpy.

“Well, good morning, Sleeping Beauty,” he said with a smile. “It’s already almost noon, but I figured we can’t start the day without coffee.”

“Did you stay here all night?” you croaked in disbelief.

“Yeah, just, uh, took the couch out there,” he said, pointing in the direction of the living room. “Could use a couple of extra throw pillows though. Think I got another notch in my spine…”

At your persisting glare, his expression sobered.

“Just wanted to make sure you were okay, that’s all,” he said.

“Well, mission accomplished,” you snarked. “You can go now.”

Mark watched you try and fail to stand. You sunk back down to a seat on the edge of the bed, closing your eyes for a second while you attempted to stop your head from swimming.

He sighed and set down the coffee and pastries on your desk nearby.

“Have you been making this a habit?” he asked.

“Not that it’s any of your business, but last night was the first bar I’ve been to in exactly nine months and...fifteen days,” you replied. You swept your fingers over your cheeks, grimacing when you found remains of your mascara. You probably looked like a gremlin. This wasn’t exactly the way you wanted to look when you next saw your ex.

Except you’d never planned to see this man again.

“All right,” Mark said. He grabbed your purse off your desk, where he’d set it last night. He popped it open, your private goddamn property.

“Excuse me,” you protested angrily.

He retrieved a whole pack of cigarettes. “How about these?”

He tossed you the pack, and you barely caught it. Your irritation grew and grew, along with the sting of shame. The worst part was, he knew he didn’t have to say anything.

The unfiltered nicotine in your hand was the reason your father died. He’d been the Captain of Mark’s precinct for ten years—the exact number of years since your dad had quit smoking. It hadn’t mattered much in the end.

Still, you resented that raised brow of judgment on Mark’s face.

You leaned over and grabbed a lighter from your nightstand. You fished out a cigarette from the pack, and you took your time lighting it up. You were being an asshole, you realized, but you couldn’t stop yourself.

You made a show of holding the cancer stick between two fingers. You looked up at Mark, right in his eyes, and tried to channel Audrey Hepburn when you brought it to your lips for a long drag.

And you immediately coughed it up. Fuck.

Smoke polluted the air above your head while Mark nodded in vindication.

“Yeah. How’d that feel, Smokey?” he asked (all too high-and-mighty, in your opinion). He crossed the distance and took the cigarette from your hand while you kept coughing. He went into the bathroom to get rid of it.

Meanwhile, you held a hand to your chest and groaned. Damn him, he was right. Your stomach roiled at just the taste of that shit in your mouth, let alone first thing in the morning.

“Why don’t you get cleaned up?” he suggested, sweeping a hand toward your adjoining bathroom when he came back out. “A little coffee and sustenance will be waiting when you’re done.”

“Seriously, you can go. You don’t need to wait up for me,” you rasped, but the man still helped you to your feet with a supportive hand on your arm and your lower back.

“Yeah, and what if you lose your balance and crack your head on the bathroom tile? Nope, not on my watch.”

“Jesus Christ,” you muttered.

“He ain’t gonna help if you take his name in vain like that,” Mark couldn’t help but tease, fully expecting your glare. That was something your mom used to say.

You groaned, annoyed and still nauseous.

“Would you just shut up?”

“Nope, pretty sure I’m physically incapable.”

You snorted. “Clearly.”

He made sure you were steady on your feet before he left you in the bathroom. You avoided his gaze when he closed the door. His heart gave a painful pulse.

What the fuck am I doing? he thought.

Brushing your teeth and taking a hot shower had its innumerable benefits—making you feel alive and close to normal again, for example. But the one thing it didn’t do was get Mark out of your apartment.

You sat together on your couch while the TV played at a low volume. You saw the remnants of Mark’s night in your favorite throw blanket tossed over one of the armrests. The pillow he'd used for his head was caved in and smelling like his cologne, a rich, woody scent of sandalwood, spice, and musk.

You tried to ignore it while you finished eating a blueberry muffin. He polished off his third donut and washed it down with some more coffee.

