rizlowwritessortof

[rizlowwritessortof]

Ooooohhh, this was so good!! I really hope Red, White and Douche is finally dead!

And I love that the reader - and her Grandma 😊 - finally drilled their way into Ben's heart.

Hopefully Deep gets what's coming to him, too! Anxious for the next part, Alex!! Glad I finally got caught up!

UNRAVEL ME - Part 6

Pairing: Soldier Boy (Ben) x Afro-Latina!Reader

Summary: In the wake of Vought Tower finally falling, you find yourself crossing paths with Soldier Boy. Rogue, weakened, dangerous, and hunted, he needs a place to hide. You’re not about to offer up your own home to shelter a supe wanted by Homelander and the CIA…but he’s also not going to let you refuse.

AN: Smut, followed quickly by angst lol. Here we go!~

Song Inspo: “Tu Figura” by Diez 47, Kapo & Manchego

Word Count: 5K

Tags/Warnings: 18+ only. Smut, angst, blood and violence. Plus, a Fools Rush In moment (blink and you’ll miss it), Butcher & Co. are back, and so is the star-spangled prick.

💜 Series Masterlist

❤️ YouTube Playlist || Spotify Playlist

Part 5: La Vida Es...

(Life Is...)

In the morning, you wake to a firm chest beneath your cheek. The fuzz of his chest hair makes your nose wrinkle.

You move over a little, so you can bury your face into his neck instead. You stretch yourself out long, before sinking boneless against him. He chuckles deeply, sinking his fingers in your wild hair that tickles his cheek and his neck.

“Well, good morning,” he says, his voice rasping with sleep and heady in its meaning. 

You hum in contentment. You begin to press small, lazy kisses under his jaw, down his neck. He cups your cheek with his large hand and guides you back, so he can see your face and greet you properly. 

But before his lips meet yours—

You blink awake. Slivers of light infiltrating through the window blinds all but pierce your eyes, and you turn your head away with a groan. You’re back in your bedroom, albeit very naked.

You dimly remember Ben carrying you to your bed afterward…  

The memories of last night come in flashes of movement and feeling.

You remember the heat of it, his hands and lips and tongue all over your body, mapping over every soft curve, and most memorably between your legs. He pulled two releases from you before he even turned you over, pulling your hips up to meet his hard and aching cock. 

He had to cover your mouth with his hand while he took you deep from behind, so hard and goddamn good that your trembling arms fucking gave up, unable to hold you up anymore. You sunk against the mattress, clawing at the sheets and pressing your face into the pillow, whining and whimpering as you unintentionally provided him with a deeper angle. 

He held out until you came once more, and with a ragged groan, he spilled his load deep inside you. You shivered at the feeling of it, writhing against him. He couldn’t help but collapse on top of you.

When you playfully complained that you couldn’t breathe, he chuckled, shifted over onto his back and took you with him, until you were lying on top of his fuzzy chest and panting to catch your breath. He brushed back your hair from your face (and out of his mouth). 

You eventually were able to move your body, using his shoulder as leverage to get up. Your arms shook, but you managed to shift up his chest. Your eyes met his, with something more than just lust and satisfaction twining in between.

You gave him a gentler kiss. Slow, but deep and thorough.

Now, you’re alone.

You throw on an old college shirt over a pair of leggings before you leave your bedroom, expecting to see Ben in the guest room opposite.

You don’t find him.

Again, the bed is made and all is as it should be. You quickly go to the kitchen, and you don’t find your grandmother. Maybe she’s still sleeping, but where the hell is this man? Did he take your car?

A quick peek out the living room window to confirm.

No, it’s still in the driveway. Did he call a taxi? Damn your ability to sleep like the dead.

He left without saying goodbye. Or maybe last night was goodbye.

“If you stay, you stay, and we can figure out how to get your life back. Both of our lives back.” You pause, just to heave a shaky sigh. “But it that’s not what you want, then you have to go. You leave in the morning, and you don’t come back, because I can’t take this shit anymore—”

Guess I have my answer, you think, even though your eyes begin to sting with unshed tears. One manages to pass your defenses, slipping down your cheek. You hastily wipe it away.

Heaving a sigh, you turn and come face-to-face with The Deep. His green and yellow suit covered in faux fish scales are familiar, as is that cocky grin of his.

Your shrill scream echoes on the walls of your grandmother’s house. 

The Deep smiles. 

“Hey,” he says, eyeing your legs on the way back up to your face. Your stomach dips with discomfort and alarm. You hastily step back—into a firm chest. You gasp and whirl around. 

“Black Noir?” you say in confusion. “You’re…you’re dead.” 

He tilts his head and does something that the real Noir would never do. 

“Noir 2.0, bitch. Get ready for the upgrade,” he says. 

He grabs you and smothers your cry.

Ben steps out of the taxi with just a duffle bag. Inside is a Ziplock full of Cuban pastries Sofia packed for him, after she caught him leaving.

The conversation was more annoying than he’d like to admit. 

He was just about to unlock the front door with his bag on his shoulder, when a tsk had him pausing. He looked over and found Sofia standing there in her purple flowery nightgown and matching slippers, staring at him with her arms crossed.

“Where are you going?” she asked. She approached him and slapped his arm. “You don’t say goodbye?”

The “slap” felt more like a feather-tap, but he still somehow felt…guilty. He covered that with an indulgent grin in her direction. 

“It’s been a good run, Sofia, but I gotta get going,” he said. “Trust me, it’s better for you if I go.”

“Easier, maybe,” she nodded. “Yes, easier. But ask your heart if it’s right.”

Ben paused, but after a beat, he turned away from her to grab the doorhandle.

“I don’t have time for this shit—”

Sofia slapped his hand this time. Ben frowned at her audacity, but she just raised a brow at him.

“You’ll need some food for the road, no?” she asked. “You have no money, and I don’t want you stealing.”

He rolled his eyes. “I’m kind of on the clock here, sweetheart.”

Again, she shot him a narrowed look. She grabbed his wrist and guided him over to the kitchen, where he reluctantly allowed her to guide him down for a seat at the island.

She busied herself with preparing a sandwich with deli meat and cheese. After eyeing him a moment, she made two sandwiches. She doubted the first one would fill even half his stomach, the way he ate.

“So you’re just gonna leave before my granddaughter wakes up, is that it?” she accused.

Ben avoided her gaze and didn’t answer. Sofia sighed and washed her hands after she finished preparing the food.

“Ah, Benjamín.” She leaned across the counter and patted his cheek fondly. “How long have you lived, and you still don’t know the answer.”

His frown deepened. “To what?”

“Qué es la vida?” she smiled. “What is life?”

Ben’s expression flattened. “Look, I really don’t have fucking time to wax philosophical with you—”

“Life is cruel,” she said, in a harder voice. “Yes, the cliché is true. There’s sickness and sin. Money, politics, and death. I think you know a lot about that.”

Ben’s gaze on her was stoic. But behind those walls, there was part of him that acknowledge her words, even though he didn’t want to.

“But, in the immortal words of Celia Cruz, ‘It’s more beautiful to live singing,’” Sofia said. Her face lightened with a smile. She pressed a hand over his heart, firmly, to remind him that it still beat. “When this is full, all the hate and hurt will pass. But when it’s empty, life will be longer than it already is for you, mijo. Harder too.”

Ben guided her away from him, though he was careful about it.

“I can’t stay,” he said. But after a brief hesitation, he kissed the back of her hand and took the food she packed up for him. “Thanks.”

He walked out of the house. With every step, again, he felt the weight of being someone’s disappointment.

Now, Ben begins to feel regret. He stands in the lobby of the Miami International Airport. He’s about to try and figure out a way past the security check and into the baggage hold. Before that, he means to cash a check he stole from Sofia’s purse.

He stares down at it, and he thinks of you. He wonders if you’ve woken up yet, your hair all wild as you blink awake like fucking Bambi.

The thought makes him smile. But then, he wonders if you’ve already noticed he’s gone. You’re probably angry at him, like you always are. So fucking hot and cold. One minute you’re tearing him a new asshole, and in the next, you’re practically begging him to fuck you.

She’s fucking crazy, he thinks, with a stubborn shake of his head.

But you like it.

He can almost hear your voice in his ear.

He can see your daring smirk in his mind’s eye. Your tempting mouth, your soulful eyes, your smooth skin, and the way your voice broke when you called his name last night, over and over…

The fact that he can’t just get it all out of his fucking head irritates him, and yet, it makes his dick twitch in his pants.

“Fuck,” he mutters. Make a fucking decision, you fucking pussy. He paces the floor of the lobby with the damn check in hand. He rakes a hand through his hair in aggravation, probably looking half-insane. “Fuck!”

A mother glares at him as she passes by with her toddler. The woman holds the little girl’s hand tighter as they get in line to get their suitcases checked. Ben can’t help but stare after them. The girl’s hair is curly and wild down her back, just like yours.

Gritting his teeth, Ben looks down at the check once more.

“Goddamn it.”

He tears it in half. Then, he storms outside to hail another cab.

He returns to Sofia’s white house with its mango tree in the front yard. He yanks out his duffel bag and gives the cabbie his last fifty dollars, hard-won from those old Cuban guys playing dominoes.

Ben walks up the cobblestone steps up to the front door, though he frowns. A subtle alarm trills inside him when he twists the knob and finds the door unlocked. He steps inside, and his stomach dips further. The house is empty, but a rug is half flipped over in the living room, and the stools at the kitchen island are flipped over, along with broken glass on the floor.

Ben calls your name. He calls out for Sofia too, but no one answers. No one’s here. 

He finally notices a smartphone sitting on the dining table. It doesn’t look like yours, but it starts to buzz and ring with a video call. Ben struggles to swipe the green button to get it to answer. The camera is too close to his face at first. He backs up at seeing Homelander’s stupid fucking face. 

“What the fuck do you want, you little cunt rag?” Ben snarks.

“Well, first of all, that’s super fucking rude,” Homelander snarks. “Especially considering what I’ve got here.”

Homelander instructs The Deep to back up with the phone camera, so Ben can see that you and Sofia are tied up together and blindfolded in the cargo bay of a truck. Gags are tied in your mouths. You both look terrified and confused, but huddled close to one another.

“I think these mean something to you?” Homelander says with a subtle smirk. “I thought we were gonna have to stop you at the airport, but you just came sniffing right back. Like a fucking dog.”

Ben doesn’t answer, but he fights hard to control his temper. He doesn’t want to give this cocksucker the satisfaction, even though his fingers flex around the phone and spread spindly cracks across the screen. 

“What the fuck you do want?” Ben says. His voice is deep with an underlying threat. Something in him threatens to soften when you recognize his voice though.

“Ben?” you say, though it’s muffled by the gag. The Deep warns you to shut up, prodding at your side sharply with his foot. You cry out in pain and indignation.

Ben seethes. 

“It’s time we meet again. I have a proposition for you,” Homelander says, seeming amused. “Hold onto this phone. Instructions are to follow shortly.”

“Stop playing games you fucking prick—” The call ends abruptly on Homelander’s end, infuriating Ben. His hand clenches in anger, and he nearly hurls the phone across the room.

A chime stops him. He looks down at the screen and finds an address and a timeframe in a text message. 

“That sounds like a ransom to me,” a familiar voice drawls. 

Ben looks up to see Billy Butcher on the other side of the room, along with Hughie and the Asian chick as backup. Butcher’s handler, Blondie, and the French whore have broken into the house to close Ben in from behind. He can’t be bothered to remember the rest of their names, but he knows their faces. He never forgets a fucking face.

The blonde girl’s hands glow along with her eyes, while M.M. holds a suspect gas mask. 

Ben chuckles darkly. What fucking else today, huh?

“You’ve got some fucking nerve,” he says, turning back to Butcher, “showing your face to me.”

“Couldn’t help but hear about your little problem,” Butcher says, with that smarmy grin of his that irritates Ben on sight. “Homelander got ahold of your getaway driver. Somehow you managed to dickmatize her along the way, huh?”

All right, fuck this, Ben thinks. He might not be suited up, but he doesn’t need a weapon to deal with these assholes.

Ben begins to advance with heavy, threatening steps, but Hughie holds out a placating hand. 

“Wait, wait! We can help, okay?” he says. “We can help you get them back. Same deal as before. You just need to help us take down Homelander.” 

“Otherwise it’s nap time, motherfucker,” M.M. says, holding up the gas mask more firmly. 

Ben glances back at him with impassive arrogance. He doesn’t show how the threat triggers anger and apprehension lacing taut down his spine. Not going back in the fucking box. He steels himself back up. If they fucking try it, he’ll blast them all to kingdom come. 

His lip curls in a sneer. “What makes you think I’d fucking trust any of you?”

“Because this time, we’ve got us an ace in the hole,” Butcher says. He looks over and beckons to someone just out of Ben’s sight in the hallway. 

When he steps into the room, out of the shadows, Ben just stares. Hard. 

“You gotta be fucking kidding me.”

Two hours later…

Ben strides into the warehouse, now wearing his supe suit. His gun and knife are both strapped to his belt, but he still feels somewhat incomplete without his shield. That thing had his back for decades, before the titanium broke in two up in that Tower.

He’s still able to hear the zoom of cars occasionally passing by on State Highway 9336. Dusk is dimming the sun behind the horizon, casting a warm glow through the windows. The swamp of the Everglades lies on either side of the main road and surrounds the warehouse, which is probably why this place is full of old boating gear. The endless chirp of cicadas blends with the stench of sweat and rust and humidity. 

There’s a large back wall that’s open like a garage, with a cargo truck backed into it. Homelander is there, flanked by The Deep and Black Noir. Ben raises a brow at Noir. 

“Irving,” Ben greets, his brow raised in wary confusion. “Heard you were dead.”

“He’s not the man you knew,” Homelander says. His lips twitch at a smile.

Ben rolls his eyes. He doesn’t give much of a shit about Black Noir anyway. Whoever they have wearing that suit, he’s probably even weaker than the old Noir. 

“All right, I’m here. Now what’s this proposition?” Ben says.

He can hear shifting in the back of that truck. A whimper. His eyes narrow in on it with a deepening frown, as something in his chest tightens. It has to be you back there. You and your grandmother.

This plan better fucking work.

One Hour Ago

Ben doesn’t like it. He doesn’t like the plan, let alone having to work with Butcher and his rag-tag group of assholes. But he can’t admit what he knows, deep down.

If he goes to face Homelander and his cocksucking groupies alone, he doesn’t know what’ll happen to you. Already, the thought of you in the hands of that petri dish prick boils his blood, and deep down, it stirs a foreign well of fear deep in his gut.  

He glances over at Butcher from the passenger seat, and then over his shoulder. The rest of the team is in the back of the van, with Frenchie and Ryan (Ben’s grandson?) locked in a game of Connect 4. Annie and Hughie are cheering Ryan on while Kimiko sits on the floor holding the game in place. Ben shakes his head at the scene. 

He doesn’t know how to feel about that damn Ryan, other than irritation.

“The kid might be strong, but is he really going to fight his own father?” Ben says to Butcher, in a lowered voice. He knows the kid will still hear him, but at least he pretends not to.

“Look, I’m tapped out on V24,” Butcher says. “We need every big gun we got, and the kid’s gonna shake him. In that Swiss cheese psychotic fucking brain o’ his, if nothing else.”

Ben snorts. Still, he finds it all hard to believe. “How’d you get him to turn on his own father?”

Butcher eyes him, but he ultimately keeps his attention on the traffic ahead.

“Just…told him the truth,” he replies.

“Whatever,” Ben shakes his head. “This is just a means to a fucking end, understand? If any of you get in my fucking way, I’m torching everybody. Any shady shit afterward? Say goodbye to your fucking nuts.”

That, he says loud enough for the entire car to hear him. Annie wears a bitch of a face, but Hughie shoots her an imploring look, like the whipped little pussy he is. The blonde eventually calms down, sharing a look with M.M. Even Ryan looks uncertain. Butcher gives him a reassuring look through the rearview mirror, before he turns to Ben.

“You don’t have to worry about that, guv. We’ve got it sorted this time,” he says. He also barely manages to stifle a wheezing cough.

Inside, Butcher knows he doesn’t have much longer. There’s no time for fuckups or hangups this time. This is truly the last try to end it all.

Now

Homelander notices Ben’s line of vision toward the truck, and his smile deepens. He gestures to The Deep, who steps back to the vehicle and grabs the door handle of the wide cargo bay. It shudders up to reveal you and Sofia, bound at the wrists and ankles with duct tape, gagged and blindfolded. 

Deep snatches the blindfold off of you so you can blink watery eyes at the change of light. Your gaze frantically takes in your surroundings until it catches on Ben. Fear gets momentarily replaced by a swell of relief. 

Ben sees it, and something reaches into his chest to squeeze like a vice. 

Deep grabs you up by your hair. You cry out around your gag and try to kick at his shin, but it’s no use. He just wrangles you against his chest in a hold that sparks Ben’s anger further. His teeth clench hard enough to creak in his ears.

Homelander notes his reaction with a sly smile. 

“The proposition is simple,” he begins, gathering his hands behind his back. He slowly paces the floor like it’s yet another stage. “You can come back with us with no fuss, get your life back. We’ll call it a miraculous rehabilitation of all the ‘crazy,’ and you and I will work together to create a stable, more united country.” 

Ben watches him with a stony gaze. Homelander shrugs his shoulders.

“Or, you can leave if you want. Fuck off back into obscurity. You’ll have to duck the CIA and the rest of the government hunting you down for the rest of your life, but I guess you’ll sorta be free.” Homelander halts his steps, meeting Ben’s gaze. “I’ll tell the press that I tried to stop you. Oh, how I tried. But you were too erratic, too unstable to control…”

He turns to point at you and Sofia, being held by The Deep and Black Noir at gunpoint. 

“Oh, and them?” Homelander says. “They’ll be the tragic victims in your escape.”

Ben’s jaw ticks. His anger grows and grows, but the more he seethes, the more satisfied Homelander becomes. 

“Ooh, you do look fucking angry,” Homelander teases. “Honestly, I’m kind of surprised that this is working as good as it is, but there’s no accounting for…taste.” 

His mouth quirks, eyeing you with disdain. You stare back at the supe in disgust. 

“Fuck you,” you toss at him through the gag. “Me cago en tu puta madre, grimy-ass motherfucker!”

Ben smirks, just a little. He has a feeling you’d be even more colorful with it if that gag wasn’t so damn tight. He doesn’t understand every word, but he doesn’t really need to.

Sofia utters your name in worry, though it’s muffled. The Deep kicks her roughly to the side. You thrash against him in outrage, trying to kick at his shins, but Deep grabs you by the face with a gloved hand. 

He smirks. “Ooh, got us a feisty little bitch.”

“Enough,” Ben’s voice booms throughout the room. 

You turn your tearful eyes on him. The hope and pleading shining in them strike a chord in his chest. But he forces himself to focus on Homelander, his lips curving with a smirk of his own. He thinks he understands this sniveling, thumb-sucking pussy even more now. 

“Is this the way you try to get what you want? All whiny and fucking desperate,” Ben says. “What, you can’t accomplish anything on your own? No, you need your old man to step in and validate your bullshit plans. Make you feel like you're worth something.” 

Homelander pauses the moment Ben began to speak. The more his words sunk in, the tighter Homelander’s face became, his lips twitching. His brow threatening to furrow.

Ben knows he’s hit a nerve. He actually chuckles. 

“I was right,” he says in satisfaction. “You’re just a broken fucking toy. And you always will be.”

Homelander angrily opens his mouth to retort, but his words get choked in his mouth. A blast of golden light breaks through a back window and hits him from the left. It actually makes him stumble, more from the surprise of it than anything. Annie and Kimiko ambush through the back door of the warehouse.

Kimiko goes after The Deep first, while Noir swings into action by fending off Butcher and M.M.’s guns. Homelander is shocked and angry at the intrusion, especially when Ben comes at him head-on. Ben knows he’s at a disadvantage though, especially because he no longer has his shield to help protect him from the other supe’s eyes burning red. 

A laser beam hits Ben right in the chest, pushing him several feet back. It tears through his suit, and even manages to hurt him, like a red-hot sunburn crackling across his skin. Ben throws up an arm to protect his face, for whatever good that’ll do him. His gaze unconsciously flits over to you. Deep still holds you by the arm as he fights off Annie, but your gaze meets Ben’s too in that moment. He reads your worry. For him. 

Homelander steps forward to start closing in. Ben grunts in pain against the onslaught of the burning laser against his arm and torso. His knee hits the ground hard, one hand bracing himself on the rough cement.

But another beam intervenes, hitting Homelander directly in the chest.

Fucking finally, Ben thinks. He watches Ryan run in ahead of him. The strength of his laser beams actually pushes Homelander back, his father pausing to stare back at him in shock. Ryan mostly ands firm, even after he pulls his powers back. His young face betrays his nerves, but also his determination.

“What…but…son, why?” Homelander utters. His expression falls into anger, after he glances from Butcher to Soldier Boy, and back at his son. “Has Butcher been talking to you? Filling your head with more fucking lies?”

“I just saw it with my own eyes,” Ryan says. He glances at you and Sofia in concern, then back at Homelander. “I saw you, Dad. You were going to hurt these people.”

Homelander rolls his eyes, chuckling a little. “Son, I was just—”

“And my mom,” Ryan says more firmly. Tears fill his eyes. “The whole reason she had me…was because you hurt her.”

Homelander’s jaw locks. In that moment, it was like watching cracks of the mask splinter in his eyes. He seems to come back to himself, grasping for words.

“S-Son, you know you can’t believe anything these mud people say—”

“No!” Ryan says. His eyes burn red and bright, and he lasers Homelander again. He grunts angrily, his own eyes taking on a glow. He meets Ryan’s attack with his own with a powerful beam. When Ryan begins to struggle, Butcher reaches out and grabs him back by his jacket, saving the kid from the backlash. 

Homelander stumbles back himself. He has seething menace in his eyes, but he turns back to The Deep, who ducks one of Annie’s blasts aimed right for his head.

“Deep!” he barks. “Fire up the contingency plan.”

Ben doesn’t like the fucking sound of that. He focuses himself, and tries to harness the power in his chest as he gets up from the ground. 

He becomes distracted when he hears Sofia’s disgruntled yelp. He sees her being helped out of the truck by Hughie and Frenchie while Kimiko continues to fight Noir. Hughie takes off her blindfold. But before Annie can get to you, Noir kicks her away. That’s when Kimiko jumps on his back and gets him into a headlock.

While Annie distracts him with star bolt after star bolt pelting his chest, Kimiko finally manages to snap his neck—until the bone breaks through the skin. Blood floods from his neck and splatters Kimiko’s face as she grits her teeth, but she holds onto the body until it hits the ground.

Annie holds out a hand to her and helps her up. Both women have to wipe the blood from their hands afterward. 

Meanwhile, The Deep climbs into the driver’s seat of the truck. He starts it up, then drives out of the open garage of the warehouse with you still inside. Your hands and feet are still bound, so you can barely support yourself as you get knocked around. You look up in panic.

“Ben!” you scream around your gag.

His head snaps over in your direction, his eyes widening a fraction. His brows furrow in anger.

He starts running for you, but Homelander cuts him off with a swift punch. Ben’s fury grows and grows, fueling the reactor bubbling in his chest cavity. It takes on that nuclear glow as he continues to fight the caped cunt.

“Aw shit,” M.M. says with widening eyes. “This place is about to fucking blow.”

“We need to get Deep anyway!” Annie calls back to him. She heads out of the warehouse along with Hughie, Kimiko, and Frenchie.

M.M. guides Sofia out with a protective arm around her shoulders, but she still looks back over her shoulder at Ben in worry.

Butcher grabs Ryan’s shoulder. “We’ve gotta get the fuck outta here!” 

Ryan begins to follow his lead, but he stops short, looking back at Ben. He’s keeping Homelander occupied for now, but there’s always a chance that he flies out of the blast range at the last minute. 

Even now, there’s a part of Ryan that doesn’t want to see his dad go down. He doesn’t want to see him die. But Ryan also knows that he’s the only one who can help. The only one who can end this…for his mom.  

Ben grabs Homelander by his cape and drags him to the ground, but Homelander kicks him off. Just as he’s about to break away and escape into the sky, Ryan flies over and punches him down to the ground, so hard that deep cracks form in the cement. 

Ryan levies punch after punch, until Homelander grabs the kid’s fist in an iron hold. Homelander stops, panting for breath. He laughs somewhat incredulously as he feels something wet at the corner of his mouth. His fingers came away bloody for the first time since he was a child. 

“Good try,” Homelander nods. He curls a wide backhand, ready to finally teach his son a real lesson.

He doesn’t know that he’s just given Ben a perfect shot.

Ryan kicks a solid heel at his father’s dick, making the man actually flinch with a muttered curse. Maybe it’s a cheap shot, but it lets the kid tear away from Homelander’s hold, just before the room becomes engulfed in a fiery explosion.

AN: 😬😬😬 We've finally made it to the grand finale in the next part!

Next Time:

You glance over at your esteemed “captor.” He sits at the ass-end of the airboat, in case he needs to start it up and steer. He’s been checking his phone every few minutes, frowning, like he’s waiting on someone’s call. Your worry has settled deep in your gut, but it’s mostly for Ben. Even out here, you and Deep saw the blast that likely ate up the entire warehouse, a huge plume of debris sweeping up into the air like a quintessential mushroom cloud.  

What the fuck happened with Homelander? Is Ben hurt? Starlight and her friends seemed to be helping him. Did they get out too? Is anyone looking for me?

Too many questions filter through your mind at a dizzying speed. 

If they are looking for me, maybe they need a little help. The idea grows in your mind as you stare at The Deep, and his playboy looking profile. You think of everything you’ve ever heard about the aquatic supe, especially about his recent divorce. A smile plays on your lips.  

“So,” you say, breaking the silence. “Question. Do you fuck with alligators too, or you strictly into calamari?”

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[rizlowwritessortof]

Whoa, close one in the club, I think - and nice save!

Verrrrry nice. 🥵🔥🔥🔥

On to the next chapter, can't wait to see what his decision is!

UNRAVEL ME - Part 5

Pairing: Soldier Boy (Ben) x Afro-Latina!Reader

Summary: In the wake of Vought Tower finally falling, you find yourself crossing paths with Soldier Boy. Rogue, weakened, dangerous, and hunted, he needs a place to hide. You’re not about to offer up your own home to shelter a supe wanted by Homelander and the CIA…but he’s also not going to let you refuse.

AN: A slightly shorter chapter, but an important one. 😉

Song Inspo: “Please Me” by Bruno Mars ft. Cardi B

Word Count: 5.8K

Tags/Warnings: 18+ only. Angst, PTSD/trauma, smut (v. fingering, oral – m. receiving), romantic fluff, the big ultimatum…

💜 Series Masterlist

❤️ YouTube Playlist || Spotify Playlist

Part 5: Amor Prohibido

(Forbidden Love)

You pull up to your grandmother’s house and open up the trunk of your old Camry to start grabbing the groceries. Ben doesn’t let you, however. He loads up both arms, shooting you a wink.

Is this his way of hitting you with some old-fashioned chivalry? Does he think it’ll get him closer to slipping you a little something after he takes you out tonight?

You raise a brow, but you unlock the door for him and follow your pack mule to the kitchen. You put away the groceries while Ben stalks off to grab a shower. You’ll do the same, you suppose. You don’t want to look grungy while he’s looking all coiffed and smelling all good and…

Fuck, you rake a hand into your hair. Okay, it’s just one night hanging out. A couple drinks, maybe a little dancing, and we’ll come home at a reasonable hour so this man can get his rest, because even if I have to drive him to the airport and shove his ass on that plane myself, he’s getting the fuck out of here.

Because the longer he stays, the more you find yourself conflicted. He’s cut as hell, sure. He’s got a jaw that could break some glass, as well as your spine. Big hands that could probably handle you every which way—but no. Fuck no.

The man was insufferable. Dangerous. He’d literally taken someone out in front of you, even if it was to save you (and himself from being caught).

Still, you pick out a dress to wear. You take an “everything shower,” exfoliating, shaving, cleansing, moisturizing, and even brushing your teeth. You style your hair and pick out your best bra for the little red dress, plus something lacy to match underneath.

You’re still doing your makeup with a painstaking hand when your grandma slips inside your room. She finds you in the bathroom, surrounded by bottles and products, combs and makeup brushes, eyeshadow and lipstick. She raises a brow.   

“Hmm, and what’re you doing in here?” she asks, with a knowing gleam in her eyes. “You’re going out? I’m making dinner, you know.”

“Yeah, I’m just gonna show Ben around town after dinner,” you reply, though you pause. “Or, I mean. I guess he wants to take me out. Whatever.”

Sofia spies your little smile. You can’t quite hide it while you smooth out your eyeliner. She gives you a softer look through the mirror. You hesitate again when you notice her.

“What?” you ask. 

“Ay, mija. If you love him, you should just tell him,” she says.

Your head quirks in confusion and a recoiling expression of fuck no. You open your mouth to set her straight, but then you remember a key tidbit: she’s supposed to think he’s your boyfriend.

And that look on her face says even more. Her smile evokes the wrinkles and laugh lines in her cheeks, a certain impish gleam. Your eyes narrow slightly as you begin to realize…

“You really think I wouldn’t recognize ese Soldier Boy when you brought him into my house?” she says in amusement. Her arm gestures wide, and in the direction of the guest room where Ben is also presumably getting ready for tonight.

The rest, she says in Spanish. “I’ve grown up watching his movies since I was a little girl. He was more clean-shaven back then, but the beard isn’t so bad, no?”

You splutter laughing, covering your face with both hands to hide your embarrassment. You really should’ve known better than to try pulling a fast one on your grandma, of all people. Despite pushing her late seventies, the old woman’s memory is still sharp as hell.

“And your boyfriend let the cat out of the bag himself this morning when he couldn’t remember your last name. After four months? Pfff,” Sofia says, waving a dismissive hand. Her face then shifts, becoming more stern. “What I don’t know is why you lied to me, eh?”

You lower your eyes contritely. “Sorry, Mamá.”

“Mhmm,” she says wryly. “Why don’t you tell me why he’s here, and I’ll fix your hair.”

You frown. “What’s wrong with my hair?”

She just shakes her head and guides you to sit on the closed toilet lid.

“Eh-eh. Sit down, I’ll fix,” she insists.

“I mean, I spent a lot of time…” you start to say, but at one sharply raised brow from your grandma, you pipe down. “Okay, well, I guess I just gotta start from the beginning.”

So you do. You tell her the whole story, from the moment you ran into Ben in that alley, him forcing himself into your car and into your apartment, how he threatened you, though he never actually hurt you. You glide over some of the more intense parts of your buddy comedy road trip, namely all the murder and dumping Webweaver’s body into a lake—type shit, but at least you and Ben (and your car) made it here in once piece.

“And now you’re going out with him tonight?” your grandma asks, with a knowing smile.

“Out of everything I just told you, that’s what you focus on?” you snip. She tugs at your hair, earning a yelp out of you. She shushes you for good measure while she continues styling you.

“It’s not like that between me and Ben,” you say, after a beat of hesitation. “He’s just…arrogant. He’s annoying. He’s old-fashioned, and he’s such a…a man.” When Sofia steps back, fluffing your hair one last time. You reach for your perfume and spray all the key spots: both sides of the neck, elbow creases, wrists, and a quick one down your cleavage. 

Sofia’s lips once again twitch at a smile.

“He’s also, uh, kind of funny. In his own way,” you admit, thinking of the time you two watched The Princess Bride together. His frustrated commentary at Buttercup had been fucking hilarious. “And you know, he likes it when I cook for him. Doesn’t think it’s too ethnic or too weird. He told me I shouldn’t give up on my art.”

You pause when catch your own reflection in the mirror, realizing that your face is warm just thinking about it. About him. 

“And what do you think that means?” Sofia asks. She meets your gaze in the mirror. 

You turn away though, blinking those dumb, naive thoughts away. 

“It doesn’t matter,” you say. “Even if he stayed, he’s not the kinda guy who settles for the little brown girl. His life is bigger than mine. More dangerous too.”

“Dangerous,” Sofia echoes, her eyes narrowing. “The way you’ve gotten in trouble with the law because of him?”

“Yeah, exactly,” you sigh. You take her hand with both of yours. “Mamá, I’m sorry. I’m sorry for bringing all this to you.”

“Ay, mija,” she says. My daughter. She brushes your hair back and kisses your forehead. In those two words, you know what she means.

Nosotros somos familia.

We’re family.

We protect each other. 

“The way I see it,” she says, “he’s our only hope of stopping Homelander. Or else, this country will end up just like Cuba. With a tyrant, a madman, destroying everything we’ve built for ourselves.”

You hold in a sigh as your heart sinks, measure by measure.

You don’t have it in you to tell her that Ben’s not that guy. He’s already checked the fuck out on being a real hero. He probably never was to begin with.

After dinner with your grandmother, Ben insists on driving when the two of you go out, even though you’re not really in the mood to have a good time anymore. Let alone with him.

You smile politely when he says, with actual sincerity, You look beautiful.

Though you do have to fight a blush at the way he looks at you, his green eyes roaming up and down your body from the shade of read on your lips, down to the tall, strappy heels on your feet, like he’s trying to commit each of your curves to memory without even touching you.

You can’t allow yourself to enjoy the way he hums along to the radio, or the way he fights Miami traffic like an old man, yelling obscenities through the closed window. You can’t see the point of allowing yourself relax or smile, or even let him touch you. Because eventually, he’ll have to leave. 

When he pulls up to the nightclub you told him about, you try not to let yourself react to his hand guiding you inside by the small of your back, or the way that hand moves around your waist to keep you close in the throng of warm bodies and pulsating music. 

He wears one of the black button-down shirts you bought him, along with some dark brown slacks. You gave him one of your grandfather's old flat caps to help hide his face from potential street and building cameras. He didn't seem too concerned about the exposure when you two left the house, but you know that he's on edge.

This scene probably isn’t what he’s used to. Even if it was, it's been literal decades since he's been in a club, so you know you have to do some leading too. You can feel him tense up every time someone else brushes against him. He’s frowning, thick brows knitted together as he looks around.

“What the fuck is this music?” he asks in your ear, so you can actually hear him.

You realize then that this might be a little much for him. If you can feel the bass of the rap music in your chest, you can only imagine what this is like for him.

You think of that night, when you had to wake Ben from what was likely a horrible nightmare. You chew your lip in concern, noting the way his eyes flicker across the room. You need to pull yourself out of your funk for now.

“Let’s get a couple drinks, then we can go dance!” you suggest, giving him an encouraging smile. Ben relaxes, just slightly. He allows you to guide him with your arm wrapping around his.

You two sit at the bar for a little while, thought admittedly it’s too loud to hear one another. And even after two glasses of scotch, he’s still reluctant to get up and dance with you.

The truth is, this whole place is grating on Ben. It’s too fucking loud, and he’s already regretting the way he let you talk him into coming here. He should’ve followed his instincts and taken you to a movie or something.

“Well, what do you want to do, sit here all night?” you ask. He doesn’t appreciate the testiness already creeping into your tone. The pulsing lights and deep thump, thump, thump of the bass is setting him on edge, catching in the edges of his vision.

The gleam of camera flashes, Crimson Countess’s fake fucking smile, a mask falling over his face, the gleam of sharp silver and whirring sounds, smoke rising from his own flesh.

“If that’s what the fuck I feel like doing, then that’s what the fuck I’ll do,” he snarks, without even really looking at you. He keeps his gaze firmly ahead on the rows of taps on the bar, as if that can stop him from gripping his glass tighter. He sets it down on the counter, so he doesn’t shatter it.

“Are you serious? That’s your idea of a good time?” you ask incredulously. You slide out of your seat and stare at him with your hands on your hips. “Why did you want to come out with me then if you’re not even going to hang out with me? Maybe I’ll just go dance with someone else.”

“Go right ahead and fuck off then, sweetheart,” he snapped. He tossed back a big mouthful of his third scotch.

You begin to bristle in anger, about to tell him where he could fuck off to while you were busy actually trying to have fun…until you catch that look in his eyes, glazed over and unresponsive.

Your brows furrow. “Ben?”

He slightly flinches at the clink and shatter of a glass when a man nearby stumbles on something sticky on the floor. Ben blinks hard, his jaw working.

Something’s wrong. You know it in your blood.

So you act. You call his name more insistently, earning his attention. You circle your arm around his and lead him off the stool. “Let’s go.”

“…Where?” he says, belatedly.

“Just follow me,” you say with a wink, adopting a more flirtatious smile. You don’t know how much of him is actually in this moment with you, but maybe that’ll get his attention. You shift your hold on his arm and take his hand instead.

You lead him away from the tight crowd on the dance floor and around the bar, and into a dark hall near the bathrooms. It’s still loud though, that baseline dropping as the DJ’s sirens go off in the club. 

Ben stumbles, his left hand shooting out to smack heavily against the wall. He dents the plaster. You quickly move in front of him and rest your hands against his chest.

“Ben, you with me?” you say in a measured tone. “Hey, you okay? You hearing me?”

His brows furrow in answer, but you can tell he’s not all there. His breathing is growing ragged. You feel his chest getting warm, and then hot. 

Oh, fuck, your blood runs cold. Is this the strange new explosive power that nearly crumbled Vought Tower? Is this club about to get wiped off the map, like that building in Midtown? Are you about to get blown sky high along with it?

No. Fuck that. 

You grab his face in your hands. “Ben, you focus on me, okay? Before you blow your cover. Before you hurt someone.”

He blinks at that, and even begins to push you away.

“Fuck off,” he grunts.

Run, is what he thinks. Instinct tells him to push you a way, literally. Before you get yourself fucking killed. Before he…

Again, you’re not having it.

You raise yourself up on your toes and give him a forceful kiss. 

He breathes sharply through his nose. It takes a moment for his brain to catch up with his lips. Piece by piece, he’s able to ground himself and realize where he is, the feeling of your hands cradling his face, your breasts pressing against his chest. 

Then he grabs a hold of your waist with an iron grip, dragging you to him and holding you flush against his body. He slowly begins to respond, sucking your lower lip into his mouth. The warmth in his chest cools to embers, but the heat between you two shifts. He sinks his fingers into your hair and squeezes the flesh of your hip, then your ass.

He presses you against him, and you moan at the firm planes of his body against yours. His semi-hard cock already strains against his slacks, trapped between you and pressing against your stomach.   

You two end up stumbling into the women’s bathroom, where he clears the room of a few 20-something girls retouching their makeup. 

“Get the fuck out,” he growls.

Gasping in fear, the girls pack up their little purses and scatter.

You laugh breathlessly, earning the edge of Ben’s smirk, before he hefts you up onto the bathroom counter by your hips. A yelp escapes you, but you recover quick, gripping his shirt and pulling him down to you for a rough kiss. His tongue invades your mouth and plunders where he sees fit, all while those big hands smooth down the gentle slope of your back, along the curve of your waist, and finally squeezing your ass cheeks again. A low hum resonates in his throat at the feel of you, soft and pliant under his hands.  

You giggle in response. “An ass-man, huh?” you whisper against his lips.

Ben chuckles. He blazes open mouthed kisses along your jaw, takes your earlobe between his teeth. When he speaks, his voice is full of aroused grit in your ear. “Call me a connoisseur. You’ve got the most delectable fucking ass I’ve seen since before I went under.”

Before you can even shudder in reaction, he grabs your thighs and pulls you right to the edge of the counter. You pay him the favor of wrapping your legs around his hips and grinding your core against the growing bulge in his slacks. He groans.

“Fucking soaked already, sweetheart? I’ll bet you are,” he grunts. “Let’s fucking see.”

He bunches the skirt of your dress up to the tops of your thighs and drags your panties down. The lace burns across your skin when the fabric tears. You gasp, provoking his grin. He pulls them off your thighs and tucks them into his back pocket. He considered ripping them right off you, but he wants to save them for later.

While one hand winds into your hair and grabs the back of your neck, the other slips between your legs and brushes long fingers through the slippery folds of your pussy. You whimper at the first brushing contact, grabbing his shoulders tight. Your nails bite into flesh through the fabric when he finds your weeping channel, a smirk already spreading across his face.

“Oh, yeah. Fucking soaked,” he murmurs. Two deft finger pads carry some of that wetness up to stroke your clit, and you utter his name with abandon. Your thighs clench, and he tightens his hold on your hair while he works you over with his fingers. First just circling your clit, then shifting to his thumb, increasing the pressure. His ring and forefinger slip deeply into your pussy and curl inside your walls; the sensation raises you half off the counter as you whimper in his ear.

“Ben,” you say, broken and needy. Your hips buck against his hand desperately. 

“That’s it, baby. I gotcha,” he says. His voice is both rough and smooth in your ear. And when you finally come, your inner walls fluttering tight around his fingers, he swallows your cries with a ravaging kiss. He strokes you through your shuddering orgasm. His thumb continues to firmly circle your clit, until you whine into his mouth and squeeze his hand again.

“Oh fuck…” Your thighs tremble hard as a second wave of sensation emanates deeply from your core. Your fingers are scraping through his hair, then holding onto his strong arms tight as you heave for breath.

He finally withdraws his hand and strokes your back as you come down. His smirk presses against your temple.

“That’s a two for one, sweetheart. You’re fucking welcome,” he says.

You roll your eyes at his self-satisfied tone, but a blush still warms your face. He certainly knows what the hell he’s doing.

You thank him with a thorough kiss; it’s slow, but no less heady when you sensuously lick into his mouth. For a moment, he loses himself in you with a groan of pleasure. He squeezes your waist on reflex.  

Your hand slips over the buttons and wrinkled fabric of his shirt, a nice olive green that you picked out for him. You brush past his belt and stroke his thick, hard arousal through his slacks. Already it’s bigger than you thought. Jesus.

You pull away though, making Ben raise a brow at you.

An amused smile twitches at your lips. “I’m gonna return the favor, don’t you worry. But I’m not getting on my knees in this dirty fucking bathroom.”

You manage to slide off the counter on your legs now somewhat turned to jelly. Ben grabs your waist again when you nearly lose your balance. You smile in thanks, slipping your hand into his.

“Come on,” you whisper.

You lead him out of the bathroom, and out of the club entirely.

If there’s one thing Ben won’t miss about Miami, it’s the cocksucking motherfucking traffic.

It’s backed up for a mile cross the bridge leaving Miami Beach, and even heading to the island is a narrow two-lane bridge packed with cars.

It’s almost midnight, for Christ’s sake!

Once again, your music is playing in the car speakers, though this time at least it’s at a moderate volume.

You notice him tapping the wheel with two fingers. The same fingers that made you come twice in under ten minutes. You shifted in your seat, your thighs subtly rubbing together. Ben is too annoyed staring out at the traffic not moving in front of him to notice you eying him. You’d had an idea of where to go next in order to give you two some privacy, but you figure now is as good a time as any to make good on a promise.

You unclip your seatbelt and finally earn Ben’s attention with furrowed brows. He watches you bite your lip, the briefest hesitance before your smile peeks through. You turn up the radio, a little Bruno Mars giving some perfect mood music.

Then you’re leaning over to unbuckle his seatbelt as well. It’s in the way of his actual belt, which you work open with slow movements.

Ben’s smirk overtakes his face.

“What’cha doing, sweetheart?” he asks, despite knowing full well.

He spreads his muscles thighs a bit wider to make room for you while you unzip his slacks and slip your hand past the band of his boxer briefs. His eyes darken when you get a full hand of him and pull him free.

“Just thought this ride needed a little more entertainment,” you tease, swirling your thumb over the sensitive head of his cock. Already it was swollen and weeping for you. You lower down and licked up the salty beads, smiling when he swears. He shifts against the seat.

“Just don’t crash my fucking car,” you say, just before you take his cock into your mouth. It takes some work to get him all the way down. It’s not just the length, but the girth that you can barely wrap your whole hand around. You suck just the tip first, literally just getting a taste for him. You salivate around him, not just because the guttural sounds he’s making turn you on, but because it lets you slip your way down his cock easier.

Eventually he hits the back of your throat, making tears spring to your eyes. But you take your time and breathe through it, starting again at a faster pace. The tempo of the song works perfectly.

His grunts and heavier breathing, along with his hand falling into your hair and clenching tight let you know how well you’re doing. You begin to quicken your pace, sucking him hard and sloppy.

“Fuck—” he groans. His hips buck into your mouth on reflex and make you choke. You slip halfway off of him as you cough.

“Aw, shit,” he grunts. He forces his fingers to relax in your hair. “You’re good. You got it.”

You squeeze his thigh in retaliation, but you can’t help but choke out a laugh.

“Maybe try not to kill me with your cock, okay?” you reply.

He smirks. “There are worse ways to fucking go.”

“You would say that shit,” you roll your eyes. But you’re serious about what you’re doing, and you take him more firmly into your hands. You work him back up with slow, sensuous strokes before you grace him with your talented mouth again. By the time Ben’s able to drive away from Miami Beach, he’s narrowly avoided causing two fender benders and sending a bicyclist over the fucking bridge.

But you finally sit back in your seat, catching your breath and wiping the remnants of his spend from the corner of your lips. He eyes you, now more relaxed and amused while catching his breath. You wear a self-satisfied smile of your own.

“Ooh, park here! Hurry before someone takes it!” you point out a parking spot in excitement. Ben has circled the packed, narrow parking lot three times, but you’re here. You’ve led him to Bayside, the downtown area in the mainland.

There you take his hand and lead him to the outdoor music venue. A Latin band is playing tonight, and a trio of trumpets joins the melody of an enthusiastic pianist and the rhythmic beat of conga drums. 

It’s much more relaxed and not so overwhelmingly loud as the nightclub, even though there’s just as many people. Bayside is also just a big string of kiosks and outdoor vendors.

Ben buys you ice cream, raising a brow, but not commenting at your three giant scoops. You don’t play when it comes to ice cream, you tell him. 

Though he’s amused when you give yourself brain freeze, as well an ice cream mustache. He kisses it off the corner of your mouth with a quick swirl of his tongue. You blink up at him, laughing a little like you can’t believe he just did that.

Ben smirks and pulls you in by your waist, there in the middle of tourists and locals alike, shopping and eating and talking and laughing. Ben bows his head to claim your lips with his own. He tastes rum raisin and coconut on your tongue, and you taste rich Rocky Road on his. 

After a while, you break away slightly to rest your forehead against his. His heart gallops under your palm.

“What’re we doing?” you whisper.

“Making tonight count,” he says, slowly smirking. “As many times as we fucking can.”

The band on stage shifts into the next song—a more sensuous bachata.

Biting your lip, you toss your empty ice cream cup in the trash and return to Ben, grabbing his hand.

“Dance with me then,” you ask him. You implore him with your eyes.

He takes a breath, but he nods and allows you to guide him closer to the band. You stop on the edge of the bigger cluster of people dancing, keeping on the outskirts.

“Remember what Mamá taught you this morning?” you say, guiding his hand to your waist and the other in your hand. “There, just like that.”

You start slow, even slower than the music itself. It takes a bit of time for Ben to relax, but when he does, it’s because he’s finally remembering the steps he learned. He leads more often than you do, even if he does get distracted by that freeing look in your eyes, and the sway of your hips.

When the music slows, so does Ben. He holds you closer and moves in a simple two-step. Your gaze meets his for a moment. That silence between you is charged with things that won’t be said.

It’s near two in the morning when Ben pulls the car into the driveway of Sofia’s house. As much as you would like to continue this strange new world between you two, you feel like you’re adrift at sea, lost in the swell of his tide, and everything you didn’t want to feel rising to the surface.

“So, this has been fun, but…” You take a breath. “Ben, are you really leaving, or not? Be honest with me, what are we doing here? Are we just fucking around or…”

After after tonight, is that really all this is? What does he want from you? 

Ben hesitates, but he tucks a few stray curls behind your ear, even though most of them don’t obey him.

“Come with me,” he says eventually. “We can make it a vacation for two.”

You’re surprised by his offer. Your insides flutter, but the hard reality checks back in. 

“Ben—”

“Just think about it,” he says, looking away. His gaze casts to the throng of people, dancing, eating, laughing, living. The difference between him and them, is that Ben knows he’s on borrowed time. “You don’t have to decide right now.”

For a moment, you actually do consider it. You shake your head though.

“Ben, I can’t. My family’s here. My life is here,” you say.

His eyes begin to dim. Then, he frowns.

“What life?” he says. “You’ve got no fucking job, and you’re moving back in with your grandmother. You’ve got even less going for you here than I do.”

You gape at him. Your disbelief turns to anger, but you leave the car without a word—just a huff of exasperation.

Ben shuts off the car and follows after you just as steamed up, even as he watches the sway of your hips in that dress when you walk. You stop abruptly on the walkup to the door, and you spin around on those impressive heels.

“You know what? You’re right. I am a hot fucking mess,” you snap. The beginnings of tears well up in your eyes, halting him where he stands. “But you know what? The difference is I have a family to hold me down until I figure it out.”

You gesture at him widely with both hands. 

“But you…you don’t even know the meaning of the word. Family. Lover. Friend. You don’t have a fucking clue!”

Ben’s face tightens into a glare, but his reaction only spurs you on.

“Yeah, that’s right,” you spit. “You don’t have anything or anyone. If you did, maybe you wouldn’t have spent 40 years on ice, and maybe you wouldn’t have needed me to hide your ass like a fucking refugee.” 

He grabs your hand when you try to walk away from him, and he forces you to turn around. You find yourself staring up into his darkened eyes.

“I’ve warned you about that fucking mouth of yours,” he growls.

You scoff in his face. “I think we both know what you think of my mouth.” 

With that, you rip your hand out of his grip. He actually allows you to do it, which surprises both of you. 

You turn on your heel and walk into the house, leaving him to brood for a while. God knows he’s good at that.

You enter the house as quietly as you can. You realize just how loud you were being outside, but hopefully you didn’t wake up your grandma.

You find her passed out and snoring on the living room couch while the TV blares. Your smile of amusement lightens you from the stress in your crunched brows. You go to her and fix the throw blanket she’s half-covered herself with, making sure it covers her feet, up to her shoulders. She’s a plump lady who gives the best hugs, but she’s short. The blanket covers her just right when you settle it the right way.

You grab the remote and turn the TV down by half the volume. She must have taken her hearing aids out.

Hearing Ben’s clomping steps behind you though, you still turn to shush him over your shoulder. Ben rolls his eyes, but otherwise ignores you. The two of you part ways into your respective bedrooms. 

It’s not the way you thought this night would end, but maybe it’s for the best. You slip out of your heels and take off your hoop earrings while the entire night goes through your head again. The club, his near meltdown at the club, and the way you successfully distracted him…

So fucking annoying, you think, when you picture his stubborn, arrogant face.

But then, you remember his hands on your body, and his rich, sinful voice in your ear.

You think you paid him back pretty well though. It gets you hot again just thinking about the sounds he made, his hand clenching in your hair. He’d had to grip the headrest of your seat to make sure he wouldn’t hurt you, digging his strong fingers into the plush foam. You couldn’t help but relive how satisfied it made you to get those reactions out of him, but also, just how he’d unraveled you with a practiced hand. 

You don’t regret anything you said, but…maybe it’s okay to let yourself want him.

Just for tonight. 

You leave your room, closing it behind you. You pad across the hall on bare feet and knock lightly on his door. You know his hearing is sharp enough to have heard it.

A few short moments later, he opens the door and regards you with nonchalance. There’s a gleam of curiosity in his eyes, though. 

“Can I come in?” you ask.

His bows furrow. “What, here to chap my ass some more?”

To your surprise, however, he actually lets you in. You smile slightly at his wording, but you go to him. You’re not sure what he sees when he looks at you, but you don’t try to hide what you feel, or what you want when you look up at him. 

“Look, I don’t wanna fight anymore,” you say. Hesitantly, you reach out a hand and touch his chest, still warm through his shirt. Again, you’re reminded of what happened in the club, and all the scars he tries to hide.

“So what is it that you want?” Ben asks, but, his tone has a shade less sharpness in it.

“I want to make tonight count,” you say, looking up at him through your lashes. Your hands slide up his arms and squeeze tight on his biceps. “I want you to touch me, and make me come until I can't remember my fucking name.” 

You whisper the words against his chest, pressing a kiss there. 

“Let me feel you too, and I’ll help you let go for a while,” you promise. 

Ben’s hands slip around your waist. His eyes darken with a desire that never truly left. He bows his head to begin, but you hold a finger to his lips. 

“But then, I need you to make a decision,” you say. “If you stay, you stay, and we can figure out how to get your life back. Both of our lives back.” You pause, just to heave a shaky sigh. “But if that’s not what you want, then you have to go. You leave in the morning, and you don’t come back, because I can’t take this shit anymore—”

Ben kisses you hard, cutting off your words. He drags you tighter into his embrace and turns you around, guiding you onto his bed. Your head falls against the pillows with a huff.

His body comes in to cage you, but you welcome his weight as he wraps his arms around you. You kiss him back more fervently, and there’s an underlying desperation here. You just don’t know if it’s yours, or his. 

You help him yank his shirt off, ripping buttons as you go. You finally get to feel his warm, bare skin and kiss wherever your hands explore. His fingers tangle into your hair, in a way he seems to like doing. He yanks your face up to his for a ravaging kiss, all teeth and tongue and sloppy wet. 

“Ben, wait,” you pant for breath. You hold his face in your hands. “Just…please, don’t break me.”

Ben pauses, blinking down at you with kiss-swollen lips. 

He has a moment of gentleness, sweeping his thumb across your cheek. His lips curve into a grin. 

“Don’t you fucking worry, Chiquita. I’m about to take good care of you.”

AN: 😘 The best is yet to come (lol)...

Next Time:

In the morning, you wake to a firm chest beneath your cheek. The fuzz of his chest hair makes your nose wrinkle.

You move over a little, so you can bury your face into his neck instead. You stretch yourself out long, before sinking boneless against him. He chuckles deeply, sinking his fingers in your wild hair that tickles his cheek and his neck.

“Well, good morning,” he says, his voice rasping with sleep and heady in its meaning. 

You hum in contentment. You begin to press small, lazy kisses under his jaw, down his neck. He cups your cheek with his large hand and guides you back, so he can see your face and greet you properly. 

⋆˙⟡ Keep Reading: PART 6

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Soldier Boy Masterlist

Main Masterlist

Soldier Boy Tag List (Part 1):

@spnwoman @waynes-multiverse @luci-in-trenchcoats @rizlowwritessortof @lamentationsofalonelypotato

@midnightmadwoman @deans-spinster-witch @chriszgirl92 @lyarr24 @ladysparkles78

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@stoneyggirl2 @sl33pylilbunny @spnfamily-j2

[rizlowwritessortof]

He can be really smooth when he wants to. When they say 'lock up your grandmas' on The Boys promos, they're not kidding! 😂 I think he's having a lot of fun charming Sofia, and she's having a ball flirting with him - I kind of love her character! 😊🥰

And I think Ben is enjoying himself, because why else is he hanging around longer than planned? Not that he would admit that!

Finally catching up here, on to the next chapter!! 🥰

UNRAVEL ME - Part 4

Pairing: Soldier Boy (Ben) x Afro-Latina!Reader

Summary: In the wake of Vought Tower finally falling, you find yourself crossing paths with Soldier Boy. Rogue, weakened, dangerous, and hunted, he needs a place to hide. You’re not about to offer up your own home to shelter a supe wanted by Homelander and the CIA…but he’s also not going to let you refuse.

AN: Here we go! Another big step in their adventure...

Song Inspo: “Mi Muchachita” by Luis Segura (English lyrics)

Word Count: 8.8K

Tags/Warnings: Fake dating (lol), meet the family, some old-school machismo, Dominican food, bachata, “North Cuba” (Miami), angst, rom-com vibes

💜 Series Masterlist

❤️ YouTube Playlist || Spotify Playlist

Part 4: Food & Family

After driving through the loops of highway along I-95, Ben grows frustrated at the thirty or so signs of exits that lead to different parts of the city. One wrong turn, and it could send you miles away from where you were—even over the bridge to Miami Beach.