“So,” you said. “Amber Oliveras.”

Mark blinked in confusion. “What?”

“Last night. You two were out together, seemed to be having a good time. Sorry I crashed your date,” you said, trying not to seem as bitter you sounded in your head.

Mark’s brows furrowed. “We’re, uh, not together. Not like that. We’re just working a case.”

“A case?” you said dubiously. “She’s DEA. You’re Homicide. What kind of case would you be working on together?”

He hesitated, brushing some pastry crumbs from his mouth. “Sorry, I can’t get into the specifics. You know the drill.”

Yes, you knew his cases were supposed to be confidential, but that hadn’t stopped him from telling you details before, especially because you were D.A. Valwell’s Executive Assistant. You had a higher clearance than the average civilian anyway.

But you let it go. It truly wasn’t your business, after all.

It was Mark’s turn to look your way. Morbid curiosity was eating him alive. Or maybe that was just the pull of being with you again, seeing your face, hearing your voice…even if you hated him.

He did think you were torturing him a bit too. You smelled nice, like floral soap and minty freshness. You were wearing an oversized shirt from your college days that was already threadbare from how many times you ran it through the wash. It slipped off one shoulder and barely went halfway down your thighs, brushing the edge of some little shorts. He had to stop his eyes from following the path of your bare legs.

“So, uh, how’ve you been?” he asked.

You paused. You even set down your muffin and chuckled, giving him a long look.

“How does it look like I’ve been?”

A grim silence fell between you two, thick and tense.

“All right," he said. "How long’ve you been smoking?”

You shook your head, lips pursing at his audacity. “You really don’t have any right to judge me. You know that, right?”

Mark rubbed a hand over his mouth and chin, an anxious, frustrated tick you knew well. “Look, what happened back then—”

You rose a hand to stop him. “Please, for the love of God. We don’t have to go through this shit again.”

You got up from the couch, intending to throw away the coffee cups and garbage if it meant gaining some space from this man.

But he followed you, stopped you with an imploring grip on your arm.

“It wasn’t what it looked like,” he said. He met your gaze, firm, earnest. “It didn’t go down the way she said.”

Your instinct was to jerk your arm out of his grasp, but he just held you in place, gently, but insistent. 

“Are you gonna let me explain this time? If you do, then just let me get it out. And afterward I’ll screw. I’ll walk the fuck outta here, and I promise you, you’ll never have to see me again.”

You stared up at him, close to seething, but there was something in his eyes that stilled you, gripped you more than his hands. A sliver of doubt began to creep in.

Your sister apparently hated you enough to fuck your fiancé. Had she been vindictive enough to lie about it?

You had realized, all too late, that you couldn’t put anything past her. Mark could be stubborn, but he wouldn’t dig his heels in on this without a reason.

So you relented, with a small nod.

Breathing a subtle exhale of relief, Mark guided you back down to the couch. You turned off the TV and sat facing him with your arms crossed. You gave him an expectant look.

Mark steeled himself. Where to fucking start?

A beat to think, and then he knew.

He had to give you everything.

Nine Months Ago...

One late night. One fifth of whiskey at the hotel bar turned into numbers Mark stopped counting—until the Captain reminded him. Your father reminded him beyond the grave, with words Mark never forgot.

You’ve got someone waiting for you. Don’t take that for granted.

He needed to find you.

Somehow, he made it to the elevator by himself. Third floor. Room 304, 305, 306. Fuck. Was it 309?

The door opened, and his addled fucking brain thought it was you at first. She almost had your eyes, if just half the sincerity of your smile.

Rachel welcomed him in and shut the door. He stumbled at the threshold, and she stopped him from falling completely onto the floral-patterned carpet.

“Oh my God, Mark. You okay?”

No. And he knew he wasn’t ever gonna be okay.

But her hands were warm, carving sensuous paths under his leather jacket without him realizing.

“Don’t worry. I’ve got you,” she said, guiding him further into her hotel room. With slurring words, Mark asked her to go find you. He needed to talk to you.

“Shit, think I left my phone downstairs too. Needa get it,” he muttered.