You consult the GPS on your iPad, since your new “burner” phone is just an old-style flip phone. 

You’re able to point him where to go to get to the airport. He finally takes the right exit, but he pulls off the highway split, off the main road, and heads into the alley of a side street.

“What are you doing?” you ask.

He doesn’t answer you, just pulls to a stop and shifts the car into park.

“It’s been fun, sweetheart, but I think it’s time we part ways here. I’ve got a couple errands to run before I get the fuck out of here,” he says.

You consider him shrewdly. “Errands? What the hell do you mean? How’re you gonna even get a plane ticket? You don’t have any money…”

And it dawns on you. You suck in a breath, then you glare at him.

“What’re you going to do, Ben?”

“That’s my fucking business, all right?”

“What’re you gonna do, knock over a bank? Kill a few people on your way out?”

“Don’t ask questions you don’t want the answer to, sweetheart,” he says. He looks at the darkening alley ahead rather than at you. He’s keeping an eye out for anyone that might spot you two in the car, until you lean over and lay a hand on his forearm.

“Ben,” you say. “Look, I’ll pay for your ticket.”

His brows crunch together. “I don’t want your fucking money, all right?”

You hesitate. Now that’s a first. But you still take your hand back to start digging into your purse for your wallet. He reaches out and stops you with a big, warm hand over yours. Firm.

“You hear what I fucking said?” he snaps.

You just sigh. “Ben, breaking into a bank—”

“Doesn’t have to be a fucking bank.”

“All right, a store! Either way, that might raise a few alarms, don’t you think?”

“I’ll figure it out,” Ben says. His gaze cuts away from you and toward the city behind you both.

Suddenly, it hits you. This is it. No more of this asshole being a human crater exploding into your life. 

But it’s also kind of hard to imagine him getting on that plane alone, fucking off to obscurity again. You bite your lip while considering him. It feels like a waste.

“What if…what if you stay and fight?” you say. “Fight off Homelander. Expose him for the piece of shit he is.”

Ben’s steely expression just hardens further. “I’m done talking about that frosted hole. Whatever formula they mixed him with in that fucking lab, it didn’t come out of my ball sack.” 

You roll your eyes. God, he’s so gross. “Ben. For God’s sake. Don’t deflect—”

“You do realize I have the FBI, the CIA, and the whole rest of the alphabet soup on my ass, right?” he says. Finally, he looks at you. “They don’t want me here. They didn’t even try to find me when the fucking Commies… So no. Fuck ‘em. I’ll make new somewhere else.”

It’s truly incredible, considering how damn angry you were at him yesterday. Angry and afraid.

Now, you begin to feel a twinge of…concern. Yes, he’s arrogant and vulgar, selfish, and more than a bit of a dick at times. He’s killed people, whether on accident or on purpose, even if it was partially for your sake. But after last night, getting just a glimpse of what he went through, you wonder if he really deserves to be run out of the country. 

I may regret this, but…

“Listen,” you begin. “It’s getting late. Do you want to have dinner with me and my family? You’ll get some good food, one more night States’ side.”

Ben looks just as surprised by your offer as you are to suggest it. His lips begin to quirk upward, albeit incredulously.

“You offering to be my tour guide?” he asks.

You give him a knowing look. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. It’s just dinner. Nothing else.”

You raise a finger, gesturing at him to hold on a second, and you grab your phone to call your mom first. She’s easier to talk to than your father, who would probably bombard you with questions about the trip and why it was taking you so long to get home.

“Hello?” your mom answers.

“Hey, it’s me,” you reply.

“Why are you calling from this weird number? Did something happen to your phone? Is that why you haven’t been answering our calls?”

“Yeah, sorry, I lost my phone and had to get a replacement,” you lie on the fly. You’ve had to get good at it over the past week. “I made it to Miami though. I’m almost home.”

“Oh, that’s great! Meet at Mamá’s house though. We’re making dinner right now,” she says.

You smile. Looks like Ben is going to get to meet your grandma too. “Really? Oh, okay. We’ll meet you there then.”

“We? Who’s we?”

“Oh, I’m uh…bringing a friend,” you say, though your face begins to heat in a blush at the way Ben smirks at you.

“A friend, huh?” your mom asks, in a suspicious tone.

“Yeah, okay see you soon!” You hang up the phone before she can ask you any more questions. Sometimes she can be as bad as your dad. You shift your attention to Ben.

“Okay, let’s switch seats. I think it’ll be easier if I drive,” you say.

He raises a skeptical brow at you. “Where are we going?”

You offer him a smile. “Oh, just wait. You’re in for a good time.”

Homelander’s angry strides are heavy and unmistakable. Vought employees veer out of his way and give him a wide berth, keeping their heads down all the while. His heated steps bring him to the Surveillance team, where The Deep has been at the helm for the past couple of months.

And what the fuck does he have to show for it? He’s sipping a soda while flirting with one of the glorified interns trying to sort through the classified files on her screen. Deep perks up when he notices Homelander barging into the room.

“Oh! Hey, sir—”

“Where the fuck is my son?” Homelander snaps.

Ever since the incident last week, Ryan has been ducking out of his room more than usual. Despite him choosing the right side, Homelander’s side, Ryan hasn’t been working with the production team on his superhero image.

Nothing useful has come in about Soldier Boy, and now Butcher has disappeared from their sight as well. Though that one doesn’t matter so much. Homelander will be happy to see that bastard die of the cancer already eating his brain. There’s probably nothing Homelander could do that would be more fucking hilarious than that.

“Uhh, not sure, sir. But we do have something new on the Soldier Boy front,” Deep says. He cues a finger at the girl, Ashley or Annika or whatever the fuck her name is.

She presses a play button on her computer screen, and Homelander bends at the waist to scrutinize the footage. It captures an alleyway between the main building of Vought Tower and the garage.

“This is the day of the, um, the incident,” she adds.

Soldier Boy exits the building, stumbling out really. He eventually crosses paths with a young woman. To Homelander, she almost seems familiar.

Soldier Boy grabs her arm, says something to her that makes her eyes widen with fear, then drags her toward him so he can cover her mouth with his hand. They wait there against the wall for almost thirty seconds. Then, he pulls her into the garage with him.

“Who the fuck is that?” Homelander asks.

Allie chimes in. “Ah, she was a Vought employee, sir. She recently quit without prior notice.”

“See, we had Webweaver on this, but the police just found his body in Lake Marion, South Carolina,” Deep says. 

A slow smile spreads across Homelander’s face. “Fucking finally.”

“Uhh, what?” Deep says.

It’s a lead, Homelander thinks. A trail. One step closer to hunting down dear old Dad. 

Emphasis on fucking old.

Your grandmother lives south, west, and more west, almost right on the edge of the Everglades—a 1.5-million-acre wetlands protected by the state. When tourists and natives alike end up on the news for getting their limbs bit off by alligators or left half-dead by a cottonmouth snake, it’s usually because they were stupid enough to hike through the mangroves and jump into the swampy waters alone.

You pull up in front of your grandma’s house and park in the paved driveway. It’s a modest three-bedroom, Spanish-style home that your dad grew up in with his two brothers, your Uncle Felix and Uncle Luis. They re-painted the outer walls the color of a soft sunset in golden orange, the roof tiles a darker terracotta. A rod iron gate around the property meets at the front with a small arch Ben will later have to duck his head under.

You can already smell freshly cut grass as the sprinklers run in the front yard, but for the moment, you stay in the car to figure out the game plan.

“So,” Ben says, “what role am I playing for tonight, sweetheart? Your work friend, or your boyfriend? Both have their pros and cons, and potential benefits.”

His grin is far too cocksure not to irritate you on sight. You’re already regretting this lapse in your sanity that led you to try being nice to this asshole.

You also realize that you haven’t exactly thought this through. What if they recognize him from the news? 

…Well, your parents don’t like social media and your grandmother barely even knows how to text, let alone what Instagram is. 

“Let’s just play it by ear,” you say, resisting a sigh. “But for now…God, fine, you’re my boyfriend.”

“Okay,” he gamely nods. “How long’ve we been dating?”

“Long enough for me to bring you to see my parents, so let’s say a few months,” you say. Then, you grab his wrist. “Please, try to tone down the cursing and general pussy talk around my family. They’re Catholic and…conservative.”

Again, his lips twitch upward in a way you don’t really like.

“Sure,” he says, “I can turn on the charm.”

He turns his wrist under your grasp to bring your hand up to his lips. 

“Don’t worry,” he says. “I can be very convincing.” 

A warm blush spreads across your cheeks, prickling down your neck.

Shit. You’re already regretting this. 

After slipping your hand from his grasp so you can look yourself over in the little car mirror, you get out of the car first. Ben follows your lead and walks up to the front door with you. 

You look over at him with a more critical eye, humming to yourself. You try to fix his wrinkled shirt, straighten his collar. Ben watches you do it with an amused gleam in his eyes. 

“My mom is the queen of snap judgments,” you explain. “One damn smudge or wrinkle and she’s gonna think you don’t bathe.”

You lean up and sort your fingers through his hair a little, sweeping the strands away from his brow. You have to ignore the way he’s watching you. 

When you turn and knock on the door, Ben settles a hand on the small of your back. You shoot him a raised brow. He winks at you. You don’t have time to comment or even push his hand away, because that’s when the door opens.

You greet your dad with a wide smile to cover up your nerves. Out of anyone that could’ve opened the door, why did it have to be him? He kisses your cheek when you lean in to hug him, but he eyes the man beside you with a note of appraisal. 

“Who’s this?” he asks. 

“Dad, this is Ben,” you say, choking out the second bit, “my boyfriend.” 

“Sir,” Ben greets. He offers the man a firm handshake. 

“Victor,” your dad replies, though he shoots you a look. “You didn’t tell us you had a boyfriend.”

“Is that her?” your mom says. She comes out to greet you and Ben, taking in his tall, handsome form with a pleased scrutiny. “My goodness, this is your friend, huh?” She gives you a teasing wink. “I didn’t buy that one for a minute, but it has been a long time since you’ve brought a man home.”

Ben’s smile takes on an amused glint when he casts you some side-eye. 

“It’s kinda new,” you confess, trying to ignore the hot blush in your cheeks. Your mom is already having way too much fun with this, but she immediately levels up her own brand of Cuban Mom Charm, taking Ben into the house by his arm. 

“Well, it’s nice to meet you, Ben. I’m Gloria. This is my husband Victor,” she says, gesturing at your dad, who stands stoically behind her. Ben gives him another nod, then hits your mom with a kind of suavecito that would put James Bond to shame. 

“Now I know who to thank for giving my girl her beautiful smile. We’ve got Miss Florida herself right here,” Ben flirts, squeezing her hand on his arm.

Gloria twitters a laugh, making you bite your lip against a snort. 

She leads him further into your grandmother’s house, while you and Victor follow behind. Ben takes note of all the pictures on the walls and housed in various frames on virtually every shelf and accent table: your parents’ wedding, your father and your uncles when they were young, and you at various ages—kindergarten through your high school graduation, followed by your college graduation. 

There are pictures of you with your parents, your ten first cousins and thirty second cousins, your aunts and uncles, and you with your grandmother—the woman who’s currently cooking up something that smells delicious in the kitchen. Garlic and onions and olive oil; the smells mingle together with the red and green bell peppers being sautéed in a pan with some kind of red sauce. 

Your grandma Sofia takes in Ben from head to toe with wide-eyed, blinking surprise, even a bit of wonder. She glances at you, at Ben’s hand once again resting on the small of your back. Slowly, she brightens.

“Ay, Diosito mio, who’s this handsome man in my house?” she says.

Ben smiles, but you step in before he can flirt with her too. 

“Mamá, this is Ben. Uh, my boyfriend,” you tell her while giving her a big, warm hug. You try to blink past the tears stinging your eyes. You’ve probably missed your grandma the most. 

She squeezes you tight, but she also smacks you on the ass. 

“Hey!” you protest, laughing in embarrassment.

“Oye, you couldn’t call to tell us you finally got another man?” she chides. “How long has this one being going on?”

“Um, a few months—”

The old woman gasps, as if you told her that her recorded episodes of Caso Cerrado, the Latino version of Judge Judy, had been erased. Taking another look at a highly amused Ben, she crosses herself and delivers a kiss to the heavens. 

“Ay, Padre Santísimo. Finally, a man who doesn’t dress como un niño malcreado—like Justin Bieber.”

Your mouth falls open in shock. Your mother snickers, while Ben chuckles deeply. He doesn’t know who the fuck Justin Bieber is, but he knows about at least one of the pussy man-boys you’ve dated in the past. He slides you a knowing smirk.

“No, ma’am. She’s got a real man now,” he adds.

You blow out a subtle breath, trying with all your might not to glare at him. You do shoot him a tight smile, a warning in your eyes.

But he just trails a strong hand across the small of your back. The sensation makes tingles travel down your spine. 

You bite your lip and return your attention to your mom, who grabs some cheese and salami for you and Ben to snack on. You sit with him at the kitchen island and help your grandmother peel potatoes for the meal. By now Victor has claimed his usual spot on the couch, no doubt to catch up on one of the ten new baseball games he always has recorded. If there’s one thing your dad is obsessed with, it’s baseball. 

Ben lingers with you though, casually resting a hand on the back of your chair while he leans back in his seat at the island. 

“What’s on the menu?” Ben asks. 

“Carne guisada, white rice, and tostones. Eh, fried plantains,” Sofia replies. “Have you ever had Dominican food before?”

“No, but it smells delicious.”

“Ay, mija, have you not been feeding him?” your grandma reproaches, to your long-suffering sigh. 

If she only fucking knew.

Your mom watches in amusement while taking over stirring the stew. Meanwhile, Sofia rounds the kitchen island so she can tug you down by your arm.

“What have I taught you, huh?” she whispers. “A man well-fed will stay in your bed.” 

Mortification burns hot in your cheeks. Your hand comes up to half cover your face. 

“Ay, Mamá,” you hiss. Inside, you’re dying a thousand deaths. 

You glance at Ben over your shoulder. He sips at his beer, but by the way he’s smirking, of fucking course he heard her. 

“You call her ‘mom’ too?” he asks.

“Yes, they all call me that because I am everyone’s mother here,” Sofia says. She wipes her hand free of parsley bits and pats Ben’s hand where it rests on the counter. “But you, young man, can call me Sofia.”

“Mamá!”

Ben eats dinner with gusto. Your grandmother is satisfied and pleased by how much he’s clearly enjoying the braised beef stew. She even loads him up with his third serving. You watch him in amusement, even though you shake your head.

He’s stuffing his face as if he’s never eaten real food before. Though you wonder when the last time he had a real home-cooked meal was…before you met him, that is.

Ben and Victor talk about baseball and the classic players they admire (with Ben having actually met a few of them). While the men are distracted with their conversation at the far end of the table, you have to endure your mother and grandmother’s grilling. 

Where is he from?

What does he do? 

How old is he? 

Spring weddings are just beautiful in Miami, you know. Your cousin Julissa had a spring wedding by the beach. Wasn’t it nice?

Needless to say, you should be winning an Oscar for your own improv performance tonight.  

“Where are you guys staying tonight?” Gloria asks.

Your grandma looks affronted. “Well, here of course.”

You laugh a bit nervously. “Actually, Ben can’t stay. He, um…he has a plane to catch in the morning, for a business trip.”

“Oh, what kind of business? You said he works at Vought too,” Gloria asks.

You nod, though you have to think quickly to come up with something plausible. You glance over at Ben, who briefly meets your gaze. The look in his eyes tells you that he’s caught the edges of your conversation and wants to know what you’ll say as well.

“Uh, Ben is in Vought’s Sales Division,” you say. “Sometimes they have him travel overseas.” 

“Oh, wow. Where are you going, Ben?” Gloria asks him.

“Buenos Aires,” Ben replies. “Vought’s trying to develop another Voughtland down there. They’ve been trying for years, but the locals figure they’ve got enough entertainment, what with the tourist traps and the drug cartels and all. So they’ve brought me on to seal the deal. Think of me as a…well, as a closer. ‘S why they pay me the big bucks.” 

You resist the urge to shake your head, but you do squeeze his thigh in warning under the table. He gives you a smile and a raise of his brows. Eying him pointedly, you shift the conversation. 

“So he’s planning on staying at the airport tonight, since it’s such an early flight,” you say. 

Sofia shakes her head, as well as a finger in the air. 

“No, no. You are a guest in my home, so you will stay here tonight. I won’t take no for an answer,” she says. 

Ben gives you a self-satisfied smile, before he answers her.

“Well, who am I to say no?”

It seems strategic, the way your mom corners Ben in the kitchen to try and fish more information out of him. Meanwhile, your dad pulls you aside into the living room.

“So tell me. What’s going on with that job of yours?” he asks. His brows have that telltale furrow of concentrated Dad Worry. On Victor, it looks just shy of being angry.

You cross your arms, debating with yourself for a moment. You’ve been lying a lot tonight, but this is something you know you have to come clean about, even if you know it’s a victory for your father.

“I quit, okay,” you admit.

His shoulders loosen in relief. His gaze raises heavenward while his hands rest on his hips.

“Thank God,” he says. But then, he concentrates back on you. “This mean you’re finally moving back home?”

“I didn’t say that,” you snap. “I’m gonna stay here with Mamá for a little while until I figure out what I’m gonna do. But I’m going to find something in New York. I have time now. Maybe I can finally start my own graphic design business.”

For the past year that you hadn’t been able to find other work to leave Vought, you’d begun to spin the idea in your mind. You have friends in the Marketing department who could help you build a website, run some ads across socials. You know how to create your own content, do your own marketing, even reach out to potential clients. All you need at this point is some time and money. You have one, and you can use some of what you have in savings to invest in the idea—to build something of your own. Something honest.

Victor’s jaw clenches. He swipes a hand of frustration over his face, his gait shifting with the effort of keeping his anger contained in his mother’s house.

“Why do you always have to be so damn stubborn?” he grits out.

“Why’re you always trying to control my life?” you counter, just at hotly. “I’m not a little girl. I’ve been doing what I have to do on my own—”

“But that’s it. You don’t have to,” he says. “You wanna get blown up in one of those buildings? Or run through in the street by one of those fucking supes, like that girl two years ago? You’re smart, mija. Use that brain for something besides selfish little ideas that don’t go anywhere.”

Your mouth falls open, but nothing else escapes. Your heart is in your throat, a painful lump as tears cling to your lashes.

“You went to NYU because the schools here somehow weren’t good enough. Now you’re in debt,” he continues, raising his hand up to his brows. “Hasta los ojitos. ¿Verdad? You tried to make it in that city because you wanted to be an artist. And where did you end up? At a corrupt fucking company that worked you like a dog, and nearly got you buried under a pile of rubble like it was 9/11 all over again.”

His words cut into you like so many knives. A familiar well of acid had been churning in your stomach; now it reaches up into the base of your throat where you’re already choked by embarrassment, resentment, shame.

“Okay, dessert!” your mom calls from the kitchen, this time unaware of her husband. She brings out the large pan of flan she made last night and sets it on the table while Ben begrudgingly brings out the smaller plates and spoons. The smell of Café Bustelo reaches you as the cafetera begins to steam and boil on the stove. Sofia lifts the top of it and nods when she finds that the espresso is done percolating.

“Quién quiere café?” she asks.

Heaving a sigh through his nose, Victor raises a finger. Ben notices you, sees whatever he sees in your face, no matter how you try to bury it down. You can tell that he’s heard every word, just by that look on his face. Ben approaches you and your dad, once again sliding a hand across the small of your back, but you speak before he has a chance to say anything.

“You want coffee, right?”

Ben nods slightly, letting you leave him to escape into the kitchen. He shifts his attention to your father. The man is shorter than Ben, but still a presence that commands respect in the house.

“You still work for Vought after everything that’s happened?” Victor asks him.

Ben’s brow turns wry. “Oh, I’ve got an exit strategy.”

Victor nods. That seems to mollify him a bit, even as he watches his daughter. Ruefulness enters his gaze, even if it’s still hard with his convictions. It just reminds Ben of his father’s blue-eyed stare—the kind that always pierced straight through his skin and saw every scrap of weakness underneath.

“She’d rather live in that fucking cesspool than listen to me,” Victor says. “Young, stubborn, thinks she knows it all.”

Ben’s lips tug at a smile. Yeah, that’s fucking you.

“She thinks she can handle it out there by herself, but take away all that attitude, and what?” Victor shakes his head. “She’s fucking soft.”

Ben glances over at him, then at the silver medals framed in glass on the wall. There’s a picture of a younger version of the man in front him, leaner, just as stoic, wearing an army green uniform and a captain’s insignia. If Victor looked to be in his mid-fifties now, that would’ve put him in his early 20s during the Vietnam War.

Other than a few photo ops after the Tet Offensive and a movie he did in the late ‘60s, Ben spent most of his time snorting coke and fucking the female cast of Bewitched. (Elizabeth Montgomery blamed her failed marriage on him, but that shit was wrecked long before he came into her picture. Literally.)

Ben’s gaze drifts away from the shiny wall of accomplishment, and back over to you across the room. You’re helping your mom set out the plates of flan after she cuts each slice. He sees how hard you try to bury everything you have boiling inside behind the task, swiping a stray curl out of your eyes as you go. He’s come to recognize that look, and the things you do to keep moving forward.

“She can be,” Ben nods at your father. “But maybe she’s stronger than you think.”

Victor’s brows furrow, but Ben doesn’t stick around for more. He joins you back at the dinner table and takes a small white espresso cup you offer him. Your fingers brush with his on the pass, but its his hand casually curling wily strands of your hair behind your ear that earns your attention, your slightly widening eyes.

He smirks down at you before taking a seat. Despite yourself, your lips tug at a smile, and you join him.

After dessert, your parents finally head back home. You finally allow yourself to confess to your grandmother that you quit your job. It’s easier to be honest with her than with your parents sometimes.

She’s sorry to hear the news, knowing you enjoyed your independence in New York. While you didn’t necessarily love your job, up until now it had allowed you to have the life you wanted.  

Since she has more room to spare in her house, she’s graciously agreed to have you stay with her for a little while. You know what you told your dad, but you wonder if you can even go back to New York after this. He might just win after all.

But of course, there’s also Ben.

“I still don’t know what the big fucking deal is,” he says, somewhat grumpily. 

You sigh and shove an extra blanket into his hands from the hallway closet. 

“Look, my grandma is fun, even a little mischievous, but she’s not actually going to let me share a bedroom with my ‘boyfriend’ under her roof. Conservative Catholics, remember?” 

You also hand him a towel to take a shower. “Besides, it’s not like I’d let you into my bed anyway. Can you please just remember our deal?” 

He nods, albeit reluctantly. “Don’t you fucking worry. I’ll be out in the morning before God and everyone wakes up.” 

You hesitate, leaning your back against the doorway to your room. Ben will be staying in the second guest room down the hall.

“Well, you can still knock on my door before you leave,” you say, with a slight smile. “You know, if you wanna say goodbye.”

Ben eyes you, a smirk pulling at the corners of his lips.

“Might as well get that outta the way now,” he says.

Your smile fades in confusion, but before you can react, he slips an arm around your waist and guides you in close. After a beat to gauge the look on your face—surprised, but not angry, by the way your eyes roam his face—he bows his head to claim your lips.

It’s a thorough kiss, and a little demanding as his lips move over yours, but it makes a tendril of heat lick down your spine as your fingers curl around his biceps. 

You find yourself at a loss when he breaks away. His eyes open to meet yours, smiling when he finds you breathless.

“Goodbye, sweetheart,” he says.

And he lets you go, allowing your hair to slip through his fingers. 

You’re tempted to smack that self-satisfied look off his face, but you shake your head with a smile. You guess you can give him one for the road. 

Butcher, Hughie, and the rest of the boys are tearing apart Webweaver’s disgusting apartment. Considering the supe’s phone is dead, and he hasn’t been seen in over 24 hours, Butcher is willing to bet that Soldier Boy killed the little prick. 

Unfortunately for Butcher, Webweaver was feeding him information. 

“There’s nothing here,” M.M. says in disgust, wiping his hands of a sticky substance. He’d rather not know what it is.

“He had to know something in order to pick up the cunt’s trail,” Butcher says. He points to Webweaver’s laptop, where Hughie is trying to hack the password.

Butcher’s phone buzzes in his pocket. Fishing it out and peering at the ID, he smiles slightly at the text. 

I’m close to your apartment. Can we talk?

Ryan. Finally, the kid is coming around. Butcher types out a reply.

Give me half an hour. 

Butcher considers his next words carefully, and he adds…

There are things we needa talk about.

There was too much shit he hadn’t told the kid, for fear of pushing him away. (Already done.)

Or fearing the kid wouldn’t believe him. (Ain’t got nothing left to lose now.)

Butcher only half suppresses a wheezing cough.

Oh, yeah, he’s still fucking dying. But if there’s one thing he’s going to do, it’s find Soldier Boy, so he can make good on their deal on snuffing Homelander.

He knows he’ll have to be even more creative with how he gets the supe to agree, seeing as Butcher double-crossed him once before. But this time, he has M.M. and Annie actually on board with the plan. Homelander plans to get V24 in the military with Victoria Neuman’s help.

So all the fucking Spice Girls finally agree: right now, Homelander’s the bigger threat. Then, they’ll somehow deal with Soldier Boy.

Or better yet, the two will kill each other. 

“Got it!” Hughie fist pumps the air. He’s been able to crack into Webweaver’s laptop, even though he balks at having to sort through a tremendous amount of disturbing pornography.

He finally finds a file labeled: Parking Lot, June 3, 5:34 p.m.

He presses play. The first thing he sees is your scared face come into frame, followed by Soldier Boy. 

​​“Oh my God,” you breathe. “Soldier Boy?” He glances up at you through furrowed brows. He looks ragged and soot-stained, his breathing labored as he leans against the wall. He focuses on you. “Uh, a-are you okay?” you ask shakily, clutching your messenger bag.

“All right,” Butcher drawls. “Who the fuck is that?” 

In the morning, you wake to the sun in your eyes through the windows. You get up and check the room across the hall. The door is open, and the bed is made, clear of Ben’s things. You feel disappointed that he didn’t wake you up before he left.

I guess the one goodbye was good enough for him, you think, not willing to wonder why that kind of upsets you. 

Whatever. It’s for the best. Soldier Boy is finally out of your life, and you can focus on what you need to do to pick up the threads of your life.

With that decision made, you go about starting your day. You don’t bother to change out of your pajamas. You just fluff out your curls and venture out to the kitchen, where the smell of Cuban coffee once again wafts stronger in the air. Your grandma might be Dominican, but she’s embraced her daughter-in-law’s Cuban-centric community with the little things, like espresso and pastries in the morning.

There you find something unexpected. You find Ben sipping coffee, chatting with your grandmother at the kitchen island while she makes breakfast. Her favorite radio station plays on the counter and masks the contents of their conversation, but they’re smiling and laughing, having a good ol’ fucking time.

Until Ben notices you standing there with your mouth hanging open. He grins.

“Morning, sweetheart,” he says, taking another sip of his coffee. Sofia smiles over at you too.

“Ben,” you say. Your voice strikes a higher pitch than usual. “What happened to your flight?”

“It got cancelled,” he claims, though he beckons you over. You remember then that this little play is still going on—meaning you force yourself to smile and go to him as if you’re so very happy to see him.

Why the hell did I ever think this was a good fucking idea?!

He takes full advantage of the boyfriend charade, laying a heavy hand on the small of your back. It travels around your waist and comes to rest on your hip. He brushes his thumb back and forth over the thin fabric of your pajama top, and even has the gall to eye you with a grin, likely noticing that you aren’t wearing a bra.

“I invited him to stay for a couple more days, get to know the family,” Sofia says while stirring some scrambled eggs. Bacon is also sizzling on another pan on the stove.

While her back is turned, you shoot Ben a knowing glare.

To think you were a little disappointed about being rid of him. Now, you’re just angry and irritated as good sense hits you upside the head. The longer he stays with you, the better chance of Homelander or the government finding him. 

You’re quiet throughout breakfast while Sofia asks Ben more questions about himself.

“Do you go to church?” she asks, with a raised brow.

You snort into your coffee, but Ben just rubs the back of his neck. 

“I’ll admit, I’ve skipped a few Sundays,” he says, somewhat dismissively.

You resist the urge to roll your eyes. His skin would probably burn if he took one step inside of a sanctuary. 

“Well, what about kids. Do you like children?” Sofia asks.

Your eyes widen. “Mamá, seriously?”

“I always thought I’d have a few,” Ben replies. You turn to look at him, and the sincerity of his tone and the sudden thoughtful gleam in his eyes surprises you even more.

“Guess I’ve been waiting for the right time to settle down,” he says, glancing at you. It’s hard for you to read that look, but it makes you wonder what the fuck he’s thinking.

He goes back to eating.

After breakfast, you get up to help Sofia clear the table. While she’s putting the pastries away, you grab Ben’s arm and lead him closer to the living room. 

“You really need to go,” you whisper-hiss. “You promised me—”

He rolls his eyes. “All right, keep your fucking panties on. Just one more night of R&R and I’ll get gone.”

“You better be for real, because I can’t—”

“Ay, mi canción,” Sofia says. She comes over and tugs on your hand. “You remember this one, right?”

The song that plays on the radio is “Mi Muchachita” by Luis Segura, the song your mom would always wake you up with on Saturday mornings to get you up to help her clean the house. It was a tradition your grandma started when your dad and his brothers were kids. She later got your mom hooked on it when she came to stay with your family for a few years, shortly after you were born. Gloria had needed the help, and her parents had already passed away a few years back.

Now, Sofia leads you away from Ben so that you can dance with her. She pulls into the bachata—ironically, the dance that began in the bars and brothels of Santo Domingo. In the 1960s, it was the dance of the lower class, the degenerates, and the campesinos. Bolero rhythm was its heart, but the spirit of the common people was its soul.

You protest at first at being uprooted from your grumpy mood, but your grandma has a way of hooking you into almost anything. Eventually your tense shoulders relax, and you’re laughing and twirling under her hand while you let your body inhabit the song.

Ben watches the scene in amusement, becoming transfixed by the sway of your hips, to the quick and natural steps of your feet…until Sofia grabs his hand too. 

“Hey, no. I’m good,” he says. “I don’t dance…whatever this is.”

“So I teach you,” she insists, beckoning him closer. “Come, come! Watch me. Es fácil. Real easy.”

You step off to the side to give them room, and you giggle while watching Ben try to follow her instructions. Sofia is persistent though. She teaches him how to step in counts of two, how to lead her back and forth, then turn her around. She even sends you a cheeky look while she has the man’s hands trapped either in her hand, or on her waist.

You hide your laughter behind your espresso cup. Damn. She’s still got game.

After a few minutes, Sofia leads him over to join Ben’s hand with yours, claiming she needs a rest. She guides you into his arms, and you step in with a good-natured smile.

“This is a bit fucking much,” he mutters to you. “It’s too complicated.” 

“You’re actually doing well. Just feel it though. Don’t watch your feet,” you continue to instruct him, amused by his hesitance. 

He seems to be into this though, and he begins to gain some confidence the more he learns the flow of the steps. He holds your hand more assured as he moves from side to side in time with the beat. For a white boy born with a silver spoon in his mouth, he has some decent rhythm. 

Ben throws in a spin that’s not quite bachata-like. It feels more like the swing of the ‘40s, the stuff you’ve only seen in movies. Still, it thrills you when you end up even closer in his arms, his warm chest pressed to yours. He looks down on you with hooded eyes that slowly roam your face, stopping on your lips.

He begins to bow his head toward yours, but you clear your throat and smile, a little nervously. You place a hand on his chest and push him back subtly as the song comes to an end. 

“Oh! Before I forget,” Sofia says. 

You almost forgot she was there. Instinctively you freeze where you stand, still catching your breath all too close to Ben. 

“Can you pick up some things from the store for later? I’m making arroz con pollo,” she says. “But you know what, I’ll give you a list, ‘cause I’m out of some other things too.”

Glancing up at Ben once more, you take the excuse to step away from him. You agree to take your grandma’s list, and you head to your room to get changed. 

The man not only follows you to the car, but insists on “getting out of the house” and going with you to the local Cuban-owned grocery store and café. 

“Christ on a Cross, is this the price of steak nowadays?” he mutters, eying all the cuts behind the cold glass. “Used to be cheaper to order it at a fucking restaurant.”

You’ve stopped here to pick up a couple packages of ground beef. You shoot him a glance, wondering why he cares when he had enough money to buy the restaurant, once upon a time. Maybe it’s the principle of the matter with him.

“Welcome to the modern world,” you drawl. “It’s getting too expensive to live, and jobs don’t want to pay for shit.”

He raises a brow, but he follows you down the aisle.

Ben is kind of the worst to go shopping with. He sneaks things into the cart when he thinks you’re not looking. You tell him you’re not buying him three different cakes and a dirty magazine. Where the hell did he even find that? 

You stuff it all back on a shelf, behind some boxed novelty cakes imported from Mexico. Though you agree to buy him one dessert, after you throw in some peaches. 

“You may be a super soldier, but you should eat more fruits and veggies,” you quip. Stuffing himself full of takeout, booze, and weed all the time can’t be good for him.

Ben raises a wry brow at you. He sidles up close while you’re putting goods on the checkout counter. His hand molds to the curve of your waist as he speaks lowly in your ear.

“I’ve got all the peaches I need, sweetheart.”

You blush hotly and send him a wide-eyed look over your shoulder. His hand means to drift lower on your ass, but your lips purse, and you smack his hand away.

“Do you have no shame?” you whisper-hiss. Giving him one kiss was like feeding a stray dog. Now he thinks he can keep sniffing your ass for more. 

“Come on, Chiquita. Would it kill you to lighten the fuck up?” he teases. 

You roll your eyes heavenward, praying for strength. You manage to get through the rest of the transaction of the checkout line mostly in peace, and Ben does all the heavy lifting of putting the bags in the car. However, you’re giving him a bit of a cold shoulder as you get back into the car.  

“All right, what’s the matter now?” he asks. “For Christ’s sake, you don’t have to be so fucking frigid.”

“Why did you come anyway?” you ask, slamming the trunk closed. “Just to cop another feel? What, did you think I was gonna blow you in the alley behind the bodega?”

Ben hesitates with a frown. There’s a moment where you think he might give you an earnest answer, but ultimately, he just shrugs. “Worth a shot.”

You scoff, both incredulous and disgusted as you rip the driver’s side door open and get inside the car. You barely wait for Ben to do the same on the passenger side, before you’re turning the ignition and angrily shifting the car into reverse. 

You back out with more force than Ben would’ve recommended, but he flexes his fingers on his thigh. He doesn’t want to tell you that he hadn’t liked the idea of you going out alone. Not without a weapon, some protection.

But he also didn’t think you’d still be cockblocking him so much after last night. And this morning, he thought you were actually warming up to him…

Guess not, he thinks sardonically, with a roll of his eyes. Whatever. It’s not like he’ll be wanting for pussy when he gets to South America. Pretty soon, it’s going to be him fucking bitches on nude beaches, drowning himself in margaritas, blow, and pussy all day long. 

He doesn’t know what it is about you though. He knows you’re into him, even if you won’t admit it… 

It’s that challenge, that Latina fire that stokes his blood every time he looks at you. Gotta be.

He also knows that the moment he leaves, one of two things will happen. Either Vought finds you, or the CIA does. If it’s the latter, they’ll question you. Even if they don’t get the information they want, they could try to protect you and your family.

Regardless, Ben knows he can’t stay. That’ll just make things worse, for himself, and for you. All he can do is take advantage of the hours he has left here.

“Look, what’s your problem, huh?” he tries again. “Think I can’t show you a good time?”

You heave a sigh without looking at him. “It’s not about that, Ben.”

“Then what’s it about?”

“You’re leaving. You’re not going to stay and fight the deranged prick who’s on the verge of taking over the whole damn country,” you say sharply. “You’re gonna fuck off to who knows where, bury your head in the sand, and numb yourself for the rest of your life. So there’s no point in exploring you and me. I’m not gonna be some quick fuck and ‘Sayonara, sweetheart. Been a good time.’ No! None of that shit.”

That falls heavily between you two, even with the radio playing at a moderate volume.

Ben simmers in the near silence while you drive through the heavy traffic in Miami. You curse when you get stuck at an intersection. 

“This is taking fucking forever,” he grumbles.

You whip your head over at him again. “Okay, and? Should I part the Red Sea of Miami for you?”

“All right, Christ. Enough,” he says. He rubs at his forehead like you’re giving him a headache. 

Good, you think. The feeling’s mutual.

Ben crosses his arms in his seat and stares out ahead. Traffic is starting to easy up, allowing you to inch closer to the righthand turn. 

You blow out a sigh, contemplating the man riding shotgun. You’re not sure why he’s still here with you. Why he doesn’t want to just leave his old life behind and make new somewhere else. It’s obvious that he wants you, but does he care about you? 

There’s no point in exploring you and me.

You hadn’t meant to say that, but it left you with a sinking feeling in your chest afterward. You still feel its hold on you now, steely fingers gripping your heart.

It’s fucking crazy. You must be crazy…to want him to care.

But before you can let your mind devolve any further, Ben breaks you out of your thoughts when he points out a McDonald’s up ahead. 

“How about you pull over into the drive-thru there,” he says.

You raise a brow at him. “You’re hungry again? Already?”

He shrugs. You shake your head, but your lips begin to tug at a smile. This fucking bottomless pit.

“All right, I’ve got this.”

You take him to a hole-in-the-wall Cuban bakery. The sign is half-scratched off, but you know it from memory. This place has been here for over 50 years, since waves of Cubans fled the iron fist of Fidel Castro’s communism in anything that would float those 90 miles—from pristine sands, and the home of guava fruit, plantains, and pure sugar cane, to the rough shores of the Florida Keys.

Ben polishes off a Cuban sandwich and three guava and cheese pastries, washing it all down with three beers and a cigar he got by talking shop with the locals playing dominoes in the dining area. The men are old enough to remember him as Soldier Boy. Even though they watch the news all day long, they have a healthy mistrust of everything they see.

They're more inclined to trust the supe they watched and admired when they were young men, the supe that (they thought) represented the ideals of the American dream; the same dream they themselves had fought for when they arrived in this country.

“Don’t worry, we’re not gonna out you to the press,” says the only one of them who speaks English. “I’ll just get to tell the wife that I shared a cigar with Soldier Boy. She don’t gotta know when.” 

The other men laugh, Ben included. You roll your eyes. 

They talk him into playing around of dominoes with them, offering to “teach” him how to play, as long as he bets $5 to start with. You lean over his shoulder and help him make the right moves. Your dad and your uncles taught you how to play when you were a kid.

With your help, he ends up winning $200 dollars off of the old men. They don't get mad about it, all too happy just to spend time with one of the only superheroes they respect. You realize then why Ben is getting along so well with these guys; the man himself is at least twenty years older than them. This is essentially a group of his peers.

And what does that make me? you wonder, not knowing whether to laugh or be icked out. The longer you stare at Ben's profile, the line of his jaw, the cut of his beard, the roguish sweep of his hair and the shape and broadness of his form all too casually sitting in a metal chair, the more that thought fades to the back of your mind.

You focus more on Ben, specifically the way he's all too smirky and cocky and proud of his winnings. You’re amused at the way he counts the bills to himself later in the car. You’d think he won the lotto at Atlantic City or something. 

“Hey,” he says, earning your attention. “Let me take you out before I go. Call it a thank you.”

You give him an incredulous look. “You haven’t tested fate enough today? You should be lying low. Me too for that matter.”

“Relax, Chiquita. Nobody fucking knows we’re here,” Ben says, continuing to count his bills. He glances over at you though. “Besides, you’ll be fine, long as you’re with me.”

You consider him with a tilt of your head. Long as you’re with me, huh?

He wants to actually do something for you. More than that, he wants to protect you.

You fight the small swell of butterflies in your stomach. Matter of fact, you hate those little shits. A small sigh escapes your lips.

This guy is fucking exhausting.

“How many goodbyes are we going to have, Ben?” you ask.

He quirks a smile. 

“Just humor me.”

AN: Did you like the little scene change? I had to give things a more tropical vibe for Miami. 😉 Plus, we got a bit of the fake dating trope sliding in there, meeting the parents, some disappointed father syndrome -- checking some rom-com boxes right? 😂

Next Time:

You lead him away from the tight crowd on the dance floor and around the bar, and into a dark hall near the bathrooms. It’s still loud though, that baseline dropping as the DJ’s sirens go off in the club. 

Ben stumbles, his left hand shooting out to smack heavily against the wall. He dents the plaster. You quickly move in front of him and rest your hands against his chest.

“Ben, you with me?” you say in a measured tone. “Hey, you okay? You hearing me?”

His brows furrow in answer, but you can tell he’s not all there. His breathing is growing ragged. You feel his chest getting warm, and then hot. 

Oh, fuck, your blood runs cold. Is this the strange new explosive power that nearly crumbled Vought Tower? Is this club about to get wiped off the map, like that building in Midtown? Are you about to get blown sky high along with it?

Fuck that. 

You grab his face in your hands. “Ben, you focus on me, okay? Before you blow your cover. Before you hurt someone.”

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Soldier Boy Masterlist

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[rizlowwritessortof]

DEAN WINCHESTER WHEN… HE EATS YOU OUT.

Dean’s the kind of man who looks at your thighs like they’re his favorite place in the world—and he means it. He’s not shy about it either. He’ll get that cocky little smirk, the one that says he knows exactly what you need, and say something like, “Lay back, baby. Let me take care of you.”

And when Dean goes down on you? You’re not getting a quick fix. You’re getting worshiped.

He starts slow, like he’s unwrapping a gift. Kissing your thighs, dragging his stubble over your soft skin just to make you shiver. He’ll press your legs open with those strong, calloused hands—firm, gentle, but unrelenting. Then he dives in, tongue dragging slow and hot through your folds, groaning like it’s the best thing he’s tasted all week.

Dean’s messy with it, too. He’s not shy about spit or noise—sloppy, wet, intentional. He eats you like he’s starved for it. Like you’re the only thing that matters. He’ll flatten his tongue against your clit, then flick it just right—watching your hips jerk, listening to you gasp.

“Fuck, you’re sweet,” he mumbles, voice thick with hunger. “Could do this all night.”

And he means it.

He doesn’t stop when your thighs tremble. Doesn’t stop when you start to beg. He wants to feel you fall apart on his mouth. He’ll add his fingers—two thick, slow, curling just right—and look up at you with those goddamn eyes, pupils blown wide, like he’s high off your taste.

When you come, Dean holds you there. Keeps licking, keeps stroking, letting you ride it out until you're shaking. If you whimper about it all, he just groans into your cunt and keeps going, giving you another one just to see you melt.

He loves it when you grab his hair, when you grind against his face like you need him. And when you finally pull him up, wrecked and breathless, he kisses you slow and deep—mouth still slick from you.

“Still breathing?” he teases, brushing your hair back with a grin. “Good. ‘Cause I’m not done.”

With Dean, one orgasm is never enough.

Not when he’s between your legs, not when you taste that damn good.

[rizlowwritessortof]

Okay, just - you are SO TALENTED at your descriptions. Of everything. Wrangling the kids, the shock of having the car commandeered by a cocky cop, the surroundings - it was pretty damn close to watching an episode on TV, I could picture EVERYTHING in my head, and completely losing myself in the story.

And then, Mark showing up at her door, after she loses her job (thanks to him lol). The whole exchange was perfect, your description of him was perfect. Malibu Cruella de Vil - I DIED.

And the absolutely panty-melting sex!!! Oh. My. God. SO fucking good. I think my laptop almost melted when I was reading it, for real.

Fan-fucking-tastic. Absolutely looking forward to the next part!!

No Rules in Breakable Heaven

Abandon the Ship Pt. I

And you say I abandoned the ship, but I was going down with it...

Series Summary: It starts with a chase and ends with his name in your mouth. He says it’s just for fun. Late nights. No strings. No promises. You were never supposed to matter. But he keeps coming back like a habit he can't quit. He’s bleeding time, and you’re getting too close to something meant to burn out fast.

Pairing: Mark Meachum x reader

Warnings: +18 due to language and smut (p in v, oral f/m, fingering), meet-cute (Wayne's Version), strangers to lovers, one-night stand, drinking, humor, tiny humans, a pinch of angst, fluff?

Word Count: 6.8k

A/N: Aaaah, new character alert (& Cruel Summer vibes)! So happy I finally get to share this!! This was what probably sucked most about all the bad luck recently because I've been so stoked to do this for weeks!! I have definitely some interesting plans for this, depending how the show goes 🤞🤓

Series Masterlist || Tag List || Patreon

Los Angeles mornings have a chaotic rhythm in designer packaging.

The sun climbs slow and golden over the hills, the air is still soft with sleep, and the city hasn’t decided yet what kind of madness it wants to be today. In these quiet hours, before the honking and the sirens and the buzz of espresso machines, you load three small children into a luxury SUV like a very determined sherpa, tugging straps tight and adjusting sippy cups like a one-woman pit crew. 

“Okay,” you say brightly, securing the last car seat strap with a satisfying click, brushing a Cheerio out of the baby’s curls before slamming the door shut. “Who remembers what we talked about?”

“No yelling,” Mila says, swinging her feet.

“No trash cans,” her twin brother mutters with a suspicious look in his eyes.

“Snacks,” Noah offers with great confidence, clutching a half-eaten graham cracker in one sticky hand.

“Close enough,” you sigh and slide into the driver’s seat. 

The twins – Miles and Mila – are four, full of righteous opinions, and identical only in destructive potential. Noah, the baby is nearly two and convinced you have magic powers because you know where the food lives. 

You’ve got a system. You can wrangle them like a pro – park visits, potty breaks, stroller logistics, snack distribution. You’ve handled full-blown meltdowns in the middle of Whole Foods and a spontaneous naked rebellion during music class. By now, you know you can handle any lemons (or diapers) life throws your way.

Today, for example, it’s spilled yogurt, someone’s sock in the toilet, and a small argument over whether bees have bones. You manage all three before 8 AM – fully dressed, caffeinated, and armed with the kind of calm that only comes from deeply internalized panic.

This morning, like most, starts at Echo Park. 

It’s a staple on your approved outing list. Safe, scenic, stroller-friendly. You’ve done the swings, the climbing structure, and the obligatory duck sighting. You’ve run interference on a toddler standoff over a sand shovel. You’ve kissed a scraped knee, and Noah has climbed into your lap as soon as you sat down on the bench. 

You’ve let him. You always do. 

You then check your watch. It’s been just under two hours. Enough. 

It’s just past 11 AM, and it’s time to get them back in the car once again before someone decides to pee in public. The late June heat in Los Angeles is already starting to settle in – the kind of warmth that fools you into thinking the day will stay pleasant before the concrete starts to bake and everything smells like burnt tires and desperate ambition.

“Okay, team,” you call out across the playground. “Wrap it up. The countdown’s running. Shoes on. Water break, then back to the car.” 

Groans. Crushed spirits. The usual protests.

You herd them toward the exit gate like a very tired Border Collie. Behind you, two small hurricanes tumble through the grass, still high off sugar and sunshine. They are locked in some kind of chase game that involves yelling, giggling, and occasional threats of mortal revenge. 

Meanwhile, your arms ache from carrying Noah, who is perfectly capable of walking, but has recently decided he’s emotionally allergic to the ground and too insulted for the stroller. But the finish line is in sight.

The car is parked in the middle of Echo Park’s lot while three small humans orbit around you like caffeinated moons as you throw your purse and phone onto the passenger seat and load diaper bags, stroller, two bikes, and bag full of sandbox toys into the trunk. 

“Okay,” you say, breathlessly, heaving the last bag into the car. “Everybody chill. Everyone breathe. Mila, I swear, if you take off your shoes again–”

“I’m a raccoon,” Mila informs you, twirling as she holds the hem of her dress like a movie star. “Raccoons don’t wear shoes.”

Miles is spinning in tight, dizzying circles on the sidewalk as well, with his arms straight out and his shirt on backwards. You made a note to fix it twenty minutes ago, but you’re too far gone now.

“Hey!” you call. “Miles, keep spinning like that and you’re gonna barf.”

“I like barfing!”

“Cool. Let’s save it for after lunch,” you tell him and look at them – your little circus, all noise and limbs. 

This is your life, now. Juice stains and bandaids. Screaming over sunscreen. Three little people who talk to you like you’re Google and God combined.

You exhale through your teeth, palms bracing against the SUV. It’s sleek, dark, and more expensive than anything you’ve ever owned. You’ve memorized every button, every storage compartment, every stain removal protocol. You know exactly where the granola bars are hidden and which seatbelt sticks in the heat. 

You should be more tired, and some days, you are. But right now, you’re just trying to get them into the goddamn car, already calculating who’s going in first. 

And then you hear it – footsteps. Loud. Fast. Coming right toward you like for some godforsaken reason, you’re the target.

You whip around to see a man sprinting across the parking lot. 

Tall. Built like trouble and doesn’t know how to sit still. Longer, shiny hair. Trimmed beard that says ‘yes, I know what I’m doing, and I’m doing it well.’ Black jeans on bow legs, a gray t-shirt clinging to his broad chest, a battered leather jacket flaring behind him like a cape, his expression wild and focused.

And then, dark green eyes lock onto you. 

You flinch instinctively, already stepping in front of the kids. This is fucking LA, after all. The crazy doesn’t hide in this town – it lives everywhere. 

“Hey! I need your car!” he shouts, reaching into his jacket as he skids to a stop in front of you.

Your heart skips before he flashes a badge, and you exhale with relief – but only for a second. 

“LAPD, Detective Meachum,” he says, baritone voice breathless and rough with adrenaline. “I need to borrow your vehicle. Emergency. Official police business.”

“I–… What–” You blink, already shaking your head before you realize you’re doing it. “No.” 

“No?” His mouth curves with the kind of smile that has probably gotten him out of a hundred bad decisions.

“That’s right. No,” you repeat and don’t budge. “I have three kids under the age of five, a half-eaten granola bar melting in my bra, and I’m not about to let some sweaty stranger with a badge and a beard and zero sense of boundaries Grand Theft Auto nap time.” 

His brow raises. Then he smiles a little. “You like the beard?”

You freeze, your heart pounding faster, mouth opening. “Wha–”

“Just saying, you mentioned it.” He smirks.

Asshole. 

“What in the Fast and the Furious hell is wrong with you?!”

He really looks at you then – like he’s used to getting what he wants and doesn’t know what to do when someone pushes back. Sharp green eyes are already sizing up how much trouble you’re going to be as his chest rises and falls fast, sweat darkening the collar of his shirt. 

“Ma’am–” 

“Oh, don’t ma’am me,” you snap. “You don’t get to ma’am me and then try to leave me stranded in a parking lot. I have three children here. Three.”

His gaze flicks to the twins, to the toddler, then back to you. The kids aren’t crying. They’re just staring at him like he’s the lead actor in a movie they’re too young to see.

Honestly, you feel like you’re too young to see that movie. 

You can smell the heat on him – sweat, asphalt, and something a little reckless. His apple green eyes glitter in the sunlight, and for a second, just a second, your brain fucking stutters.

He gives you a crooked grin, breath still catching in his chest. “I can see that. They’re cute.”

You narrow your eyes to a glare. “Don’t.”

“They’ve got your eyes.”

“They absolutely do not.” 

His lips twitch, but he schools it quickly. “Look, I’m trying to be polite here.”

“Oh, how gracious of you,” you huff. “What d’you want me to do, huh? Just stand here while you joyride in my car?”

“I wouldn’t call it a joyride. I’m chasing someone. Armed suspect. Probably shouldn’t have told you that.” He smiles, and you hate how good it looks on him.  

His voice is clipped, clipped, clipped – like every second he talks to you, he’s losing ground. And yet there’s a glint in his eyes that doesn’t match the urgency. Amusement. Or maybe something worse – fucking charm. 

“You can’t just take someone’s car,” you argue and cross your arms. 

“I mean, I can. That’s what the badge is for.” He flashes a quick, exasperated grin – somehow both dazzling and rude. “Look, I really don’t have time to explain, and I can see that you’re doing a stellar job here. No one’s bleeding. Gold star. But if you don’t give me those keys, someone else might not be so lucky. So unless you want to explain to the evening news why a guy got away on your watch–”

“My watch?!”

“–I suggest you hand over the keys,” he finishes and is smug as hell about it, as if he knows he’s going to get away with this.

You hate that it’s working.

“You are unbelievable,” you hiss through your teeth.

“I get that a lot.”

“You are not taking this car!” 

The kids are watching you now, silently waiting. You hesitate, and that’s all he needs.

“Respectfully, ma’am – yes, I am.” He plucks the keys from your hand before you even feel them leave your fingers. 

“Hey!” 

“Thanks, sweetheart,” he says, throwing himself into the driver’s seat. “You’re doing amazing.”

“Wait! My bag–” 

Too late. He’s already shutting the door and adjusting the seat. You lunge for the handle, but the lock clicks before your hand reaches it. He winks at you through the window.

He fucking winks. 

“Tell your husband he’s a lucky guy,” he shouts through the glass with a grin, the engine roaring to life. 

And then, he’s gone. Car, purse, phone, and all.

The SUV screeches out of the lot, tires biting the scorching pavement. You stand frozen, stunned, three kids clustered around your legs, one arm still reaching for the car that’s now halfway down the block and vanishing fast. 

The kids erupt into giggles. Mila claps. Miles yells, “That was so cool!” 

And you? You are going to fucking scream. 

Mila shrugs and says, “That guy’s weird.” 

You stare into the blinding sun above, questioning your life choice and wondering if you’re going to make it home before nap time and the kids turn feral. 

“Yeah,” you mutter. “He’s definitely weird.”

You crack open the front window of your living room, letting in what passes for night air in June in Altadena. It smells faintly of cut grass, someone’s grill, and the perpetual low hum of traffic. The TV glows in the background – some reality show you’re not really watching. 

You settle back down onto the couch and place your laptop across your thighs, half a job application typed out, half a bottle of beer drunk, half a bag of tortilla chips devoured beside you. 

The house is quiet – too quiet, if you’re honest. 

You’re still half-expecting a tiny voice calling your name, someone asking for another glass of water, or forgetting how to pronounce rhinoceros. But there’s nothing. Just you, your crappy Wi-Fi, and a cheap beer sweating into your palm. 

Your body aches, and not in the cute way either. It’s a bone-deep exhaustion, radiating from your lower back and shoulders and wrapping around your knees like lead. 

You eventually got the kids home today – thank God for LA’s ride-share drivers with patience and car seats. You spent two hours apologizing, another three hours panicking, and the rest of the day waiting for a knock on the door that never came. 

No car returned. No badge. Nothing. 

You groan and flop your head back against the couch, taking a slow sip of warm beer and closing your eyes for a full five seconds.

Then comes the knock. Of fucking course. 

You drag yourself upright, expecting a neighbor or a Jehovah’s Witness or someone trying to sell solar panels. But you are definitely not expecting a six-foot-one, leather-jacketed disaster with a crooked grin and a bottle of whiskey. 

Detective Meachum holds up your purse like a trophy. “Special delivery.” 

He flashes a smile that should be registered as a deadly weapon. T-shirt, leather jacket, jeans – like he just stepped off the set of a cop show where the detective never plays by the rules and always gets the girl.

Your mouth falls open. “You’ve gotta be kidding me…”

“Surprise?”

“You–… I–” You steel yourself for a moment. “You absolute fucking asshole!”  

“Okay,” he says calmly, head bobbing. “I deserved that. Possibly more. Definitely more. You can hit me if you want.”

“You derailed my entire day!” 

“I am aware now, yes. Hence–” He jostles the whiskey bottle in his hand. “Liquid penance. Sold a kidney for this one.” 

But you’re not falling for the smile again and already spiraling into a rant. “I had to drag three kids back to the park with no phone, no snacks, no diapers, no stroller, and no fucking backup! Mila threw up on my shoes!” 

He winces theatrically. “That’s a rough one.”