“You’re a mess. I think you need to lay down first,” she said, huffing as she supported his weight over to her bed. She helped him lay down. A subtle smile tugged at her lips as she began to open up his jacket. He resisted at first, giving her a look of confusion.

“You should get comfortable. I doubt we’re gonna be able to move you from here.” She giggled.

He guessed he could see the sense in that. He let her help him shrug the black leather jacket off. You helped him pick it out a couple of weeks ago while you were planning for this trip.

Rachel tossed his jacket to the foot of the bed, and she sat close to him on the edge of it. Her bare thigh brushed against his arm as the skirt of her dress rode up. It looked like she’d been about to take a shower after a night out with you and your friends. He instinctively moved his arm, crossing it with the other over his chest.

“You know, I never got a chance to thank you,” she said.

Mark’s brows furrowed. It was taking all of his concentration just to keep her face in focus.

“For what?”

“You were really there for me when Dad passed. You were like our rock, coming by with food, checking in on me when you visited. It really meant a lot to me,” she said. Her words said one thing, but her eyes were beginning to lead him somewhere.

“Your dad was a good man,” he said tiredly. “You guys went through a lot. You, your mom, your sister. It uh, hit her pretty hard.”

Rachel’s lips pressed together. “Yeah… She was his favorite, you know.”

Mark blinked. “What, he said that?”

“He didn’t have to,” she said, glancing away. She began to drum her fingers against his arm. He noticed it, but he was also trying to concentrate on what she was saying. “He always talked to her more, trusted her more, even when he was harping on her. She got that government job, probably thanks to him. But he was proud of her.”

“’M sure he was proud of you too,” Mark said.

“No, I don’t think so. I just don’t know why,” she said, sniffling as tears welled up in her eyes.

Mark frowned in sympathy. “Aw, hey.”

He didn’t know how to make her feel better, but he didn’t like to see her cry either. He sat up the best he could in the bed. She met him halfway, burying her face in his chest and sliding her arms around his middle for a hug. He gave her that comfort, patting her on the back.

Only, she didn’t stop there. She shimmied a bit higher and buried her face in his neck, where she pressed a little kiss. An alarm bell rang in Mark’s mind, but his body was too slow to respond. She turned her head and laid another kiss on his cheek, and then his lips.

He finally jerked back, holding her at arm’s length.

“Hey. What the hell’re you doing?” he demanded. His tone was sharp without a filter.

Rachel’s tearful eyes met his as she bit her lip. Her hand tentatively drew down his chest, warm over his shirt.

“I just…I finally had to tell you how much you mean to me,” she said. “And I think she takes you for granted.”

His brows furrowing, Mark grabbed her wrist.

“Rach, I love you. I really do, but you’re like a lil' sister to me. I love your sister. I wanna marry her.”

The thought alone struck a sharp jolt of pain through his skull, and through his chest. He did want a life with you. But is that fucking fair?

Could he really shackle you to a dying man?

Sure, he didn’t know how long he had, but that could be a cruel waiting game, one you'd just gone through with your father for three months. Mark didn’t want to put you through that all over again.

“Look, just...go tell her 'm here. Please,” he said. The fight was draining out of him. His energy was waning, his eyes blinking slow.

Rachel nodded, wiping at her tears. She left him in a huff, but she went to lock herself up in the bathroom first. The sink faucet turned on.

Mark sighed. Fine, let her clean up and pull herself together, but she’d better go get you. He doubted he could make it, even if he crawled. But if he had to, he would…

Slowly, the ticking seconds turned longer. His eyes grew heavier, until he was unable to pry them open again. He fell asleep.

He woke to a streaming sun in his eyes, and a pounding ache between them.

Shit. He groaned, covering his eyes. Maybe getting drunk wasn’t good for an already fucked head after all.

“Hmm, good morning, sleepyhead.”

Mark frowned. He looked over and found Rachel leaning on his arm. She was lying naked under the thinnest sheet. He knew, not only because of her bare shoulders, but her nipples poking through the fabric.

“Jesus Christ,” he grunted, immediately turning over to climb out of the bed. He was very fucking relieved to see he still had his jeans and underwear on, but his shirt was missing. He found it strewn on the floor.

“You actually did that yourself,” Rachel remarked. “Think you got a bit hot last night.”

There was a playful note in her voice. Mark grit his teeth. He was fucking pissed.

“You’re over the fucking line, you hear me?” he snapped.

“What, are you really gonna tell her?” she taunted. “It’s not like we did anything. I just prefer to sleep naked.”

He snorted. Sure. And what happened to the part where she was supposed to go find you and tell you where he was? No, the girl saw an opportunity, and she took it.

Mark hesitated though, because she raised a good point. Goddamn it, what was he going to tell you?

His jaw clenched, and he angrily finished getting dressed. He got up and stormed out of the hotel room, but not before Rachel got of out bed and let the sheet fall away from her slender form. She walked in confidence and feminine sway over to the bathroom, smiling in amusement when he quickly turned away before he saw anything.

The door slammed shut.

Her smile slowly fell. Tears of embarrassment stung in her eyes. Not really because he was mad at her, but because he’d rejected her too.

She knew it was wrong. Yeah, she was pretty sure it was the worst thing she’d ever done. Part of her even hated herself for it. You were her older sister, after all. You, who always looked out for her when you two were kids—better than Mom did. You, who got the most attention from Dad, and the quiet reliance of Mom.

Yeah, Rachel did love you...but she also kind of hated you too.

After she got dressed, she went back to find her phone. She cycled through the pictures she took, every angle that made it seem like your fiancé had spent the night in her arms after the hot and steamy bits.

It was a joke. A cruel prank. But maybe after this, you wouldn’t open your mouth to criticize her ever again. Maybe you’d think twice next time, because in the back of your mind, you’d remember that she could’ve had your man.

Now...

Mark finished telling you the story from his perspective. He gave you as many details as he could remember: what she said and did, and what he said and did.

Understandably, you were getting more upset by the moment. That pendulum swung between shock, and anger, and upset again. It all culminated in hot tears as you crossed your arms, holding a hand over your mouth.

“How do I know that’s true?” you asked, wiping vainly at your cheeks.

The problem was, you wanted to believe him. Of course, you also wanted to believe your sister wasn’t quite as screwed up and hateful as you thought she was, but even this was insane. You'd only ever tried to look out for her. Maybe along the way you had been a little critical, a little too judgmental. But had you really deserved this?

Could you even let yourself hope it was all a lie?

Mark met your gaze head on. “Look me in the eyes and tell me I’m lying.”

You sighed in frustration. “Mark, you’re a professional fucking liar. I’m not a human polygraph.”

“But you know me.”

“I thought I did,” you said, rubbing at your eyes with shaking hands. Eventually, you were able to look at him again. “If what you said is true, why the hell didn’t you just tell me that?”

“You wouldn’t let me! You made up your mind before I could get a word in edgewise.”

“I was angry!"

God, what an understatement. You'd been so furious and hurt, you'd seriously debated taking one of your dad's old golf clubs and knocking out every window, headlight, and tail light in Mark's precious car.

"So you're saying you didn’t even fight for me. You just let me think the worst of you all this time? For what?!” You sunk your hands into your hair and pulled hard on the strands. You shook your head. “And you know what, why did you get so drunk in the first place? Your friends told me you went back to the hotel early, by yourself. It had to be for a reason.”

Mark nodded slowly.

That was when he knew, he really did have to give you everything.

“You, uh…remember those headaches I’d been getting?” he said. “Started about a month after your dad passed.”

Your brows wrinkled with a hint of confusion, but you nodded as the memory resurfaced.

“Yeah, you were going through entire bottles of Advil. But what does that—”

“I went to the doctor.” Mark rubbed a clammy palm over his jeans. He could stare down murderers, drug lords, and terrorists with steel in his veins, but coming clean with you was going to be one of the hardest things he’d ever done. He knew it in his bones, just like he knew why he needed to do it.