“Oh, you think?” You raise your brow and fold your arms over your chest. “When I asked a dad at the playground if he could call me an Uber, he tried to hit on me and said his wife wasn’t home tonight.” 

“Oof,” he says and whistles lowly. “Men are trash.”

“Present company included,” you shoot back.

“Guilty.” He grins and tilts his head slightly. “Guess you had a shitty day after I dramatically exited stage left, huh?”

“You could say that,” you grumbled. 

“I mean, in fairness, I didn’t realize I was kicking off a domino effect of childcare-based misery,” he adds apologetically. “But yes, my bad.”

“You didn’t come back!” 

“Look, I had every intention of–… Okay, yeah, you’re right.” He sighs then upon your glare and leans a shoulder casually against your doorframe like it’s a bar in a dive he’s already been thrown out of once tonight. “In my defense, it was a legit chase, alright? High speed. Real stakes. Tires screeching.” 

“So, did you at least get your guy? Or did you just wreck my life for fun?” you ask dryly. 

“Ah,” he says and grins, pointing like you’ve queued him up. “Funny story. Buckle in.”

You roll your eyes and exhale a deep breath. 

“So, I’m flying out of the lot, and this absolute maniac I’m chasing takes a hard turn into a construction site – which, okay, bold move,” he begins, already gesturing animatedly. “Naturally, I follow. Bad idea. Perp jumps out of the car and bolts across three lanes of traffic and then bam – Tesla cuts me off. Scooter kid zips out of fucking nowhere. There’s a smoothie involved, too. Long story short, I hit a pole.” 

Your eyes widen. “You totaled the car?” 

“I–… yes. Technically,” he says and scratches the back of his neck. “There’s no polite way to say ‘the front half crumpled like a soda can.’”

You arch an eyebrow. “And you show up now?” 

“I had to go to the hospital for a wrist X-ray,” he explains. “And then I had to track you down. Wasn’t as easy, you know?”

A tiny smirk curls your lips. “Bet it wasn’t.” 

He huffs a chuckle. “Yeah, I went to the address on the registration. Huge, beautiful house. Fancy gate. Trimmed hedges. Thought, ‘wow, someone’s doing alright.’” 

“Surprised?” you tease.

“A little. No offense, but I didn’t expect the soccer mom in a hoodie full of apple juice stains and a messy bun to live in a mansion in the Hills,” he admits with a soft laugh, and you feel your cheeks catch heat. “Anyways, I ring the bell, expecting you to answer, probably with a toddler stuck to your legs. Definitely with more kids screaming in the background. But instead, some icy blonde with a face carved by botox and rage opens the door.”

You poke the inside of your cheek with your tongue to cover the grin on your lips as best as you can. “And how did that go over?”

“Oh, not well.” He snorts a chuckle. “Malibu Cruella de Vil launched into a full-blown tirade. Said she was gonna call her lawyer. Said you stole her car. Basically told me to arrest myself. Been with the LAPD for a little over a decade, and that was a first.”

“You got me fired,” you cut into his soft laughter. 

“Right.” He clears his throat and his voice of amusement, nodding. “I know. I’m sorry. But hey, at least it’s not your car.”

“What a relief,” you deadpan.

He purses his lips. “So, not your kids, huh?”

“Nope.”

“And I’m guessing the name on the registration isn’t your husband either, and you’re not actually married to a plastic surgeon named Craig,” he deduces. 

“Wow. Are you a detective by any chance?” you mock with a wry smile.

He laughs, throwing his head back a little. “Yeah, might’ve done some minimal detective work to figure out where you live and return your stuff. And, alright, maybe also checked if you didn’t have a six-foot-five husband waiting behind the door with a shotgun.”

“Mhm,” you hum and cock a brow. “You really want me to believe that? You sure you’re not just here to see if you have a shot with the nanny you got fired?”

He clasps a hand to his chest, innocent and mock-affronted. “What, me? No.” He shakes his head unconvincingly, then smirks – slow and lazy. “I came here out of pure, unselfish guilt. But seriously, I figured I owed you a whiskey, at least. And your phone.” He hands it over, adding, “I put my number in, by the way. You know, break glass in case of Mark.”

You lift an eyebrow. “Mark?”

“Uh, yeah,” he chuckles and sends you a softer smile now, slightly flustered. “Me. I’m Mark. Hi.”

“Right. I’m–”

“Yeah, no, I know. I looked it up before I came here, remember?” Mark says, amused, probably noticing how your face is a shade redder now. But then his expression turns a little more sincere. “And hey, I’m sure you’ll find a new gig quickly. I mean, honestly, she was stupid to fire you. You looked like you were killing it with these kids. Hell, I, for sure, thought they were yours by the level of professionalism.”

“Still think they got my eyes?”

“Touché.” He snorts, grinning without shame. “But at least you don’t have to go back to that fancy hellhole and see that bitch again. Her loss, not yours, right?”

You let out a sigh, half-frustration and half-tiredness. “It’s not about her,” you share. “I’ve been with that family for three years. I caught the twins in my arms when they took their first steps. And the baby hadn’t even been born yet when I started there. His first word was my name.”

Mark nods like he suddenly understands then. “Right…” He clicks his tongue. “It was more than a job,” he realizes. 

“Yeah,” you breathe and offer him a small shrug. “It always is.”

“Well, look, I really am sorry for getting you fired. That sucks,” he says. And for the first time, it really sounds like he means it. “Anything I can do? You want me to talk to Malibu bitch? Tell her it’s all my fault?”

“No, it’s fine,” you assure him and exhale a breath. “It’s not gonna help. Trust me. Not entirely your fault alone. After I finally got the kids home, she yelled at me and was upset we missed toddler yoga.”

“Toddler yoga?” His brow quirks.

“Yes, it’s as stupid as it sounds,” you mutter your response. “Anyways, one thing led to another, and after the morning I had, I guess I just lost it. I called her a wine mom who only spends time with her kids when it’s for an Instagram post. And maybe, possibly, I told her she’s turning her kids into tiny sociopaths by ignoring them and feeding them almond paste instead of affection... in front of her SoulCycle friends.”

“Damn. I’m impressed.” Mark lets out a bark of laughter. “Sounds like a great mom. Poor kids.”

“Yeah, and now they don’t even have me anymore,” you say quietly. “She didn’t even let me say goodbye to them. They’ll think I just vanished, probably wondering why I never came back.”

You feel it then – the way your throat closes, the way your eyes start to sting, and the way your heart constricts a little tighter behind your ribs. You’re about to cry, and the chaotic detective on your doorstep can probably tell as well since he shifts on his feet.

A beat passes where Mark quiets for once. 

“Well,” he says then, subtly clearing his throat. “If you feel like yelling some more about your ex-boss, or calling me names, or finishing that beer with something stronger–” He lifts the whiskey like it’s holy water. “I make a great audience. Terrible decisions, sure, but excellent company.” 

You hesitate. You know what this is, and you also know what happens as soon as you invite that man inside. It’s like the Big Bad Wolf knocked on your door tonight with a bottle of cheap booze and the promise of an orgasm. 

“C’mon,” he coaxes and smiles sweetly. “Let me in, yell at me some more, and I pour you a glass while you call me every name in the book. You can even call me a plague upon nannies everywhere. I’m great at getting screamed at. Just ask my captain.”

You lift a brow and eye him from head to toe, studying him. “What’s in it for you?”

“I get to drink expensive whiskey and hear more of your greatest hits while I pretend not to stare at your legs,” he says and grins wickedly. 

Fucking hell.

Your grip tightens on the door, and your brain tries to scramble for reasons why you should absolutely let a reckless stranger into your home. But it’s honestly been a while since you had a guy over. 

Your job is stressful, and most nights, you’re too exhausted to put on makeup and a tight, glittering dress to go out. And even if you do find your way into a club, you never stay too late or drink too much, knowing your alarm goes off early in the morning. 

You give a resigned sigh and step back, opening the door wider. “One drink.”

Mark tries to bite back a shit-eating smirk but doesn’t entirely succeed as he passes you and strolls inside. 

He got you fired. The least he can do is be a decent distraction for one night. 

The whiskey’s nearly gone. 

The bottle’s between you on the coffee table, glowing warm amber under the lamp. Your legs are folded under you on the couch, your head fuzzy and pleasantly light, body thrumming with a slow, steady burn that’s only partly the whiskey and mostly the company. 

Mark’s sitting sideways now, arm slung over the backrest just behind your shoulders, knee bent and almost touching yours. You haven’t told him to leave yet. 

He hasn’t brought it up either.

Instead, the conversation has turned lazy and slow – those late-night murmurs in low light that drift deeper without realizing. You certainly haven’t expected to trauma-bond about jobs, asshole bosses, and sleepless nights with the guy who abandoned you in a parking lot with three children and got you fired.

“So,” he says, voice quiet and rough like smoke. “What’s next for you, gremlin wrangler? Job-wise.”

“God,” you snort at the nickname. Then you give a shrug of your shoulders. “I don’t know. I already put up my post on the website. Probably find a family quickly. Good nannies are a hot commodity in LA, and this house doesn’t pay for itself.”

“Yeah, it’s a nice house. More cozy than the ice queen’s castle in the Hills,” Mark notes and takes another glance around your living room. “What’s the name of the Disney one again?”

You arch a brow. “You mean Elsa from Frozen?” 

“Yeah, that’s the one. Let’s call her that.” He grins wide and a little drunk – maybe on more than just the whiskey. “Of course you know your Disney.”

“Part of the job description,” you quip. 

“How much are you paying rent for this place anyways?”

“Oh, I’m not renting. It’s mine,” you say proudly. The house is small, old, but yours. 

Mark’s brow raises. “You inherited or something?”

“No, dumbass,” you snort a laugh. “I bought it. Couple months ago, actually. Still thinking of what exactly I’m gonna do with this place, you know? I mean, granted, I’m still paying off a huge mortgage, but it’s all mine.”

“Jesus,” he scoffed, brow furrowing. “How much do nannies earn?”

“In LA? Pretty well,” you reply. “If you’re a good nanny, which I am. Elsa actually paid me an annual salary of 200k, including all expenses paid when they wanted me to come on vacation with them. I went to the Maldives three times and twice to Europe. Didn’t pay a cent.”

“Seriously?” Mark sinks a little back into the couch and takes a sip of his drink. “Man, guess I’m doing something wrong. You get that much for dealing with diapers and tantrums? I barely earn half of that, and I’m getting shot at almost every day.”

“Hey, Miles once had a phase where he head-butted me every time he gave me a hug. For fun,” you say, laughing. “And I’m getting shot at with pee, poop, and puke on a daily basis. It’s not all sunshine and Bluey.”

“Honestly, same. I get the pee, poop, puke a lot, too. And the head-butts.” Mark laughs. “I mean, not as much anymore. But surely happened a lot more when I was still working patrol. You know, I think this is the first time I’m questioning my life choices.”

“First time? Really?” you tease with a little grin. 

He matches it. “Maybe happened once or twice before that.”

You then let out a long sigh. “Well, if it helps, I’m questioning my life choices right now, too. I was supposed to go to Europe with them again in September. Just me and the French Riviera.”

“And three kids under five,” Mark adds, copying your wistful tone in jest. 

“Hey, they do sleep sometimes,” you retort, giggling. “And then it’s just me and whatever hot Italian or French guy with an unbuttoned shirt buys me the first drink at the bar.”

“Wow, didn’t know you were that easy,” he taunts you a little, that tiny wolfish smirk spreading under the beard again. “I bought you a whole bottle. What does that get me?”

“You bought me a bottle because you got me fired,” you counter playfully. 

“Fair,” he says, but the smirk doesn’t disappear. “I wouldn’t worry about finding another job. Any family would be lucky to have you. I mean, you care, you know? That’s rare to find in an employee.”

“How do you know? You just met me today,” you challenge him with a little smile. 

Mark leans in a little like he’s sharing a secret. “First thing I noticed about you. I mean, I came running up to you probably looking like a maniac, and you immediately moved in front of the kids and looked at me like you were ready to shoot me in the middle of the street in broad daylight.”

“Funny. That was exactly what I was thinking,” you joke, and he laughs again – full, soft, and warm. 

“Well, anyways, I figured, ‘Yeah, of course she is. Now that’s a great mom.’ And then I find out those aren’t even your kids,” he says, and there’s something in the green of his eyes you can’t quite decode. “So, yeah, I’d say you give a shit, and your next family should give you a goddamn throne.” 

“Smooth,” you giggle softly, your gaze drifting to your fingers in your lap. 

He suddenly groans then and squeezes his eyes shut, pinching the bridge of his nose like he’s in pain and leans slightly forward on his thighs. 

“You okay? Too much whiskey?” you check and tilt your head with a soft smile. 

He chuckles lightly, blinking his eyes back open, and empties his tumbler. “Uh, maybe. Just a headache. Already gone.” He smiles somewhat convincingly, your gazes locking.

A heartbeat passes, and your breath catches. He clocks it. 

His hand moves slowly – first toward your glass, taking it from you without breaking eye contact, then setting it down on the coffee table with a gentle clink. When he turns back, his face is closer and you can almost count each freckle on the tip of his nose. His fingers graze your wrist, tracing upward. He gently pulls a little, and you shift closer till your leg is brushing his. 

It’s silent for a moment. Green eyes drop to your mouth, then flick back up – asking without asking. You don’t pull back or answer, just hold his gaze.

And then, his lips press against yours.

It’s scorching hot from the start. He kisses you like he’s been dying to all night and you’re his goddamn last meal. His lips are plump, firm, and searching, and when you gasp, he takes the opportunity to deepen it, tongue sliding against yours as his hand moves to the back of your neck. 

The tension explodes all at once. He tastes like good whiskey and leather and sweat, and you kiss him like you’re starving for it. You climb into his lap, straddling his muscular thighs, fingers eagerly tugging at the hem of his shirt. He growls against your mouth, hands dragging down your back, gripping your ass hard as you grind against him.

“Bedroom?” he mutters without ever really parting from your skin. 

“Left down the hall,” you pant, breathless. “First door.” 

He hauls you up like you weigh nothing, hands on your thighs, mouth never leaving yours. The trip down the hallway is frantic – bumping into walls, your bubbly laughter tangled in his deep groans, your fingers tugging at his belt as he kicks open the door.

Clothes fly in all directions. You don’t know who takes off what first or in which order. You just know you want to feel as much warm skin underneath your fingertips as you can tonight. 

He bites your shoulder and kisses your neck. You bite his jaw and kiss his collarbone. When there’s just underwear left, you push him down on the bed and fall to your knees in front of him. 

He looks down at you like he’s already ruined – broad chest rising fast, pupils blown wide, boxers tenting with how ready he is. His hands fist in the sheets like he’s trying not to grab you, dark green eyes looking at you as if they want to see what you’ll do next. 

You curl your fingers into the waistband, and he lifts his hips in a silent offering. You drag the fabric down, slow and unhurried, watching the way his cock springs free –thick, flushed, and leaking. Beautiful and heavy, twitching against his stomach like it’s aching for you. 

You take him in your hand first, wrapping your fingers around the base, stroking him just once – slow, deliberate. His hips buck and his eyes snap back to yours. He runs a hand through his hair, head tilting back. 

Then you lean forward and lick a long stripe up the underside, tasting the salt of his skin, the heady musk of him. He groans, deep and raw, as you seal your lips around the tip. 

He’s hot, heavy, and velvety on your tongue. You hollow your cheeks, easing lower inch by inch, and one of his hands finds your hair, fingers tangling between strands. Not forcing – just there, grounding himself as you take him deeper.

But fuck, the sounds he makes? They’re low, unfiltered, almost feral. He keeps muttering your name under his breath like a prayer, and it sends tingles throughout your skin. You pull back just to swirl your tongue around the head before sinking again, letting your spit slick him up as your hand strokes what your mouth can’t reach.

He’s definitely more than the average you’ve usually taken home. And you didn’t even have to take this one home – he’s been practically delivered to your doorstep. Either by God or the devil, you’re not sure yet. 

“F-fuck, that mouth,” he hisses under his breath and twitches on your tongue, hips starting to rock in sync with you. 

And then suddenly, he pulls you off with a wet pop and a hand under your chin, tilting your face up. His eyes are dark, half-lidded, and hungry, jaw locked tight. He pulls you up by your arms into his lap, a secure arm wrapping around your middle as he brushes your hair out of your face with his other. 

“You keep doing that, I’m gonna come,” he says, a lopsided smile tugging at his lips. 

“Thought that was the point,” you tease. 

“My turn.” He smirks.

You don’t get a chance to respond before he’s flipping you gently underneath him and dragging you further up the mattress. He kisses you contrastingly hard – tongue deep, his taste mixing with yours – before sliding down between your thighs and leaving featherlight kisses on your skin in his wake. 

He spreads your legs with both hands, gaze locked reverently on your center like it’s the only thing that matters. 

“You’re soaked,” he murmurs with a sleek smile as he runs his fingers through your slick heat.

And then his mouth is on you. 

Hot, slow licks that make your hips jerk, your back arch, and your fucking toes curl. He groans like it’s his favorite thing in the goddamn world, tongue moving in lazy circles before he wraps his lips around your clit and sucks. Your breath hitches and a strangled moan escapes. 

Holy shit. 

You’re almost sure you could’ve come from that alone, and it’s never this easy. But your own surprise doesn’t last long before you feel one, two fingers join in, and they seem to be even more clever and skilled than his tongue – thick digits curling until they hit that spongey spot that makes you cry out and no one ever reaches. 

Your thighs shake around his head and your hands fly to his silky hair, gripping tight as he devours you. His name falls from your lips among a few curses, and you break with a moan so loud and filthy you’re not sure the neighbors can’t hear it, too.

Your legs lock around his shoulders, your hips grind almost helplessly into his mouth, and he doesn’t stop until you whimper – until you push gently against his head before falling back into the sheets with the most blissful sigh ever uttered on this planet.

He kisses his way back up your body and chuckles against your neck. “Still mad at me for getting you fired?”

“Feeling better about it now,” you grin breathlessly. 

Fuck, you could peacefully fall asleep right now and never wake up and be perfectly fine with that. 

Then his mouth claims yours, and you taste yourself on his tongue. “Condom?” he asks, voice just a smoky rasp. 

Still panting, you silently reach over into your nightstand, tossing it to him with trembling fingers. Despite the satisfying ache in your bones, you still manage to prop yourself onto your elbows as he rips open the foil and rolls it down his throbbing length. 

His eyes find yours in the dark. “You good?”

You nod – dizzy, content, and keen – and kiss him in response, your hands gently pushing his shoulders back into the mattress. He watches you with mesmerized eyes as you bracket his hips. His massive hands spread wide on your thighs and slide higher and higher – gentle and coaxing. 

His cock stands thick and hard between you. Your knees press into the mattress as your fingers slide between you, guiding him to your entrance. The head slips against your folds, hot and slick and pulsing. You pause just for a second, breath catching in your lungs as you brace your hands on his smooth chest and sink down.

And shit, the stretch makes your whole body shudder. He’s so goddamn big, and you feel every single inch as you ease him in – burning, filling, aching. Your walls flutter around him, already overwhelmed. The ache slides into pleasure so quick your head spins.

“Fuck,” he grits out beneath you, eyes squeezing shut. “You feel–… Shit, you feel unreal.” 

You gasp as you bottom out, hips flush against his. You stay there for a heartbeat, throbbing around him as the thick weight of him stretches you to your limit. His warm hands come up to cradle your waist, callous thumbs brushing your ribs like he’s trying to ground himself. 

You find your rhythm gradually, rolling your hips in slow, deep circles. The angle makes you see more stars than there are in the sky – he hits every nerve ending like he was built to wreck you. His hands glide from your waist to the globes of your ass, helping you move, guiding you down harder.

And fuck, it feels good. You ride him like you need it – like this isn’t just sex, but it’s a goddamn exorcism. Sweat slicks your skin, your tits bounce with every movement, and his gaze is fixed on you like you’re the most beautiful damn thing he’s ever fucking seen. 

He thrusts up to meet you, the slap of skin-on-skin filling the room, wet and so goddamn shameless. The friction sends sparks spiraling through your belly, and you lean forward, bracing your palms on the headboard to take him even deeper. 

His mouth finds your neck, your shoulder, your nipples – biting, kissing, groaning your name. You grind down harder, chasing the fire pooling low in your stomach, and watch him fall apart underneath you – mouth slack, eyes wild, fingers gripping your thighs hard enough to bruise. Sweat beads on his chest, and his filthy praises tumble out like he can’t stop them. 

“Shit, look at you–… taking me so good… so fucking tight–” 

Your orgasm hits like a wave against rocks – your whole body trembles, muscles clenching around him, his name tearing from your throat over and over. You barely get your breath back before he grabs your waist, flips you onto your back, and drives into you again – deeper, harder. Animal.

He fucks you like he’s losing his mind and wants to lose it in you. He pounds into you with everything he has left – raw, ragged thrusts, fucking you like he’s trying to leave a piece of himself behind. 

Your legs wrap around his hips instinctively, your nails scrape down his back. He’s flushed, feral, lost in it – but when he looks down at you, it’s something else entirely. This isn’t just about getting off.

It’s about you.

He kisses you as he comes – deep and breathless and wild. 

His body goes taut. You feel him pulse, hear the guttural stutter in his breath as he buries himself to the hilt. He doesn’t move right away. Just pants against your neck, one hand cradling your face, the other pressed tight to your waist like he doesn’t want to let go. 

The air is thick with sweat and whiskey and sex, but underneath it blooms something warmer. It’s like everything else about him – reckless, consuming, and addictive. 

It’s not love. It’s not fate. It’s just heat and skin and something strange humming beneath it all that you can’t name – something that might fade with the morning light.

For now, though, you let it linger and let him stay.

▶️ What If I Told You I'm Back? – SOON

Do we like so far? How did you enjoy that little reader plot twist? I honestly had a little too much fun with this lol. Somehow Mark feels more up my alley than any other Jackles character, and I can't wait to see what else we get from him in the show 👀

I'll post parts of this series randomly whenever the muse strikes, life lets me write, and however the show develops, but we're definitely safe for the next 2-3 parts 🤓💙

⭐️ Tag List PSA: I updated the tag list to include Mark, so if you're not on my Everything Jensen tags, and want to be added to Everything Mark Meachum or this series specifically, fill out the form 🚀. If you received a tag for this story, you're already on the Everything list and will be tagged either way.

Coming Up:

It was a one-time thing. Good sex with a handsome stranger. A moment. A distraction. A hot, borderline reckless one-night stand with a guy who kissed like he meant it and fucked like he needed it.

Yes, it was good. Better than good. But it was also over. That’s how these things go.

You get out of the car, and the porch creaks under your feet as you climb the last step to your house, keys already in hand, eyes focused on the lock. You’re half on autopilot, your brain fried from interviews, LA traffic, and summer heat, when a deep voice cuts through the suburban quiet.

“Hey.”

You flinch so hard you let out a very undignified yelp, keys clattering to the floor. Your head snaps toward the sound, and there he is:

Mark.

He’s sitting on the bench to the left of your front door, half in shadow, one arm resting loosely on his thigh like he’s been waiting there for a while. The other hand, however, rubs the back of his neck like he already regrets being here.

“Jesus,” you breathe, one hand flying to your chest, heart pounding fast underneath your palm. “You scared the shit out of me.”

He stands instantly, clearly aware of how bad this looks – tall and awkward and handsome in the last light of day, offering a sheepish smile. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you.”

You glance at the door, then back at him. “What are you doing here?”

“I was in the area,” he says, which you both know is a lie. He clears his throat a little. “And honestly? Being a bit of a dick.”

Tag List Pt. 1:

@alwaystiredandconfused @xlynnbbyx @lyarr24 @deans-spinster-witch @blackcherrywhiskey

@deansbbyx @foxyjwls007 @ladysparkles78 @roseblue373 @zepskies

@agalliasi @yvonneeeee @hobby27 @iamsapphine @globetrotter28

@lori19 @lacilou @suckitands33 @onlyangel-444 @syrma-sensei

@perpetualabsurdity @yoobusgoobus @jessjad @dayhsdreaming @hunter-or-the-hunted

@k-slla @just-levyy @mrsjenniferwinchester @illicithallways @muhahaha303

@ultimatecin73 @nancymcl @leigh70 @brightlilith @nesnejwritings

@samslvrgirl @xx-spooky-little-vampire-xx @fromcaintodean @barewithme02 @impala67rollingthroughtown

@star-yawnznn @spnaquakindgdom @thej2report @americanvenom13 @lamentationsofalonelypotato

@supernotnatural2005 @stoneyggirl2 @kr804573 @m0e0v0v @youroldfashioned

[rizlowwritessortof]

First of all...

SO HOTTTTTTT! and THEN...

which was AWESOME!!! 😂🤣

I loved every bit of this!!! Amazing, girl!!

SISTER, SISTER

Pairing: Mark Meachum x F. Reader

Summary: You and Mark have an emotional reconnection after he finally comes clean. But that also means you have some unfinished business to take care of with your sister, Rachel.

AN: Wrote this last week because I guess I can't stop myself! 😂 So yep, these Mark stories have officially become a series of one-shots called — ‘Til When Do Us Part. This one is also a gif check requested by my friend @lamentationsofalonelypotato for the 5K Follower Celebration. I think this is an important puzzle piece to explore after Catastrophic Blues. 😉

Word Count: 4.6K

Tags/Warnings: [Set during 1x02] 18+ only! Reunion smut, fluff, an epic cat fight (lol), angst, hurt/comfort

Series Masterlist

His hair dragged through your fingers again. First soft and loose, then gripped tight—desperate, hot tingles across your skin.

It was almost too much.

A halting moan fell from your lips, his biting kiss along your throat as he moved inside you.

“Fuck. Takin’ me better than ever, baby,” he said into your skin, his words gritted out and tinged with smoke and relief. “Gonna feel me for fuckin’ days at this rate.”

The sound of his voice reached deep into your bones. The safety of his arms caged you underneath him on his bed, the old mattress creaking with every test of the springs. He wrapped an arm around your thigh like curling steel, opening you up more for him, making his rolling thrusts hit deeper. Harder. A man possessed.

You gasped, your pussy already throbbing in time with your heartbeat. Your words were barely syllables, but they escaped you nonetheless. "Oh, fuck. Mark..."

He smirked into your neck. His lips trailed down to your shoulder and nipped harder with teeth, just to feel you writhe against him. You whimpered, your sensitive nipples brushing against his chest when you arched back up into him.

His hot breaths further ignited your skin. Your nails raked down the back of his neck and down his shoulder as you held on for the ride—an obscene squelching of wetness and hot breaths, skin against flushed skin. Your fingers pressed into every divot of muscle, as if you could sink right through his skin and make him feel you. Not for days. Forever.

You didn’t have words to speak. It was all in your eyes when they met his. Raw, vulnerable, glassy with pleasure, your breaths unsteady with emotion.

He pulled back a little, just so he could slip his hand between your bodies and find your slick, swollen clit again. He swept the pads of his fingers in the angles and rhythm he knew would serve you best in between his thrusts.

He swallowed your gasp of his name, your whimpers as you shuddered and came. A sensation like kaleidoscope colors, bursting like so many stars. You fucking squeezed him from the inside out for the third time tonight, finally forcing a ragged groan from his own lips as he spilled into you. His hips stuttered a shaky and powerful release.

You grabbed his face and poured your soul into that kiss, a wet and filthy meeting of lips and tongues.

Panting breaths forced their way through his nose, but he wouldn’t break that kiss for all the world. He finally had you back in his arms. He had the scent of your floral soap in his nose, your familiar sweetness on his tongue, your hair threaded through his fingers. He had it all.

It wasn’t the faded memories he clung to in a brick-and-mortal cell, or the daydreams of what if that had been torturing him whenever he saw a girl in a white dress, or a family sitting at dinner with their little kids in highchairs. 

It was you, solid and real.

Your kiss swollen lips dragged from his slowly, reluctantly, with shaky breaths in between.

He let your thighs slip down to rest more comfortably around his hips, but he didn't move just yet. He stayed buried deep inside you.

He brushed your frizzy hair away from your forehead, his eyes a little softer, less crazed. You sniffled as a tear rolled from the corner of your eye. He swept the wetness away with his thumb.

“I know it was good, but you don’t need to cry, sweetheart,” he teased lightly. There was a tender note in his voice though.

Your heart clenched to hear it. Part of you still couldn't believe this was real. Despite yourself, you laughed a little, breathless and boneless.

“I guess it’s just, um…it’s been a while.”

“Really? You haven’t, uh, been seeing anyone?” he asked, trying to hide the hope from his voice.

You snorted. “No.”

Plain and simple. He quirked a smile.

“And you?” you asked reluctantly, as if the answer wouldn't tear into you if he said any form of yes.

He almost laughed. “I was in lockup for nine months, remember?”

Relief allowed you to relax again. A smirk began to curve your lips as your fingers tapped an idle rhythm on his dewy arms.

“What, you didn’t get yourself a little boyfriend? No ‘drop the soap’ action?” you teased.

Mark’s jaw nearly unhinged. He stared down at you, disbelief and amusement warring for dominance at your cheek.

“Oh, you think you’re funny, huh?”

Your whole body shook in effort to contain your giggles, but you couldn’t help yourself.

His tongue poked the inside of his cheek as he tried not to laugh. Honestly, he should’ve expected nothing fucking less from you.

You were still kee-keeing when you caressed his bearded face with both hands, then twined your arms around his neck. But soon, you sobered up.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t… You had to live with those animals for almost a whole year. I can’t even imagine how deeply shitty that was. How scary,” you said.

Mark huffed, shaking his head. He rubbed your arm and pressed a kiss to the inside of your wrist.

“Heh. I was in hell long before I walked into Palmdale,” he said.

The confession slipped through his lips before he could think better of it, but there it was. Your expression fell even more. With a sigh, he stroked your cheek. Then he carefully withdrew, pulling out of your heat. You both felt the loss with soft groans.

He climbed out of bed just to grab a towel from his bathroom for the cleanup.

This was the first time you’d come to his place, just a couple of days since he took you home from that bar in Downtown. Two days since he came clean to you about what happened in Venice. Two days since you somehow found it in your heart to forgive him.

He still didn’t know what the hell he was doing with you. He hadn’t discussed it with you, hadn’t labelled it. It was almost as if you two had picked up from where you left off, except this time, there was an unknown expiration date.

That reminder literally hit him between the eyes. It forced him to pause in the bathroom and white-knuckle grip the edge of the sink. He grimaced and willed the pain away, stifling a grunt. Fuck...not even a moment's fucking peace.

"You okay?" your voice filtered over from the bedroom. Mark turned his face away from the mirror, just in case you could catch an angle of him.

"Yeah," he said, a little rougher. He breathed in deep, until the sharpest edges were passed. He padded back out and brought the dampened towel back to you.

It was late, but he still checked his phone on the nightstand for any missed notifications. He never knew when he might get called in by Blythe—another thing Mark couldn’t tell you about. He wondered if the taskforce was on your radar anyway, what with how D.A. Valwell was consistently trying to butt into their operations.

So far, you hadn’t mentioned anything weird going on with your boss in the office. Maybe Valwell was keeping you out of it. As he should.

You welcomed Mark back into bed and under the covers, luring him into a kiss as he settled in beside you. He drew you into his arms and couldn’t help but stare. He took in every contour of your face. Every shade of beauty.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “Have I said that yet?”

A slight, sad smile twitched at your lips. Your heart pulsed sharply.

“What’s happening to you isn’t your fault. There’s no reason to be sorry,” you said.

“There is a reason,” he nodded. “I didn’t want to leave you twisting in the wind. I just…”

“I know,” you sighed. You watched his profile as he looked ahead, rather than at you directly. A deep breath ran through him, not altogether steady.

“I love you,” he said. He swallowed, jaw clenching. “Think it’s pretty obvious that I never stopped.”

You guided his face back toward you with a gentle hand on his cheek. Your thumb brushed over his lips.

“It’s become painfully clear to me,” you said, “that I’ll never love anyone like I love you.”

Morning came, and you weren’t ready. You didn’t want to leave this house with its familiar smell and its gray-blue walls, which you and Mark painted together. After he inherited the house from his mother, who passed away a few years ago, you helped him clean and touch it up without losing the character of the house.

You were going to officially move in with him after you two got married and let go of your Downtown apartment that was close to your job, but often so empty. Obviously, that move never happened.

“You’re having dinner with your mom tonight, right?” Mark asked, pulling you from your thoughts.

You finished tucking in your blouse into your skirt and began to fix your hair in his wardrobe mirror. You had to go into work, and so did he. He was buckling his belt over his jeans, already dressed in a dark green shirt and one of his favorite leather jackets—the black one you helped him pick out.

“Yeah, every Tuesday,” you nodded. You turned and reached for the edges of his jacket. “I know it’s your business to share, but…can I tell her about what you’re going through? That we’re back together? She would want to see you.”

Mark hesitated. “I’d like that too, but let's just keep this between you and me for now.”

You frowned. “I still can’t believe you haven’t told your precinct. How long do you plan to work like this? Mark, what if…what if something happens when you’re on the job? I mean medically.”

He couldn’t blame you for your worry and concern. He held you by your arms and gave a reassuring squeeze.

“You know I’m on a case right now. It’s important,” he said, trying to communicate the gravity of it through his eyes, the tone of his voice. “After that’s done…I don’t know. We’ll talk about it. That and the, uh, second opinion stuff.”

Despite your lingering worry, a small smile peeked through. “At least you said we.”

Mark flickered at a smile too. He bowed down to kiss you on the forehead, lingering there with a short sigh. Ever since he left you, he’d been operating with a reckless head and a worse heart. But if you were determined to stick this out with him, like you seemed to be, then it wasn’t just about him anymore.

He’d have to protect you too.

“Mmm, smells good, Mom,” you said, shutting the door of your childhood home behind you. Inside, the modest three-bedroom house was filled with the rich savory smell of something warm in the oven.

Your mom, Lisette, waved you over with her oven mitt hand. 

“Hey, honey. Come ‘ere and taste this.”

She took out a large glass pan filled with beef pot roast, complete with carrots, little yellow potatoes, and charred sprigs of rosemary on top.

“Wow, all that for just the two of us?” you asked, kissing her on the cheek. She just smiled and gave you a forkful after she blew on it first. You took the bite and fairly melted.

“Ughhh, so good. It’s been a long time since you made a whole…” You trailed off as you realized it.

Lisette’s smile turned bittersweet. “Yeah, it was your father’s favorite.”

She took off her oven mitts and left the pan to cool on the counter. She braced a few fingertips on the edge of that counter, as if her mind contained too many memories to sort through. You brushed a hand against her arm, earning her attention.

“Thanks. I brought dessert too,” you said, raising the grocery bag in your hand. You set that on the counter as well. You gave your mom a hug, warm and comforting.

Lisette sighed and hugged you back gratefully. She rubbed your back, like good moms did. But when she pulled back, she noted the smile on your face with a raised brow. It was genuine, not the fake ones you gave to pacify her. In fact, you looked more relaxed, more like yourself.

“You seem…”

“What?” you asked in confusion.

“I don’t know. A little happier today, I guess,” she said. “Did something good happen at work?”

You huffed. “No. Valwell’s antsy and frustrated about something, but every time I ask what’s wrong, he tells me it’s fine. Nothing for me to worry about.”

Not to mention, he’d taken three long lunches at odd times in the past week alone. Every time he got back to the office, he seemed more agitated and upset, storming through the halls like they owed him rent money.

“Well, it’s probably above your clearance, honey,” said Lisette. “If he wanted you to know, he would tell you.”

You frowned thoughtfully, tapping a nail on the counter. Before you could think too hard on it, your mom subtly cleared her throat, the way she always did when she was a bit nervous. She busied herself with grabbing silverware for the dinner table. Your brows drew together.

“You grabbed three sets,” you pointed out.

“Mhmm,” she nodded. “We’re going to be three today.”

“Who else is coming?”

Lisette hesitated, didn’t seem to want to meet your suspicious gaze. “Your sister. I invited her.”

Your face fell. Stony and incredulous.

“You did not.”

“I did. You two haven’t spoken in almost a year.”

“For good damn reason, Mom!”

“I know,” Lisette said, in a sharper voice than you expected. After a moment though, she softened. “I know. What she did to you…it’s frankly incomprehensible. But she’s still your sister. Your father would be sick to know you two are fighting like this.”

A harsh sigh fell from your lips. You rubbed your temples with both hands.

“We’re not fighting,” you said. “I’m just choosing to pretend I’m an only child.”

Lisette gave you a sad frown that spoke more volumes than her words could. You felt a stab of guilt for it, but you didn’t take it back. If you had to see that hateful bitch today, then you wouldn’t hold back this time. It would be on sight.

And…of fucking course.

As if on cue, there was a commotion at the front door. The lock began to turn and click. Then the door slid open, revealing Rachel with her key to the house poised in hand. She was a personal trainer and yoga instructor, so she was wearing her skin-tight Halara leggings (yes, the “TikTok Leggings”), along with a breezy crop top.

She had a chain-link purse strung over her shoulder and oversized sunglasses on the bridge of her nose, but you could still see her eyes widen when she caught sight of you, her steps stopping short in the doorway.

You stared right back at her. Your teeth clenched, like a train grinding against the tracks at a hard stop and shooting off sparks. Everything Mark told you two days ago came rushing through your mind—every unwanted touch, every disgusting, manipulative word she used to try and spin him into her web while he was at his worst.

“What—What’re you doing here?” she said, a frightened little deer caught in your trajectory.

You didn’t even answer. You couldn’t speak.

You just moved, rounding the kitchen counter and cutting through the dining room with a purpose. Rachel squeaked, and she scrambled to back out of the house the way she came in. She flung the door open and retreated.

You followed.

“I know what you really did, you lying, psycho bitch!” you hissed. Your voice carried and seemed to slap Rachel upside the head. She stopped on the stone walkway leading up to the house. She turned around, lifted the sunglasses to the top of her head, and she glared at you warily.

“What’re you talking about?” she shot back.

You laughed in disbelief. “Oh, don’t act dumb now. What you did to Mark isn’t just reprehensible. I should file a report and get you fucking arrested for being a vile cunt.”

Rachel’s eyes flashed. Her face screwed up in anger, so much that she strode back up the steps and slapped you across the cheek. Your head twisted to the side at the stinging blow. You even stumbled a little, but your shock gave way to a grim smile.

Can we say, self-defense?

Her face dawned with realization, just a bit too late. She didn’t even have the instincts to duck your punch.

“Goddamn it. Fucking move, people!” Mark muttered uselessly at the cars in front of him.

It had been a long damn day. It also looked like he and the team were heading to Mexico in the morning. Doing a drug run for Javi, a local cartel boss, would hopefully get them one step closer to finding out who he carried a shipment of goddamn fissile material for. They had to find out who was trying to orchestrate another 9/11 in California, before something worse than a car bomb went off. 

Mark was on his way home, cutting through L.A. traffic the best he could during rush hour. His stomach was practically attacking his liver in hunger. He also wanted to see you before he left, hopefully for just a day or two.

Didn’t you say you were over at your mom’s for dinner? Damn, that woman could cook.

How many Sunday dinners had he spent with your family in the past five years? All those Christmases and Thanksgivings, birthdays, Fourth of Julys at the beach and Memorial Day backyard barbeques.

Your mom was a sweetheart, too. She always bought him gifts at Christmas, never forgot his birthday, always saved him a special cut of whatever she was cooking. Truth be told, she was like a second mother to him, especially after his mom passed.

Mark sighed. He closed his eyes for a moment and let his head slowly fall back against the headrest. A warning flash of pain echoed through his skull, like a small oyster knife on the twist.

Fuck me.

It would be good to see Lisette—and be able to share another one of those meals with you too, however many of them he had left.

The traffic light finally turned green. Mark found himself changing lanes, then changing directions. Another twenty minutes had him pulling up to your family home on a quiet residential street.

Well, it was usually quiet.

“Aw, shit.” Was that Rachel out there on the driveway? What the hell was she doing here?

She was beelining up those cobblestone steps right for you. She threw you a slap so hard it snapped your head to the right, making your hair fly in your face.

“The fuck?!” His angry brows furrowing, Mark parked the car and unclipped his seatbelt quick, but when he next looked up, he caught sight of your swift left hook.

“God-damn,” he couldn’t help but laugh. As a man of the law, he knew he should've been stepping in right about now, but this opportunity was a little too satisfying to give up. He stayed where he sat to watch the show.

Rachel went down like a sack of shit.

And you didn’t waste no time. You pushed her the rest of the way down into the grassy front yard and got on top of her, pinning her arms behind her back and wedging your knee in her spine. Before she could swing back and headbutt you, you shoved her face into the grass.

Your dad taught you pretty damn well.

Rachel screamed and cried for help, but all it did was fuel your ire. You felt crazy and deranged, but you also felt alive too, for the first time in a long time.

Meanwhile, your mom watched in worry from the porch. Her protests weren’t strong enough to reach you though.

“Get off me, you fat ugly bitch!” Rachel screeched.

You saw a nice little brown pile the neighbor’s dog must’ve left this morning. It was just close enough for you to grab (unfortunately) with your bare hand. You pulled her head back by her hair and smeared dog shit all over her face—her cheeks, her forehead and chin. Her shrill screech reached new heights.

The neighbors could’ve been watching with shocked open mouths and iPhone cameras raised high, but you didn’t give even half of a fuck. You did quiet her down though, by shoving her face back into the dirt. The lawn was still nice and damp from the afternoon sprinklers.

“Yeah? You like that? Keep talking shit and I'll break your fake-ass nose, which I helped pay for!” you shouted. “I waited in that fucking lobby for hours while they hacked off the old one. I gave you cold compresses for your swollen, puffy lobster face. Now how about I snap that shit off like you’re Mr. fucking Potato Head?”

She cried as if you were killing her. Dramatic, as always. But eventually she stopped wriggling and thrashing so much, just shaking her head and sniveling. Realizing she wasn’t about to get out of this so easily, she switched tactics.

"Okay." She splayed her hands out the best she could behind her back in surrender. "Okay! Jesus Christ, I'm sorry!"

“Oh, yeah? You’re sorry? What’re you sorry for?” you asked.

"I already told you I fucked him! I fucked your fiancé!"

"No, but you tried to," you seethed. "You just couldn't, could you? Because he's a good man, and you're a lying slutbag. Isn't that right?"

Rachel tried to deny it, but the harder you shoved her shit-stained face into the wet dirt, the more she coughed and spluttered. You eased up just enough for her to nod her head, lips trembling.

“I-I’m sorry. I-I was wrong. I didn’t mean for it to end up so bad,” she sobbed. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, just let me go—”

Tears began to sting in your own eyes. “Do you know what you actually stole from me?”

Your breaths shook, along with the inner most depths of your soul. You bent closer to her ear.

“Time. That’s what you took from us,” you said, a coarse whisper. “Time we’ll never get back.”

Rachel continued to cry pitiful tears. You almost, almost started to feel bad for her.

But then, you didn’t. Too many memories were rising to the surface.

“Why’d you do it, huh? Danny Mendez wasn’t enough for you?” you said. “Oh yeah, you remember him, back in high school. You made out with my boyfriend the night of my senior prom, bitch!”

Oh yeah, that was a fun little memory to unlock from the brain bank. You realized now that it established a pattern of behavior, one you still couldn't completely understand. It hurt your heart.

“Why?” you demanded through blurry tears. “Why do you hate me so damn much?”

“Because!” she yelled. Her own tears had mixed with the shit smears on her face. Her lips wobbled. “Everyone thinks you’re so fucking perfect! Mom…Dad…he practically worshipped you.”

Your brows knitted together. “No, he didn’t. What the hell are you talking about? He rode my ass all the time! Way harder than he ever did to you.”

Your dad had been a good man, but he'd also been a fucking hardass. A former marine turned LAPD, from officer to Homicide Detective, and finally Captain. In typical firstborn syndrom fashion, you took on the brunt of his expectations, and even resented him for it at times. But you eventually saw the wisdom and the work ethic he was trying to instill in you.

Then again, it would’ve been better for everyone if he had paid closer attention to Rachel. She had been a wild child who even you had a hard time corralling. Your mom was a loving, nurturing person, but unfortunately, not much of a disciplinarian. Your father had too much on his plate at work to wrangle Rachel in as much as he’d wanted.

“Because he believed in you!” she said. “He didn’t just pick at you or criticize you or tell you what to do like you were one of his little soldiers. He talked to you like…like a person. Even…even when he was dying. He only ever asked for you, or for Mom. He never asked for me.”

You heard the resentment and immature selfishness in her voice, but you also heard the hurt. The deep kind of hurt that could make you lash out at others, just to try to mask the pain.

After a long moment of hearing her pitiful sniffles, you sighed.

“He did ask for you,” you admitted. “That day, when you and Mom went out to get coffee, and it was just me and him…I think he knew it was the end. He opened his eyes for the first time in days, and he said your name. His eyes went all around the room, like he was looking for you.”

Rachel’s body shook underneath you. Her quiet sobs of realization reached your ears.

“I called you, but you didn’t pick up. Maybe you had your phone on silent because we were in the hospital… Anyway, a few minutes later, he was gone,” you said. “But he loved you, Rachel. He just hated that he couldn’t stop you from becoming what you are. Selfish. Insecure. Immature and vindictive. A truly heinous combination.”

Rachel had long stopped fighting you. She just cried and shook like a leaf.

You jolted at a touch on your shoulder. You were surprised to find Mark, looking down at you with calm reassurance and a tinge of humor in his eyes.

“All right, sweetheart. Think she’s had enough,” he said.

Rachel gasped and craned her neck up as far as she could. Her eyes went impossibly wide, her mouth falling open in shock to see him.

Mark helped you up with one hand on your arm and another around your waist. He guided you away from your sister. Rachel pushed off the ground and scrambled shakily to her feet. She wiped at her disgusting face painted with three kinds of shit, but shame was what radiated the most when she looked up at you and Mark.

“I…I’m sorry,” she said.

It was the first time you actually believed her. You didn’t say anything, but you swallowed tightly.

Rachel shot one last glance at Lisette, who was teary herself with disappointment. Rachel grabbed her purse off the ground and retreated quickly to her car. You watched her go, releasing a deep breath and the rest of your fury.

Mark massaged the back of your neck, pressing a kiss to your temple. He felt a surge of pride well up in his chest for you. Not just for being a veritable badass and handling your business, but for still having the kind heart he knew underneath.

“You good, Rocky?” he asked with a note of teasing.

Your lips tugged reluctantly at a smile. You wondered how much he saw. How much he heard. All you knew was, you really needed to get cleaned up.

“I don’t know. I might still be a danger to myself and others,” you said, a little slyly as your gaze ran up to his. “Might even need you to restrain me.”

His brows rose, his resulting grin showing teeth. You still knew how to catch him off-guard, in the best fucking way.

“Mark, is that really you?” your mother asked from the porch.

You two had to put a little pin in your game, for now, but his green eyes were full of promise. His lips twitched upward and he squeezed your waist. Then he looked up.

“Hey, Lisette. Been a while.”

When you and Mark ventured up the steps to join her, Lisette welcomed him into a warm, warm hug. The kind that sunk into his bones and made his shoulders feel a little lighter.

She later sighed and pulled away, giving you both a raised brow.

“It looks like there’s more to the story of what happened last year,” she said.

“That there is,” Mark nodded. He shared a look with you, and with your clean hand, you rubbed his back in support. However he wanted to do this, you would back him up.

“Well, we can talk about it over dinner,” Lisette said. She opened the front door to the house, giving a small smile. “I made a pot roast.”

Mark’s face broke into a grin. “Oh, I’m excited.”

You and your mom had the same laugh, like sweet sunshine.

“You remember my pot roast?” Lisette asked.

“’Course I do. With the little potatoes, sprinkle a’ rosemary?”

Mark held the door open for you like the gentleman he was, and he shut it behind him.

AN: Sister, sister, dog shit eater. Amirite? 🤣

I have another Mark fic in this storyverse for you guys next week! I do have more ideas too (especially after watching 1x05 😭), so I plan to continue this little series as we get deeper into the season. 💜

But until then, I'd love to know what you guys think of this one! I think reader and Mark deserve a lot more "making up for lost time" moments lol. And was her confrontation with Rachel everything you wanted it to be? 😂

Next Time:

Your arms wrapped around his waist from behind. A smile began to tug at his lips on reflex. He felt your head resting against his dewy skin. Your hands inched up his chest and playfully teased with your nails. Little sexy scratch. Little kiss between his shoulder blades. 

“Go back to sleep, baby,” he said. A teasing note crept into his voice, “It’s too early for you.”

“You got in late last night.” Again. He’d been pulling late hours all week. Whatever case he was on, you had a feeling it was a big one. He still wouldn’t give you any details though. Not even when he was gone for almost two days, coming back smelling like a rancid farmhouse and covered in sweat and grime.

“I want to see you,” you added softly. “Kinda the whole point of me being here.”

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Comments under the cut! ❤️

OMG, I LOVE this take on Mark's brain tumor situation!! This is brilliant! (Also I love the idea that he's not really dying, because let's be honest, that's killing me.)

Amazing theory and storyline, love it. And I would volunteer ANY DAY to keep him on my couch and nurse him back to health in whatever way he needed. Just sayin'.

Awesome job, I had no idea what to expect, but this was a complete (and appreciated) surprise!

KISS THE SKY

Summary: The reader is working her first undercover job when infamous LAPD Detective Mark Meachum shows up right in front of her. But she doesn't like coincidences and takes matters into her own hands to get to the truth, no matter the consequences...

Pairing: Mark Meachum x Detective!reader

Word Count: 5,300ish

Warnings: Countdown S1 spoilers, language, angst, life threatening medical diagnosis, suicide references (minor characters), smutty teasing, smidge of violence, Mark dealing with a lot/being a cutie

A/N: Welcome to my first full on Mark Meachum fic! This was written for @zepskies 5K Follower Celebration and was inspired by this color palette!

“Hi,” said a quiet voice. You glanced up from the front desk, alarm shooting through. You’d be eternally grateful that it was not only late so the office lights were dim but that the man in front of you was busy looking down, pulling out his wallet.

Why the fuck was Detective Mark Meachum at a fucking neurologists? You kept your composure, quickly taking his insurance card, Meachum not seeming to recognize you. Not that you expected him to. You’d only met him once during a citywide manhunt back when you were a rookie on patrol. He told you to canvas The Hills, you said yes sir to the incredibly handsome man, and then you hadn’t seen him in five years. 

Fuck, you’d been begging to go UC for six months and you were not about to fuck up your case over the notorious menace of the LAPD that was Mark Meachum.

“Are you new?” he asked tiredly. You put a smile on your face when you saw the weariness of his. 

“I started last week. I’m a resident shadowing Dr. Slatter but the receptionist had to leave early and it’s quiet today so I offered to cover. Figure it’s good to know the whole job in and out, you know?” 

“Sounds like you’ll be a good doctor someday,” he said quietly, a sliver of a genuine smile on his face as you handed back his card. “$25?”

“Uh, yes that’s your co-pay,” you said, Mark holding out a credit card. You swiped it, seeing from his history he’d been coming there for the past nine months, coming in every two weeks the past two months. That wasn’t good. Whatever was up with him was getting worse.

“Well maybe someday you’ll be able to figure out how to get tumors out of people’s heads without it killing them,” he said, putting his card away. You stared at him, Mark closing his eyes. “Sorry. Just uh…long day.”

Something clicked in your head, your breath hitching. Could he…Mark heard it, his eyes snapping open. Fuck, fuck. Recover before he noticed.

“Maybe someday I will Mr. Meachum,” you said. “Drive safe.”

“Have a good night,” he said, leaving the office out the front door. You stared after him, a flurry of thoughts rushing across your mind. You didn’t like the idea of coincidences and Mark Meachum being at this practice in particular was too big of one. 

You had to get back to the station and start researching. Tonight. 

“All the patients gone?” asked Dr. Slatter, walking out from the back. You hummed, hoping he got the fuck out of there so you could leave..

“I think all the staff are too. I didn’t realize we did appointments this late.” He shrugged. 

“That guy is law enforcement, doesn’t work a normal schedule. I fit him in when I can.” You nodded, Dr. Slatter leaning against the desk. “That’ll be important for you to learn. The clock doesn’t stop. Patients will call with worries, concerns, at all hours. Especially in this field.”

“What does Mr. Meachum have?” you asked. 

“Stage 4 glioblastoma. Tumor the size of a large peanut. Guy has probably six months, maybe three of decent quality of life. Depressive tendencies. We should keep an eye on him.”

“That really sucks,” you said quietly, Dr. Slatter humming. 

“Well, I have a reservation I’m late for. You heading out?”

“I was going to stay a bit late. I know I screwed up some of the medical coding when we were busy earlier and I want to get it fixed before I head out.” 

“Remember to lock up,” he said, giving you a wave before he was gone. You spent fifteen minutes doing actual work before you went into the patient files. It was easy enough to find Mark’s file and scans. Dr. Slatter if anything was underselling it. The images alone were jarring and Mark’s dosage of the medications he was on had just been upgraded again tonight. 

And yet…your gut was telling you something different. Patient privacy was a fine line while doing undercover work and technically you were in a morally gray area. You’d agreed to limit your searches on patients on a need to know basis, strictly to maintain your cover while you investigated the doctor.

But you needed to know if your instincts were right which meant accessing all of the files.

You stuck a thumb drive in the side of the computer and ten minutes later, you’d erased the history of the download and were in your car. The station was a twenty minute drive away and it gave you an excuse to check for a tail. You swung through a drive through, whistling as you drove, checking your rear view mirror a few times. The coast was clear but still, you parked in the garage of the apartment building across the street and snuck down to the underground tunnel, crossing under the street to get into the station.

“Well if it ain’t the rookie,” said your former training officer as you entered the bullpen. “Been two weeks and you miss me already?”

“Sergeant Garrison, you know I can’t get enough of you,” you said, plopping down in the empty chair next to his desk. He frowned, narrowing his eyes. 

“Don’t you have your own desk downstairs?”

“I need information. You worked with Mark Meachum back in the day right?” He scoffed. 

“We were P1’s together. Guy fucks up cases for the rest of us but that’s not news to anyone. Why ya asking?” 

“I saw him at my UC job. I need to know if he’s got enemies.” Garrison stared at you, sighing deeply. “What, you’re not going to give me the scoop?”

“Aren’t you supposed to do your own investigating?” You batted your eyes. “Y/N.”

“Remember that time I saved your life…” you trailed off, Garrison rolling his eyes. “Please? I could use another set of eyes before I head back under in the morning. I’ll let you and Jennifer stay at my parents cabin in Aspen again…”

“You’re bribing me and it’s working.” You plopped the bag of chicken nuggets on the desk with a grin.

“Meet me in conference room C in five.”

Three AM

“Holy…” you said to yourself, smacking Garrison’s arm. He popped his head up from where he’d fallen asleep, paper stuck to his face. “Look at this!”

“Oh god, I thought it was only a nightmare that I was still at work,” he grumbled, rubbing his eyes. You smacked him again, turning your laptop towards him. “What’s got you so hot and bothered?”

“This is Mark Meachum’s MRI scans,” you said, Garrison resting his chin in his hand. “Look at this.”

You clicked open another file, Garrison tilting his head. “You opened the same file, genius.”

“No. I didn’t.” He perked up, pulling the computer closer, reading the name on the top of the second set of scans. “Mark Meachum and former detective Linda Prisen have the exact same MRI scans and I mean exact. Same growth, same size, same pictures at the exact same durations. In what world does that happen?”

“Someone saved over Meachum’s file?” he asked tiredly. You sighed, taking the computer back. “Y/L/N, it’s an admin error.”

“Once is an admin error. Twice?” you said, hitting another file, Garrison staring at the screen. “Officer Terry Bridges. Three cops all with the same set of scans. How do you explain that?”

Garrison’s eyes darted around the screen for a long moment before finally finding yours. “First things first, separate your facts and theory. The smart thing to do would be to wait, gather information, build this into your investigation.”