“Turns out… I’m sick, baby.”

Your expression changed, almost instantly. Traces of anger and doubt fell away, but so did some of the color in your face.

Mark took the chance to get a little closer on the couch. He laid a hand over yours on your thigh, but your whole body was locked up, sitting very still.

“W-What do you mean?” you asked.

“I mean,” he sighed, “I’ve got a mass in my brain the size of Nevada. I don't know how much time I got exactly, but..."

Your eyes widened. Your hands clenched into the fabric of your shirt, until your nails bit into your palms. As you processed those words and began to understand the weight of them, it sunk inky claws into your mind, into every shady corner.

You shook your head in denial, lips trembling. Mark just held your gaze, a silent confirmation that he said nothing but the truth.

"I found out a few days before the trip to Venice. I was trying to figure out how to tell you, but obviously I didn’t handle that part very well," he said.

Anger, stubbornness, suspicion, pretending you didn't care what he had to say—all of that faded. It drained out of your muscles, out of your pores. You began to fall apart.

You turned your hand under his and squeezed, hard. It was a while before you could speak, but Mark was patient. He held your hand and stroked his thumb back and forth across your skin while you tried and failed to hold onto your tears. Then your soul-wracking sobs.

Finally, he couldn’t help himself. He brought you closer, soothing a hand over your hair and pressing a kiss to your temple. You rested your forehead against his shoulder.

“I’m so sorry,” you said, a coarse whisper. “God, Mark. Why the fuck would you let me think you cheated on me, with my sister?”

He gave a wry huff. “I guess I thought I was being noble. I thought I’d rather have you hate me, than try to stay with me. Watch me break down, bit by bit, for God knows how fucking long. Now I know I’m just selfish. I don’t want you to see me like that… Hell, I don’t wanna see me like that.”

You pulled back on him. Devastation filled your bleary eyes, but you caressed his cheek with a shaking hand.

“Have you gotten treatment?” you asked.

“Doc says it’s not worth it.”

The divot between your brows deepened. “What about a second opinion?”

He hesitated.

“Have you seen another oncologist?” you pressed.

“No. Guess I didn’t see the point. I saw the scans myself. I don’t know how you’d confuse a big fucking tumor for anything else.”

“Mark.” You shook your head and wordlessly guided him closer. You framed his face with both hands, while his own found purchase on the soft curve of your waist.

It was nice to feel your touch again…but at what cost? All that stubborn fire in your eyes, all that pain, it was everything he’d been trying to avoid. 

Still, you were gentle, sliding your fingers up into his hair. He closed his eyes, taking a deep breath.

After all this time, you were still his peaceful spot. If you only knew the amount of death he’d seen in just the past couple of weeks on Blythe’s taskforce, the chaos, the stress of near-misses, being on the sweet razor edge of getting killed, saving his own body the trouble. That thrill took its toll.

Before that, those nine months undercover had been a divorce from his reality, pretending that he hadn’t left you broken along with whatever heart there was left in him.

He never imagined that he’d be here with you again. He never thought you’d forgive him, let alone touch him like you still loved him.

When he opened his eyes, you were still there. Tears clung wet to your lashes. You led him closer, where you tenderly rested your forehead against his.

He let you do it too. You were the only one he’d soften up for like this.

He smiled. “Hmmm. What now, sweetheart?”

You bit your lip, but you slowly pulled back and opened your eyes. You didn’t go far though.

You guided him into an even more familiar path to your lips. It was more bittersweet than he remembered, but worth it all the same.

He was home.

AN: So, you guys forgive me? 😘💙 I know it's not the happiest ending ever, but it felt like a good place to pause for these two. Rachel was more complex than she seemed, and so was Mark's side of the story!

I have at least one more actual drabble in mind for these two, coming soon! 😂 Please let me know what you thought of this one 💜

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It seems like a lot of people on the Dean tag list like Mark! lol So if you prefer not to be on this list, just let me know. I'll take you off no problem (you won't hurt my feelings lol 💜).

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