“He thinks he’s dying,” you said quietly, Garrison sighing. “Garrison, I looked into Meachum and he’s had run ins with The Gray Skulls before. I don’t think he’s actually sick. I have to tell him.”

“You don’t know that he isn’t.” You rolled your eyes, gesturing to the computer. “Devils advocate here. He has headaches according to this file, right?”

“Yes but the meds he’s on are strong and the dosage has been ramping up. Those are strong medications to help with things like migraines, vertigo. If you pump that crap into someone that doesn’t need it at a high enough dosage, there are side effects,” you said. “Next argument.”

“Meachum went to the doctor of his own accord. How’d Slatter drug him before he started writing prescriptions for him then?” 

“Easy,” you said, cocking your head. “Meachum took a hit to the head by a murder suspect who coincidentally happens to be part of The Gray Skulls. It was probably an average concussion which made the initial headaches real. He was referred to Dr. Slatter, you know, a trusted doctor regularly used by the department, who then probably oh so kindly suggested an MRI to check the concussion and bob’s your uncle. Meachum gets a magic MRI showing he has a tumor in his head.”

“You realize how batshit crazy that sounds right?” asked Garrison. “It’s a stupid crazy chain of events that Dr. Slatter had no idea would happen.”

“Dr. Slatter knew it would happen because he knew the murder suspect because, again, that damn suspect is part of The Gray Skulls which, oh, I’m investigating Dr. Slatter as being part of,” you said, hitting Mark’s arrest records, showing him arresting a member of the gang just the day before Dr. Slatter’s file on him started. “Meachum is set to testify in court against this guy. Meachum’s sent a number of guys in this gang to jail. We know for a fact The Gray Skulls are trying to level up. You don’t need to gun down a cop when you got a doctor that will nudge him along.”

“Y/N-” You stood up, hands on your hips.

“Prisen? Bridges? Both made arrests against The Gray Skulls and both were set to testify before…” You inhaled sharply, Garrison softening his face. “Prisen killed herself with pills and Bridges disappeared off the face of the planet after a supposed last hurrah hiking trip. Dr. Slatter put them both on an antidepressant not long before they…he already dropped the seed tonight that Mark was depressed which I sure as shit don’t believe. The guy is fucked up but he’s not there. I guarantee Slatter is going to give Mark pills he doesn’t needs soon and nudge him along. I’m not letting that man kill himself when he’s got another forty years left in him. Fuck my case. I’ll get the doctor on this shit if I have to.”

Garrison leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms. He bit his bottom lip, releasing it slowly.

“What if Mark Meachum is actually dying and you fuck up your case for nothing?”

“Then I’ll deal with the fallout.”

“They might demote you, put you back on patrol the rest of your career, shit they might fire you. Why do you care so much about this guy anyway? Most of the people he’s worked with can’t stand him.”

“He deserves protection, just like the rest of us.” Garrison tilted his head, sizing you up. “What?”

“This sudden devotion to Mark Meachum wouldn’t happen to have anything to do with your brother?” You narrowed your eyes, fighting back the way your heart raced.

“I have three brothers. Be a little more specific.” 

“Oh, I don’t know, maybe Kyle?” You clenched your fists, Garrison sighing. “You’re letting personal conflict impact your case. In fact, you are so damn close to this thing, I should report you, get you taken off it.”

You gathered up your computer and files, shoving them in your backpack. “Rookie, you know I’m right.”

“It is Detective Y/L/N,” you snapped, Garrison stiffening in his chair. “You’re right, I have an extra investment in making sure Mark Meachum is not in the same position as Kyle. The investment that I said I’d have every other person’s back on the job no matter what. Same investment you’re supposed to have.”

You put your backpack on and started to leave, Garrison swiveling out of his chair and rushing around the table. “Okay, okay. I’m being a dick cause the guy is a bit reckless and endangers others. But why throw your case away over it? Odds are Meachum won’t do something drastic. Just work your case and-”

“Garrison.” You stared up at him, his tired eyes full of worry. Not for Meachum but you. “My case is not worth a man’s life. If this were any other cop, would this even be a discussion?”

“You don’t know that he doesn’t have cancer! You are not allowed to disclose undercover cases to those without a need to know. I’m not even supposed to know and yet you dragged me into it. I-”

You held up a hand, putting a smile on your face. “I just remembered. You and Meachum were rookies together. You just don’t like the guy, that’s it, isn’t it?”

“He’ll fuck up your case,” he said quietly. “He did it on a big bank robbery case when we were your age and slapped the guy with a stupid assault and battery charge. Screwed up months of work all so he could arrest the guy himself. He’s done it over and over again and doesn’t give a shit about his fellow officers so no, I do not feel a sense of loyalty to him.”

“Well, it sounds like Meahcum’s the kind of guy I thought you were.”

“He’s a fucking menace-”

“Our job is to protect people,” you shot back.

“Not that motherfucker.” You blinked at him, shaking your head.

“Goodbye Garrison. Don’t feel the need to contact me outside of work ever again,” you said, leaving with a pep in your step.

Did you know for sure Meachum wasn’t sick? Nope. Would your case explode if you told Meachum and he tipped off Dr. Slatter? A million times over. Would you get kicked back down to patrol forever? Probably.

Still, you didn’t hesitate for one second to look up Mark Meachum’s address and head straight over. 

You sucked down a cup of coffee on Mark’s front porch while hitting his Ring doorbell incessantly. It dinged, your gaze drifting to it for a split second.

“Drunk girl, it is four in the fucking morning,” a tired grumble came from the device. “Wrong fuckin’ house.”

“Mark Meachum, I don’t think so,” you said, leaning over the camera. 

“Wait, you’re the doctor intern thing at Dr. Slatter’s,” he said. There was a shuffling and you saw a light turn on in the house. He opened the front door, raising his eyebrows. “Weren’t you wearing those lilac scrubs yesterday?”

“I’m impressed you know what that color is,” you said, brushing past him inside, his hand immediately catching your bicep. “Detective Y/N Y/L/N. Narcotics.”

The door slammed shut behind you, Mark narrowing his eyes. You flicked your eyes up to his bedhead. It made him look like an angry hedgehog and you couldn’t help but smirk at it.

“Leave the bag on the ground and then you can get on your knees, hands on your head.”

“You didn’t even buy me dinner first,” you said, Mark reaching behind himself, pulling a gun out of the waistband of his sweatpants. You set the bag down and stepped back against the front door, holding your hands up. “My badge is in the front left pocket.”

“Never said I didn’t believe you were a cop,” he said, keeping the gun by his side. “If you’re worried I’m going to blow your cover, you should have gone through department channels instead of coming to my fucking house in the middle of the night.”

“That’s not why I came here,” you said, Mark tilting his chin towards you. You lifted up your scrubs, giving him a view of your very skin colored bra and the fact you had no weapon or wires on you.

“Jesus fuck, I didn’t ask for a strip tease. I want you to explain yourself, weirdo.” You flipped him off, taking a step towards the bag. His hand moved so fast you didn’t catch it. You landed flat on your back, Meachum on top of you as you tried to get some air back in your lungs. The cold barrel of his gun wound it’s way under your jaw, the spike of fear and adrenaline not helping the whole not breathing thing. “Let me explain something, Detective Y/L/N. You’re not following protocols which makes me very suspect of you. Now, a friend of mine just died and I am extremely paranoid at the moment so I would start talking and fast.”

“I don’t think you have cancer,” you blurted out. His eyes flared wide, first in shock, then anger. He grabbed the collar of your scrubs, lifting you straight up to your feet as he stood. You felt like a ragdoll when he pushed you back against a wall, the gun in his hands pressed hard against your forehead. His eyes were practically black, body so close to yours you couldn’t effectively fight him, not when he was so much stronger.

“Because I should trust you, some fuckin’ rookie detective playing doctor. Get the fuck out of my house before I find out who your captain is and get you drop kicked to the graveyard shift for the next decade.”

“Why would I lie? If I were playing you, I would broken in and killed you in your sleep,” you said, shoving him off and picking up your bag. “Just get a second opinion, Meachum.”

You stormed out of there, wondering why the hell you gave up medical school to be dealing with this crap in the first place.

You were exhausted by the time you were getting home the following night. You hadn’t gotten any sleep before heading back UC and were ordered to report in after your shift at Dr. Slatter’s. Which, shocker to no one, turned into you being yelled at for two hours by the Captain, your direct supervisor and that snitch Garrison. Apparently Gary had strong feelings about Mark Meachum and “didn’t want to see you get hurt” and bullshit bullshit bullshit. You might have believed that before in the heat of the moment it came out that Meachum had arrested a guy Garrison was after which would have gotten him the tap to become detective himself.

Telling Garrison he was a lazy investigator when it came to real crime, didn’t have the balls or instinct to be a detective, and there was a reason so many of his former trainees had surpassed him career-wise probably hadn’t helped your case.

But you’d swear on your life you saw the rest of them smirk in agreeance for a split second. 

For now you were off the Slatter case and would be finding out in the morning what the verdict was regarding your fate. Until then though, you were going to pound back a sleeve of mint Oreos, raid your liquor cabinet and then sleep like a rock.

You slowed when you came up to your house, an old, very well taken care of, Ford Bronco parked in your driveway. A figure was sitting in the chair on the small front porch area you occasionally had a morning coffee. You carefully pulled in beside it, the figure not looking up. Five seconds later you were walking around the cars, backpack slung over your shoulder, gun tucked in the back of your periwinkle scrubs.

“Purple your favorite color or some shit?” asked Meachum quietly, barely glancing up at you.

“More of an indigo girl. Best of both worlds,” you said, a brown paper bag by his feet. “Whatcha doin’ here?”

He stood up slowly, nudging the bag with his foot closer to you. “Asked around. Heard you like Johnny Walker Blue.”

“While I appreciate you blowing your paycheck on what appears to be three gigantic bottles of the stuff, why? Last we talked I got the impression you weren’t my biggest fan.”

He shivered in the night air but it wasn’t from the cool. His head dropped, shoulders raising with a deep inhale. The next breath came quicker, Mark’s fingers gripping into the denim over his thighs. 

“Did you get a second opinion, Mark?” you asked softly. He nodded, the breaths coming faster and faster. You watched him carefully, waiting to see if he’d put a stopper back on the bottle that was about to bubble over or finally let it pop. “What did the other doctor say?”

“Scan showed nothing,” he whispered, darting his eyes upwards. His green eyes were red rimmed from the remnants of what you’d imagine was a happy but very confused breakdown in that Bronco not long ago. For the moment, despite the shake to his voice, they were dry. “You were right.”

“I’m glad you’re-” He pulled you into a fierce hug, his whole body shaking. It hurt with how hard he was holding you but you didn’t say that to him. You reached your arm around him as best you could, patting the top of his head as he buried it in your shoulder. “Mark, is there someone I could call for you? I don’t think you should be alone tonight.”

“I’m always alone,” he mumbled. You closed your eyes, hugging him back, his large body trying to burrow into yours. You felt it the moment he felt self-conscious, trying to tug back but you just held him, Mark only fighting it a millisecond before he was relaxing. “Why’d you tell me you didn’t think I was sick?”

“All part of my grand plan to get some free booze.” He let out a dry laugh, his whole body moving with it. “I’m serious. I was running low and thought this was easier than dealing with the store.”

“You’re so weird,” he chuckled, straightening up, closing his eyes, wincing in pain.

“Did you stop taking the medicines you were on?” He nodded, pressing his hands to his temple, as if applying pressure would relieve the white hot searing across his skull. “The medicines you were on at the dosages you were taking can cause side effects. The next few days are going to hurt as your body withdrawals from them.”

“Days of this?” he winced, trying to breathe through it. “Do me a favor and bash my skull in.”

“After I just got my ass reamed out for telling you? No way, Meachum. I figure you owe me at least twenty more years of life for all the shit headed my direction. Come on,” you dragged him inside, getting him settled at the kitchen table. You set an orange gatorade down in front of him. “Drink that while I make you something to eat because I seriously doubt you remembered to eat today.”

“...How’d you know that?” he asked, chugging the bottle half down in one go, his eyes still shut. You dimmed the lights overhead, Mark slowly peeling his eyes open. 

“Because you’re a man who clearly doesn’t give a shit about himself and is now faced with dealing with the fact he won’t actually be dead this time next year. I don’t think hitting your macros was on your radar today, bud.”

You set a loaf of bread down in front of him that was borderline stale but he wolfed it down, alternating between his drink and that as you whipped up food on the stove. Ten minutes later you put a plate of three eggs with tomato, onions and peppers down and a stack of three pancakes in front of him. He ate as fast as you could get syrup and butter out of the fridge, Mark already finishing by the time you popped a pancake in your mouth.

“Drink more water,” you said, putting a glass down, Mark chugging it too. 

“You got any advil? Tylenol?”

“Sure. I got some Midol too if you get crampy.” He paused setting his drink down, giving you a look. You grinned, chewing on another pancake. “I suggest you don’t take anything and focus on staying hydrated and fed the next few days. Stay in a dark room, sleep when you can, take hot showers. Ride it out.”

“...How do you know this shit?” he asked.

“Because I went to med school. Dropped out one semester shy of graduation for the very lucrative career of an LAPD detective which I’m probably getting demoted tomorrow. I make really awesome life decisions if you couldn’t tell,” you said, sitting down across from him, Mark smiling to himself. “It’s not a bad idea to get the advice of an actual doctor-”

“No more doctors,” he said. You nodded, Mark finally pushing the empty plate away, letting out a huff of air as his stomach probably yelled at him for stuffing himself so fast. “So you’re telling me I got you in trouble I take it?”

“It’s hard to believe, I know, but a lot of people in the LAPD don’t like you for some reason,” you grinned, Mark smirking. “Don’t worry about it.”

“Why risk your case for me? I wasn’t actually dying, only thought I was.” You looked down, biting the inside of your cheek. “Whatever the reason was, I owe you-”

“I left med school because my brother jumped off a bridge.” Mark was still, silent, the air heavy. “Do you know what Huntington’s is?”

“That neuro disease with no cure that kills you.” You nodded, Mark sighing. “Your brother had the gene.”

“When I was in med school, my oldest brother worked at a genome lab. Me and my three brothers did it over Christmas, thought it’d be fun to see our ethnicity make up and shit. Maybe give it to our parents for shits and giggles. But results came back and turns out the baby, Kyle, he’s got the Huntington gene. Kyle was a freshman in med school and knew exactly what it does to you. He struggled with the pressure of school and he’d just gone through a bad breakup. We never even got the chance to talk to our parents. Kyle just…decided it was too much and jumped off a bridge that night.”

“Y/N, I’m so-”

“An intern at the lab got the lab results mixed up with another Kyle. My brother Kyle? He wasn’t sick. I’ve never blamed that intern. Kyle made a stupid choice based on a mistake.” You stared at Mark, his green eyes boring into yours. “Do you understand now, Mark? Why I told you?”

“No stupid choices over here. Ever,” he said, holding up his hands.

“Smart man. Kyle regrets that choice every day and I’m not dealing with two of you,” you said, Mark’s eyebrow raising. 

“Kyle’s…alive?” 

“Us Y/L/N’s are a hard headed bunch. Fucker broke both legs and was back in med school a year later,” you said, Mark blinking rapidly. “I never said it was a tall bridge.”

“Surprised you’re not a lawyer with a mouth like that.”

“That’ll be my next career after I get canned from this one,” you said, Mark eyeing you up and down. “Careful, Meachum. Last man that looked at me like that wound up tied to my headboard and your body can’t cash the check your eyes are delivering right now.”

“I see why you wear the cute little scrubs. Detracts from the sailor mouth,” he said, scratching the side of his head. “And while we will circle back to this wonderful idea involving a headboard you have, I have an idea to help both of us out. My head’s already killing me and I have to work tomorrow-”

“No way. Two hours from now I wouldn’t even trust you to operate a microwave let alone carry a gun.”

“I know which is why we need to call my boss. I’m on a task force right now and this is not the kind of job you can call in a sick day for.” You raised an eyebrow, Mark pulling out his phone. “You sub in for me on this, Blythe will pull whatever strings he has to in order to make sure you not only keep your job but stay on as a detective. We got a deal?”

“A task force? I get I did you a favor but I’ve only been a cop for-”

“Trust me, a troublemaker like you is exactly the kind of person this team wants.” You leaned back in your seat, pinching the bridge of your nose. “You aren’t going to make me beg, are you?”

“...You owe me another bottle of booze,” you said, standing up with a groan. He was about to argue but you held up a hand. “The booze is for the fact I’m a good person who doesn’t feel comfortable sending you home alone to deal with this shit and you’re going to end up crashing on my couch for the next several days I suspect.”

“I can repay you in other ways when I’m feeling better-” You put a hand over his mouth, shushing him. His eyes were a mix of teasing and masking the current egg scramble that was his head at the moment.

“Just call your boss, Meachum.” You patted his head and slipped past him, ready to take a quick shower and change before checking on him again. He caught your hand before you could leave though, your head turning back over your shoulder. He parted his lips, a vulnerability in his face again. “I’ll be ten minutes, okay?”

“Why are you taking care of me?” he asked. “I literally shoved a gun in your face last night.”

“I was going to be a doctor at one point. Taking care of people is just something I do.” He frowned, not quite believing that. You threw your head back, closing your eyes. “My job is to protect and serve and that includes you.”

“Bullshit. Why would you go out of your way to feed me and-” You spun your wrist around, grabbing his hand instead. Mark watched you push his hand back down to the table. “I’m not some fuckin’ wounded animal.”

“Actually, you are,” you said, leaning down in his face, Mark scowling. “You need a friend right now and you showed up on my porch all on your own. Sorry to disappoint but I actually give a shit about my friends and that means making sure they don’t make stupid fuckin’ choices or get close to even feeling like stupid choices are an option. Am I clear?”

He stared at you, nodding once. You turned around, Mark clearing his throat. “So just curious, how often do you turn your other friends on cause that was strangely hot.”

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” you shot back, ripping off your scrub top on the way down the hall. 

“You’re torturing me on purpose. That’s what you’re doing. You realize this is the second time in less than a day you’ve shown me your bra.” You turned around and kicked off your your scrub pants, shrugging your shoulders as his eyes drank your body in. “I’m going through drug withdrawls over here and you’re trying to kill me.”

“Sounds like a you problem, Meachum,” you said, going back down the hall, giving him a view of your backside. “This is my house and I’ll wear whatever I want in it.”

“They’re fuckin’ see through?” he said to himself, voice three octaves higher minimum. At least he’d forget about the earsplitting headache he had for thirty seconds. “You know this is cruel and unusual punishment if we don’t hookup eventually. Check the Geneva convention, it’s in there.”

“Call your damn boss and then get your ass on the couch, Meachum,” you said. “Or else you ain’t seeing shit from me ever again.”

You didn’t turn around but you didn’t miss the way the chair scrapped behind you as Mark practically dove onto the couch.

A/N: Well there's my first truly official Mark Meachum fic! Please let me know what you thought!

[rizlowwritessortof]

To My (Insecure) Fanfic Writers

I don't care. I don't care that you didn't have a banger of a opening line. I don't care that the ending didn't have a morally impactful lesson. I don't care that you spent 500 out of 900 words explaining the setting. I don't care about the grammatical errors or the lack of sesquipedalian words or even the translational errors for bilingual characters. I don't care how outrageous, silly, or nonsensical the plot is. I don't care whether the fic is 250 words or 25,000 words.

What matters is that you did the damn thing - you made something a stranger like me could visualize from an idea that came from your head - and I think that's so damn beautiful. You have no idea how many people have read and think back on your work every day. It may not be many but it's wonderful to think that someone out there remembers something you made simply because it made them feel or question something.

So no matter the kudos, reblogs, likes, bookmarks, or comments, you - and what you create - matter and this fellow reader appreciates all of your blood, sweat, tears, and hard work. I hope you post that fic you've been worried about and you find love in what you do/create (because at the end of the day, even your drafts are better than any AI-generated garbage). 💚💜💚

[rizlowwritessortof]

All the loves, Abbie 💖💖💖 Glad you're doing better, glad you're taking your time and taking care of you, friend. Take all the time you need, we're not going anywhere. 💖

Hey Guys!

I am alive and kicking. Although i’ve been absent for quite a while i do hope everyone is well ❤️

As for a little life update….

I am sorry for not being around lately, and i’m going to be honest as to why, as i know i am not alone, but I’ve unfortunately fallen into a bit of depression. I’ve suffered with depression most of my life, but i have down periods that leave me a lot less myself, hence the absence.

I am trying to get better, it’s a little slow in the works but this kind of thing takes time. I haven’t been able to read or write anything in a long time, so i do take the recent inklings of inspirations to write as a good sign. Because i do miss it, and this community. 💗

So maybe something might be popping up from me soon… if there are readers of mine still out there 😅. And i hope to be able to catch up on some reading myself from all you talented lovely people.

This isn’t the last of me, but it isn’t also all of me just yet. But i’m trying so be patient with me 🥹.

I do want to offer a personal thank you to @ambiguous-avery and @jollyhunter for reaching out even when i have been hard to reach, i really appreciate your support and understanding and consistency in my wellbeing. We may have never met physically but it’s touching to know even through the internet, and a little fandom online, you can meet such lovely people. 💗

As to others who have offered open lines of communication if needed i thank you deeply too!

Ily guys!!

Abbie 💗💗💗

[rizlowwritessortof]

Bittersweet was the perfect description for this - healing and hurt all in the same package, I can't even imagine how it would feel to learn about the betrayal and then about his tumor. I would lose my mind if I had him and knew I was going to lose him that way. Hurts to even think of it.

You portrayed all of that so well - awesome job, Alex, even though my heart aches! 💔💔💔

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 💜

⋆˙⟡ Get notified when every new story drops! Add yourself to my Tag Lists ⟡ Follow my fic library blog - @zepskieswrites - with notifications on. 💜

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Mark Meachum Masterlist

Main Masterlist

Mark Meachum Tag List (Part 1):

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 💜).

@luci-in-trenchcoats @lamentationsofalonelypotato @winchestergirl2 @deans-spinster-witch @roseblue373

@chevroletdean @hobby27 @kazsrm67 @foxyjwls007 @mostlymarvelgirl

@midnightmadwoman @lyarr24 @ladysparkles78 @waywardxwords @twinkleinadiamondsky

@rizlowwritessortof @jackles010378 @nancymcl @spnaquakindgdom @bettystonewell

@this-is-me19 @spnwoman @illicithallways @pieandmonsters @deansbbyx

@stoneyggirl2 @cheynovak @jollyhunter @deanwinchestersgirl87 @rachiem4-blog

@leigh70 @aylacavebear @kmc1989 @siampie @masked-lost-girl

@spnbabe67 @deanbrainrotwritings @alwaystiredandconfused @supernotnatural2005 @globetrotter28

@cookiechipdough @winchesterwild78 @samanddeaninatrenchcoat @iprobablyshipit91 @bleuatlas

@mrsjenniferwinchester @fromcaintodean @kiddieclaws

[rizlowwritessortof]

A Soldier Boy drabble (I blame MJ @thoughtslikeaminefield for inspiring this with the aesthetic for her delicious fic Rules Are Rules )

No warnings - except Soldier Boy naked 😏 Hope you enjoy!

It wasn’t your fault. You were just following orders.

“I want eyes on him at all times, do you understand? We don’t know how he’s going to react to being back here, and we need to make sure he assimilates. Slightest hint of trouble, you call immediately for backup.”

“Yes, sir,” you had answered. So, yes – you were just following orders. Very strict orders.

But no one could blame you for enjoying your job.

Soldier Boy had just finished a thorough workout, and his grey t-shirt was dark with perspiration, clinging to his muscular frame. You observed through the hidden camera as he entered his shower room, one hand reaching behind his head to grasp a handful of the shirt and pull it over his head, tossing it aside. His sweatpants and boxers followed, kicked out of the way disdainfully before he reached in to start the shower, then headed for the toilet.

You could only see his back as he relieved himself, but you weren’t complaining as he rolled his head a little to stretch his neck. He was perfectly formed – broad shoulders, muscles shifting beneath tanned skin with every slight movement. His strong back tapered down to a slim waist, delectable peach of an ass, and thick thighs.

And then he turned around, and for a moment it was hard to breathe. There was definitely no reason for him to be shy – not that he would be. You swallowed hard and watched as he stepped into the glass-walled shower, the rising steam surrounding him as he tipped his head back, the water cascading over his body.

He shampooed his hair, and your eyes followed the trail of lather as it made its way down. Your imagination had your hands gliding over his slick skin, over the swell and dip of muscle in his back, down to clutch at his ass as he fucked you hard and fast. You squeezed your thighs together to try and ease the needy ache there, but it wasn’t helping.

You watched him on the monitor as he turned his back to the spray, lathering his hands and washing himself. You were finding it hard to sit still in your chair, wishing your hands were the ones slicking his chest with soapy foam, then moving lower, and lower, and finally… You moaned out loud as he soaped up his cock, then slid his hand down to knead at his balls. He let his head drop back, his lips parting, the fingers of his other hand wrapping around his steadily growing erection.

His tongue trapped between his teeth, he began to stroke slowly, and you heard a low, sensual groan come through the speakers. Then, suddenly, he froze. His eyes scanned, searching, moving gradually up until he was staring straight into the camera. The camera he wasn’t supposed to know was there.

You stopped breathing, as if he could hear you. How did he know? You stared back at him, heart pounding, wondering if he knew where you were located.

Then he smirked, his movements becoming deliberate, taunting. He continued to fuck into his fist, his eyes heavy-lidded, droplets of water falling from his lashes and his hair. He caressed the head of his cock with his thumb, his voice low, intimate, as if he were whispering into your ear. “You like to watch? Gettin’ you all hot and bothered?” He moved a little closer to the camera, moving one hand up and tugging at his nipple, making you whimper in the quiet of your little room.

“Maybe you should just come on down here and join me.”

Tag List #1:

 @saenalife    @deanscarlett    @jensensgotyoudean    @jinkieswouldyoulookatthis    @deansdirtylittlesecretsblog 

   @geeklibrarian    @leatherwhiskeycoffeeplaid      @mrswhozeewhatsis    @littlegreenplasticsoldier    @sleep-silent-angel  

  @darcia22    @winchesterprincessbride    @ellen-reincarnated1967    @eyes-of-a-disney-princess      @deanslittleangel2y5  

  @melanie451        @spectaculacular-sammy     @bookchic20    @jodyri    @selma-jean-blog   

        @savingapplepie-eatingthings    @kittenofdoomage    @masked-maiden42    @lean-mean-deanwinchester    @ericuhlorain  

  @undecided-garden    @ceeceewinchester    @typicalweirdbookworm          @callmesweetheartifyoumeanit    @youtoldalie 

   @tanithlowisabamf-blog    @deandoesthingstome    @jxackles    @nerdwholikesword    @soivebuiltupaworldofmagic  

  @kreweofimp  @gabavaldman    @chaos-and-the-calm67-blog    @darkx143    @disassociativedogma  

[rizlowwritessortof]

Ohhh. This meme hurts. 🤣

[rizlowwritessortof]

Things That Are Unfairly Attractive to Read About a Man Doing...

›› Speaking in that low, wreck-your-world kind of voice that hits somewhere deep in your chest, like a secret only your bones understand.

›› Leaning against a doorway like he’s daring the entire room to challenge him, and the wall’s just collateral damage.

›› Clenching his jaw when someone else makes you laugh, like he's trying not to admit he wants to be the only reason you ever do.

›› Saying “don’t look at me like that” while he’s looking at you like he's already undressing every layer of your soul.

›› Handing you his hoodie, and it smells like midnight and sin and that cologne that haunts your pillow for days after.

›› Touching you like you’re a story he’s been dying to read with his hands, slow and full of reverence, not rush.

›› Whispering something raw and stupidly honest at Midnight. like the dark won’t remember, but you always will.

›› Calling you out so calmly it slices deeper than yelling ever could, because he knows his silence echoes louder.

›› Snapping, just once, and the instant after, looking at you like he’d cut out his own tongue to take it back.

›› Knowing all your tells without asking, like your whole body speaks a language only he bothered to learn.

›› Letting you go even though it’s killing him, because love isn’t the same thing as holding on.

›› Saying “come here” with a voice that makes your knees forget how to hold you up, not a suggestion, not a plea.

›› Smiling for the first time and only at you, like you’re the sunrise after a century of war.

›› Resting his hand on the back of your neck like it's the most natural thing in the world, like you’re his anchor.

›› Standing behind you in the mirror and not saying a word, just watching like you’re the most dangerous, beautiful thing he’s ever survived.

›› Walking into a room and scanning for you first, every time, even when he swears he’s over it.

›› Laughing in that low, surprised way when you challenge him, like he forgot how much he likes the fight.

›› Saying your name like it’s both a prayer and a dare.

›› Looking wrecked in a way that makes you want to destroy whatever did that to him, or hold him so tight it never happens again.

›› Brushing his thumb over your lip mid-sentence, like he’s thinking about kissing you but hasn’t decided if it would ruin or save him.

›› Waiting until you walk away to fall apart, because he doesn’t want you to see that you’re his breaking point.

[rizlowwritessortof]

I had EXACTLY the same thought about him breaking off the engagement!!! (And in your version, sister Rachel is a HO)

And isn't it amazing to have yet another Jensen character to be in love with??? 🥰🥰🥰

DOWNGRADE

Pairing: Mark Meachum x F. Reader

Summary: There it was. The beginning of the end, and neither of you saw it coming.

AN: Ahhh here we go! For the first time ever, Mark Meachum! Obviously I’m still learning this guy as a character, but this idea grabbed me and wouldn’t let me go. Thanks so much, @luci-in-trenchcoats for choosing this color prompt for the 5K Follower Celebration!

Word Count: 1.2K

Tags/Warnings: 18+ only. Fluff, implied smut, and rom-com vibes, until the angst sets in (lol). Medical diagnoses, implied cheating

Spring

Mark set two mugs of coffee on his nightstand to free up his hands. He had to cut wide swaths through the bedsheets to reach you. As usual, you were a tangle of limbs and frizzy hair.

“Jesus, what’d you do here, woman?” he said, lips tugging at a smile when he heard your muffled giggle.

Eventually he unearthed your head and found your sleepy smile. You squinted at the sun glaring through the window behind him. It backlit that look of fond amusement on his face.

You clawed half-blind at the front of his shirt and pulled him down to you. He lost his footing and grunted as he fell, just barely catching himself from crushing you. Your laugh rang in his ear and forced a chest-shaking rumble out of him too.

You freed your own arms from the warm nest you created, just to take his face in your hands. Your thumbs caressed along the coarse edges of his beard.

“Getting scraggly, baby,” you remarked.

“Yeah, but you like your man all wild and caveman-like,” he said mischievously.

You shook your head, but you still couldn’t stop yourself from smiling.

“Only when he fucks me,” you said. A cheeky challenge in your eyes.

Mark’s brows popped high, his devilish grin showing teeth. It didn’t matter how long you’d been his, you still managed to keep him on the ropes.

“Well, he does aim to please.”

Summer

The sound of your laugh was like sweltering sunshine in his chest. After the wave finished dunking you both, you swept the salty sting of the ocean out of your eyes and clung to his shoulders in the water.

Santa Cruz agreed with you. It shone down on your glistening skin and caught in your eyes. You both needed this—taking a beat, just the two of you.

Finally, Mark had allowed himself to take some time off. He was reluctant at first, workhorse that he was. But the Captain—your father—insisted that Mark take a break. Wrapping up a triple homicide after four months of legwork, getting to see that motherfucker be denied bail until trial, and giving the victims’ families a sense of relief that the killer was off the streets was a decided win.

“You’ve got someone waiting for you,” the Captain reminded him. “Don’t take that for granted.”

Mark grabbed your left hand and pressed a kiss into your palm. He felt the coolness of metal against his lips. It reminded him to turn your hand over.

“Whoa!” He closed his eyes and playfully looked away as if he was being blinded. “Who gave you that fucking rock?”

The summer sun glinted off a modest stone. Your sister told him not to overthink it. Just get the classic square cut. But his instincts told him to go with something called a “cushion,” like the sales lady said at Jared’s.

Mark knew he made the right choice when you gasped, covering your mouth with shaky hands, your eyes filling with tears when you met his slightly nervous ones.

Now, you just laughed in his face. “Oh, nobody really. Just the love of my life.”

His smile quirked, even though his heart was double-timing.

“You’re so fuckin’ cheesy.”

“But you love it, though.”

(That day, you both spent an extra hour looking for the ring when it somehow slipped off your finger and fell into the sand.)

Fall

“I’m just saying, sweetheart,” Mark said, his tone deep and gentle while he steadied you in his arms. “Maybe it’s best we put off the wedding, just a few months. It’s a lot coming at you right now.”

You shook your head, covering your mouth with trembling fingers.

“No,” you said eventually, but your words faltered along with your unsteady breaths in between. “No, he wouldn’t have wanted that. I just wish he, uh…could be there.”

You were a pillar of a woman, but no one could fault you for falling apart. Your father had been a lifelong smoker. He quit ten years ago, but it still caught up to him in his sixties, a severe case of COPD that he’d been trying to hide for months. It eventually withered him down to weeks of degeneration in a hospital bed, relying on oxygen masks that could no longer sustain him.

Your mother and sister had left the room for just half an hour to grab some coffee. You stayed behind.

You were alone with your father when he died. All you could do was hold his hand.

Now, all Mark could do was hold you. But he had to blink past a sharp pain, almost like a sudden migraine. Aftershocks reverberated through his skull, radiating from the right to the left.

He’d been dealing with less intense versions of the feeling for a month, but this time, it was like a small shiv between the eyes. It took him enough by surprise that it forced a grunt out of him, making him grimace and blink hard.

You picked your head up from his chest and met him with tearful eyes, frowning in concern.

“You okay?” you asked.

“Yeah,” Mark said. “Just a little headache.”

Winter

“Mark, you need to go to the doctor. You’ve gone through three bottles of Advil. That’s not normal.”

“Look, I told you already. I’m fine.”

“Yeah. That’s really convincing.”

“…Look, that’s Rachel pulling up. You ready to go?”

 You looked out the windows near the front door and saw your sister walking up the driveway. You blinked, like you both could and couldn't believe what you were seeing.

“Wow," you said. "She couldn’t have found a skimpier dress to check out the church. Who’s she trying to impress? The pastor’s already married.”

Mark snorted in amusement, but something soon occurred to him.

“Didn’t you tell me she and her boyfriend just broke up or something?”

“Yeah, but what does that have to do with it?”

He shrugged. “Eh, I don’t know. She’s probably just looking for attention.”

You sighed. You loved your younger sister, but there were times when you wished she’d just grow up a little.

One appointment with Mark’s primary doctor led him to the oncologist. His entire inner world was leveled with just two words:

Glioblastoma Multiform.

Two words he couldn’t say to you.

It all rang between his ears…

The excitement in your voice when you told him how your last fitting went for the dress.

Faces he’d put behind bars. Years he’d scraped and clawed his way through bureaucratic bullshit, standing his ground against officers with more power than him, but never as much heart.

Your raw, broken grief when you watched your father waste away from the absolute monument of a man he’d been.

How was Mark supposed to level your world too?

He kept it all inside. And like the master of improv he was, he faked enthusiasm for a joint bachelor-bachelorette weekend.

One late night. One fifth of whiskey at the hotel bar turned into numbers he stopped counting—until the Captain reminded him.

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.”

AN: 🫣 I know, I know - I'm sorry it's not my usual happy ending. 💔 But! I am working on a second part to this for @waynes-multiverse, who also requested Mark Meachum for the 5K Celebration...though that one's gonna be even angstier than this one loll 😅 (but maaaybe with a kind of happy ending?)

In the meantime, what did you think of this drabble? Don't you wish we could've stayed in Summer? ❤️‍🩹

⋆˙⟡ Get notified when every new story drops! Add yourself to my Tag Lists ⟡ Follow my fic library blog - @zepskieswrites - with notifications on. ❤️

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Mark Meachum Masterlist

Main Masterlist

Tag List:

I haven't built out the Mark Meachum tag list just yet, but he's now available on my Tag List form, for anyone who wants to add themselves.

For this post, I'll just include the Dean Winchester tag list and some others who I think are interested in Mark Meachum. Next round, I'll only tag people who want in on the tag list.

@lamentationsofalonelypotato @winchestergirl2 @deans-spinster-witch @roseblue373

@hobby27 @kazsrm67 @foxyjwls007 @mostlymarvelgirl @globetrotter28

@midnightmadwoman @lyarr24 @ladysparkles78 @waywardxwords @twinkleinadiamondsky

@rizlowwritessortof @k-slla @jackles010378 @alwaystiredandconfused @nancymcl

@this-is-me19 @spnwoman @illicithallways @pieandmonsters @deansbbyx

@stoneyggirl2 @cheynovak @jollyhunter @deanwinchestersgirl87 @rachiem4-blog

@leigh70 @aylacavebear @jessjad @kmc1989 @siampie

@masked-lost-girl @spnbabe67 @deanbrainrotwritings @alwaystiredandconfused @supernotnatural2005

@impala-dreamer @spnaquakindgdom @my-stories-vault @0ccvltism @bettystonewell

@bleuatlas @podiumackles @samslvrgirl

[rizlowwritessortof]

From him ^^^ and me!! 😁🎉🎉🎉💖

I've never actually done this before...

Reaching follower milestones has never really been my main goal here. I hopped over from Ao3 to the Tumblrverse two years ago to share my stories and see if I could connect more with any potential readers. What I didn't know was how amazing SPN (and adjacent Jackles fandoms) would be over here...

How much fun I would have expressing myself, challenging myself to write new things and grow as a writer, and getting to vibe with my readers and other amazing writers.

I now consider some of those special people my friends, and they continue to make my day better every time we interact — whether it's hyping each other up and fangirling in each other's comments and reblog comments, or talking about everything and nothing in our DMs. That support has gotten me through some rough times in the past two years.

So "celebrating" this milestone of over 5,000 followers is really just me saying THANK YOU to everyone who's supported me by reading, commenting, and reblogging my work, helping me brainstorm, giving me inspiration, or just simply being my friend! 💜

⋆˙⟡ WAYS TO PARTICIPATE:

Because you guys know I'm extra af 😂, there are 3 sections to choose from:

⟡ Ask Me Stuff

⟡ Summer Writing Challenge!

⟡ Mini Fic Requests

Ask Me Stuff:

⟡ Let's revisit these EOY Artist/Writer questions. Ask me any of them!

⟡ Ask me anything you want to know about my storyverses: Break Me Down, Unravel Me, Lost On You, Midnight Espresso, Smoke Eater, The Honorable Choice, Every Second Counts, Take Me Home, or any others!

Summer Writing Challenge:

If you're feelin' frisky and wanna join this summer writing challenge of less than 5,000 words before September 1, here's how to play...

💗 Gif Check: I'll send you a gif depending on the character you choose from the list below. Write a story that matches the vibe or completes the "scene." Just shoot me an ask with the character you want to write about, and request a gif!

🎨 Color Prompt: You choose a character from the list below. I'll choose a color palette for you based on what I think your aesthetic is!

🎙️ Songfic: Give me a character + a decade and/or genre of music, and I'll give you a song to match!

**Guidelines:

Submissions with pairings can be Character x Reader, Character x OC, or Character x Character.

(Please no RPF or Wincest.)

Include tags, notes, warnings if necessary - including if it's 18+

Please use the "Keep Reading" break if it's over 500 words.

Max word count 5,000 (for your sanity lol). Minimum 500 words.

Tag @zepskies (me) somewhere in the post.

Include this tag - #Zepskies 5K - within your first 5 tags.

Send me an ask until July 30! Post your fic by September 1.

I will of course read and reblog with my thoughts on your amazing work! If you get a chance, please try to do the same for others who participate. At the end, I will compile a master rec list of each fic submitted. 💜

Mini Fic Requests:

Uno Reverse! 🔄 For these drabbles (1,000 words or less), I will only answer non-anonymous asks so I can verify if you're over 18. Please make sure your age is listed in your bio! 😉

Check out the "characters I currently write for" down below. My inbox will be open for these types of requests from June 27 - July 4 only!

💗 Gif Check: Pick a character from the list and send me a gif! I'll do my best to write you a drabble that matches the vibe.

🎨 Color Prompt: I've been getting a lot of inspo from color aesthetics and moodboards lately. Pick a character from the list and a color. Any color! I'll do my best to write a drabble with that color scheme in mind.

🎙️ Songfic: Most people who know me know that I get a lot of inspo from music. Pick a character from the list and send me a song you think I'd like! I'll do my best to write a drabble that fits the song.

☕️ Characters I currently write for:

(or would like to write for)

⟡ Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester - Supernatural ⟡ Soldier Boy - The Boys ⟡ Mark Meachum - Countdown ⟡ Beau Arlen - Big Sky ⟡ Russell Shaw - Tracker ⟡ Joel Miller - The Last of Us ⟡ Javier Peña - Narcos ⟡ Harry Castillo - The Materialists ⟡ Alec McDowell - Dark Angel ⟡ Jason Teague - Smallville ⟡ Boaz Priestly - 10 Inch Hero ⟡ CJ Braxton - Dawson’s Creek ⟡ Éomer, Aragorn, Haldir, Thranduil - Lord of the Rings/The Hobbit

THANK YOU!! (Part 1)

@luci-in-trenchcoats @lamentationsofalonelypotato @waynes-multiverse @deans-spinster-witch @roseblue373

@wvffles @tofics @kazsrm67 @mostlymarvelgirl

@chevroletdean - Thank you for giving me the idea for the "color" prompts and the guidelines for the writing challenge with your 500 follower celebration!

@winchestergirl2 @lacilou @lyarr24 @ladysparkles78 @waywardxwords

@twinkleinadiamondsky @my-stories-vault @0ccvltism @wayward-dreamer @waywardlatina

@rizlowwritessortof @k-slla @jackles010378 @alwaystiredandconfused @nancymcl

@this-is-me19 @spnwoman @illicithallways @pieandmonsters @deansbbyx

@deanwinchesterswitch @stoneyggirl2 @fics-pics-andotherthings-i-like @jollyhunter @moodyquesadilla

@deanwinchestersgirl87 @rachiem4-blog @leigh70 @aylacavebear @jessjad

@siampie @spnbabe67 @talltalesandbedtimestories @sam-is-my-safe-word @redhoodieone

@deanbrainrotwritings @alwaystiredandconfused @supernotnatural2005 @kmc1989 @foxyjwls007

[rizlowwritessortof]

LOOK AT THIS MAN

Do you like this man?

Are you 30 years or older?

Do you enjoy waxing poetic about this man?

Go follow @storytellers-contest-tjac to learn more about an epic, upcoming contest for you.

[rizlowwritessortof]

Thanks for the reblog and the awesome compliment - and yeah, I WISH!!

Ride the Storm

This is just an excuse for smutty smut with Dean in a thunderstorm, because storms just send me to that headspace. Bringing all of you to smut jail with me. Hope you enjoy the ride! 😏😉

Pairing: Dean x Reader

Word Count: 2678

Warnings: SMUT. Oral (male and female receiving), tit-fucking, did I mention there's smut?

Beautiful storm dividers by @firefly-graphics

You walk into the library, tossing your still-damp hair over your shoulder. You’re fresh from the shower, dressed in just a thin, clingy t-shirt and a pair of sleep shorts, since Sam is gone, chasing down a vengeful spirit in Des Moines with Eileen.

Dean is focused on his laptop, and you slide up next to him, his arm reaching out the circle your hips as you stand beside him. “Whatcha doing?”

“Just waiting for you,” he says, glancing up at you, then really looking, his eyes roaming over your barely-there clothing. He lets out a low hum, hugging you close as he snuggles his face into your side. “God, you smell good,” he says, his voice muffled, and you grin, your fingers scratching gently through his hair.

You look at his laptop, nothing there but the weather forecast. “Storms tonight?”

He sits back up, nodding. “Yeah, no warnings or anything, just thunderstorms pretty much all night.” He closes the laptop and pulls you close as he looks into your eyes. “Remember that job in Oklahoma, the stormy weather? That was a good night,” he says, his voice warm with the memory. “I’ve always loved how storms make you a little crazy.”

You slip your arms around his neck. “Unfortunately, you can barely hear them down here in the bunker.” You shrug, bending down to kiss him. Your kiss is slow, gentle, his hands drifting down to cup your ass. Then he tilts his head, slanting his lips against yours, the kiss deepening as he kneads at your soft flesh and pulls you closer. When he stops, he meets your smile with one of his own as you speak softly. “I have an idea. How about we take Baby out. Park out in the open, in the middle of the storm. I’m in the mood to be a little crazy.”

“Mmmmmm,” he hums as he leans in to nibble at your neck, sending goosebumps skittering over your skin. “Let’s do it.”

A few minutes later, you’ve slipped into your Nikes, and Dean comes back into the room with a couple of blankets, topped off with two bath towels. “In case things get messy,” he grins when you look up at him, and you laugh. “I’m gonna grab some beers, meet you at the car.”

“And some water. In case we get messy,” you reply, and he flashes a grin at you over his shoulder as he leaves the room.

In no time you’re on the road, a six-pack cooler loaded with beer and ice (and two bottles of water) on the passenger side floor, next to the shoes you’ve already kicked off. You sit next to Dean, your legs curled up on the seat beside you, his arm around your shoulders. It hasn’t started raining yet, but there is a dazzling light show already beginning in the skies around you.

Dean knows exactly where he’s going – a wide-open field a couple of miles from the bunker, a fenced-off pasture nearby with cattle off in the distance. He pulls up in the middle of the wide-open space, sky visible on all sides, and parks just as the first raindrops begin to fall.

He shuts off the engine, then turns to you and leans in close, his lips barely brushing over yours. You hold your breath, your eyes drifting closed as he kisses you for real, his tongue teasing at the seam of your lips, and you grip handfuls of his shirt as you respond with a sigh.

Dean manhandles you over to the middle of the seat and pulls you over to straddle his lap, his hands gripping your hips and pulling you flush against his rapidly hardening cock. Your hands caress his face before moving down to rest on his broad shoulders, giving you leverage as you grind against him.

You lift your head and look down at him, watching his jaw clench at the pleasurable friction. “Baby?”

“Yeah,” he growls back, teeth clenched.

“Turn around, lean back on the door for me.”

He looks into your eyes, his tongue darting out over his lips as he realizes your intent. You move off his lap and let him move to pull one leg up to lay straight against the back of the seat, the other foot braced on the floor. You bite your lip and then smile at him before unlacing his boots, helping him take off the one on the seat as he pries off the other one. Then you crawl up between his legs and reach for his zipper, easing it down and popping the button, pulling down his jeans and boxers as he lifts up to help you.

The lightning is almost constant now, the thunder low and rumbling. Thunderstorms have always touched something almost primal within you, made you feel wild, unchained. You want to take him with you, make him feel the same way.

You lean in to give him a hungry kiss before lowering yourself down to slowly lick the tip of his cock. He lets out a harsh breath, one hand flying to grip the steering wheel and the other clutching at the back of the seat as you drag your tongue up the length of his shaft, then take him into your mouth.

His head thumps against the window as he rears back, his hips rising as you take him in deeper, sucking and laving at the slit as you pull back. You gently tease at the head of his cock with your teeth, then suck him down again, reaching between his thighs to fondle his balls. You hum with satisfaction as you begin a slow rhythm, taking him deeper with each bob of your head, reveling in the sounds forcing their way from his lips.

He breeches your throat, and you fight the urge to gag, swallowing around him. He swears, a string of broken, incoherent words as his hand flies to your head, fingers tangling in your hair. His grip tightens as you bring him closer to the edge, until he’s finally unable to keep from bucking up into your mouth.

His fist tightens in your hair until it stings as he loses control, plunging in deep and causing tears to leak from your eyes. You brace a hand on his thigh, trailing a fingernail lightly over his perineum, startling a strangled cry from him as he comes, spurting hot and thick into your throat and mouth.

You clean him off gently, moving back as he removes his hand from your hair, breathing hard as he recovers. You reach down for a bottle of water from the cooler, taking several swallows before replacing the lid. When you put the bottle down, Dean moves to pull you close, kissing you as he crushes you to his chest. You finally break apart, both of you needing to breathe. “Fuck, I love when you get like this,” he says, his hand cradling your face as you smile. “How about we get in the back so I can return the favor?”

Dean grins at the needy noise you are unable to suppress. You pull back from his arms, turning to lean over the back of the seat. As you slide your way over, he hooks his fingers into the waist of your shorts and yanks them down, leaving you to land bare-assed on the back seat. “Very smooth, Winchester,” you laugh, shaking your head at the proud smirk on his face.

“I thought so.” You spread one of the blankets over the seat, placing the other near the door as a pillow. Dean does an awkward dive over the front seat, grunting in pain as his knee hits the floor.

“That was graceful,” you laugh at his landing. He groans as he rights himself, then smirks at you as he grabs your hips and pulls you towards him.

“Smartass,” he responds, dropping a kiss to the inside of your knee before propping your leg up on the back of the seat and arranging the other with your foot planted on the floor, legs spread wide. He glides his fingertips up the inside of your thigh, his lips parted as he stares down at you. “This wet just from sucking me off? So fucking hot, baby,” he mutters, then settles himself, somehow, into the space remaining and begins to place warm, open-mouthed kisses on your pussy before his tongue darts out to taste you.

A rumble of thunder all but drowns out your moan as he goes to work on you, hands holding you open to him when your legs fight to close around his head. He drives you to a shuddering orgasm quickly with his tongue and lips, then begins to fuck you with his fingers, twisting and stroking over your sweet spot with his usual unerring accuracy until you’re on the edge again. He sucks on your clit and you come hard, pulling at his hair and shouting his name, finally pushing him away when you grow too sensitive. He drops kisses to the soft skin of your thighs and stomach, then pushes back and strips off his shirts, then his pants. You watch, your eyes roaming over his body, letting out a breathy sigh of appreciation.

He’s hard again, and there is heat in his eyes as he moves back over you, pushing your shirt up and pulling it over your head as you raise your arms to help. “God, I love these,” he whispers, then bends to tongue a nipple between his lips.

He’s so good with his mouth, the way he flicks his tongue over your nipples, sucks with just the perfect amount of pressure, nips and tugs with his teeth just enough to add a sharp edge to the pleasure. He has you writhing underneath him as he moves from one breast to the other, teasing you until you whimper his name. “Dean, need you, now.”

He latches on to your soft flesh, sucking a mark onto the upper curve of your right breast before he lifts his head and moves up to kiss your lips, hungry and demanding. “Want me to fuck you, sweetheart?” he mumbles against your lips, nipping at your bottom lip. You whine and nod, and he sucks on your lips one last time. “Roll over for me, on your knees.”

His callused hands smooth over your ass as you adjust your position, and you push yourself back as you feel the head of his cock prodding at your entrance. Dean torments you, dragging the tip through your folds, nudging at your clit as you make an impatient noise. “So demanding,” he teases, then lines himself up and presses forward, bottoming out with some help from you. You let out a pornographic moan as he fills you to the limit, gasping for air as your body adjusts itself to his girth.

He rocks his hips, barely moving, a low groan in his throat as he basks in the feeling of being inside you. “God, you feel good, baby.”

“Mmmmmm. Yeah,” you answer. “But if you don’t move, Winchester – I’m gonna…” He chuckles softly, then draws out and slides back in, slowly at first, then harder as you say his name again in a warning tone. He hooks an arm around your hips, one hand pressed against your lower belly, the other hand pawing at your bouncing, swaying breasts as he begins to drive into you hard and fast.

You stare out the window, eyes unfocused with pleasure, the lightning flashes in the raindrops on the windows glittering like jewels, the thunder vibrating deep inside you. Dean is fucking into you deep, and the combined sensations of the storm raging outside and his cock slamming into you are mind-blowing in the best possible way, incoherent sounds forced from you both with every powerful thrust. He’s hitting that spot that makes you see stars, and he’s nailing it hard, the tension building inside you steadily until it’s almost frightening, but you welcome the inevitable explosion. He shifts his hand lower so he can rub at your clit, and it ends you.

You wail out his name as you come hard, your head spinning as every nerve ending fires, as white hot as the constant lightning in the sky surrounding you. Dean slows, grunting at the vise-like grip you have around his cock, easing back the friction on your clit as you buck and whimper your way through your climax.

When you finally take a deep breath and blow it out, he pulls back, ready to rail into you again, but you shake your head, your voice rasping and breathless. “No. Wait.” You put your hand over top of his, the one that has a grip on your breast, your nipple caught between his knuckles. You turn your head slightly, still panting. “I want you to fuck my tits. I want to watch you come.”

“Uhhhhhh, fuck.” The words are punched from his gut, and he moves his hand quickly from between your thighs. You can feel him wrapping it around the base of his cock, clamping tight as he pulls himself free from your still-pulsing cunt. “Jesus, baby.” He doesn’t loosen his grip as you move slowly, adjusting your position until you are lying flat on the seat beneath him, looking up at his face as he fights back the urge to come. It’s so fucking hot that your clit throbs almost painfully again, and you let out a soft whine.

He looks down at you, his chest heaving as he blows out breaths between his lips. When the urge finally releases its grip on him, he shifts himself into position, and you snug your breasts up on either side of his throbbing cock, cradling it in the valley between them. He’s hot and velvety smooth against your skin, and the look on his face is worth everything.

“Go ahead, baby – come for me,” you say, and he begins to move, the slick from being inside you letting him glide smoothly between your tits. His hands are braced, white-knuckled, on the door and the back of the seat, and he groans long and low as you tilt your head up and tongue at the head of his cock on every upstroke.

You keep your eyes on him, your cunt pulsing, on the edge again at Dean’s expression, a cross between desperation and bliss. His teeth clench hard as the first wave hits him, and you manage to catch most of it on your tongue as he growls your name, and you shudder as another mild orgasm washes through you. Three, four more thrusts between your breasts and he is finished, both of you messy and sticky, spent and sated.

After a few exhausted seconds, he straightens up, sitting back on his haunches as he looks down at you, a weak smirk curving his lips. “You’re tryin’ to kill me,” he mutters, and you answer with a weary grin.

“Definitely more fun alive, Winchester,” you quip as he reaches into the front seat for your bottle of water, then for a towel from the back window well. He wets it and leans up to gently clean a bit of come from your eyelashes, then the rest from your neck and chest.

“That was hot as fuck,” he says. “And now I need to sleep for about 4 days.”

You laugh softly, turning to your side on the seat and patting the area behind you. “Well, c’mere.” You hand him the other blanket from under your head, and he spreads it out, then crawls underneath and tucks himself behind you, pulling you into his arms. He nabs the other towel and jams it under his head, and you use his arm as a pillow, breathing a contented sigh as you rest back against him, listening to the rain still pelting the roof of the Impala.

“God, I love storms,” you whisper, and he drops a kiss on your neck as you drift off in his arms.

Tag List #1:

 @saenalife    @deanscarlett    @jensensgotyoudean    @jinkieswouldyoulookatthis    @deansdirtylittlesecretsblog 

   @geeklibrarian    @leatherwhiskeycoffeeplaid      @mrswhozeewhatsis    @littlegreenplasticsoldier    @sleep-silent-angel  

  @darcia22    @winchesterprincessbride    @ellen-reincarnated1967    @eyes-of-a-disney-princess      @deanslittleangel2y5  

  @melanie451        @spectaculacular-sammy     @bookchic20    @jodyri    @selma-jean-blog   

        @savingapplepie-eatingthings    @kittenofdoomage    @masked-maiden42    @lean-mean-deanwinchester    @ericuhlorain  

  @undecided-garden    @ceeceewinchester    @typicalweirdbookworm          @callmesweetheartifyoumeanit    @youtoldalie 

   @tanithlowisabamf-blog    @deandoesthingstome    @jxackles    @nerdwholikesword    @soivebuiltupaworldofmagic  

  @kreweofimp  @gabavaldman    @chaos-and-the-calm67-blog    @darkx143    @disassociativedogma