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wvffles · 2 days ago

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so so good !!!!💖💖 sidenote, i hope someone gives sammy a hug after all that, lol :’)

your first note made me laugh, and to your end note; ✨listen to the voices✨ (🫶🏽)

It's Between the Words

Main Masterlist - Dean Masterlist

Read on A03!

Tags: Dean Winchester/Female Reader, fluff, friends to lovers, light angst, love confessions, lotta smut (fingering, body worship, oral f!receiving, p in v sex)

Summary/Warnings: One sided love hurts. Burns. Eats you alive. But it might not be one sided. It might just be hard for Dean to say he loves you back.

Author's Note: Emotionally Constipated men it's okay. I got you a laxative.

Word Count: 10.7k

“You got sauce on your nose.”

You frown at Dean, watching you oddly across the dinner table. “Huh?”

He taps the tip of his own nose, and you’ve never seen that expression on his face before. It’s oddly focused, for someone just telling you about stray bits of dinner. And his whole body is tensed, the same ways as when he’s hunting.

Like this is critical. Vital. People will die, if you don’t get the sauce off your nose.

You wipe with your napkin, mimicking where he’s pointing to. “Did I get it?”

“No.” He grunts, brows furrowing. “Here."

He taps the exact same spot, and you sigh. “Dean-“

Your words die in your throat as he leans over the table, holds your gaze, and swipes his thumb over the tip of your nose. It sends little bolts of lighting up your spine and burns in your lower stomach. He touched you. He’s touched you before, but now he’s touching your face, and the tiny point of contact between his thumb and your nose is going to be branded for the rest of your life. He sucks the bit of sauce clean as he leans back, and it’s not reasonable to tackle him over the table and scream that you love him. Also not reasonable to dump the rest of your dinner on your head and see if he’ll clean that too.

So you settle for clearing your throat and whispering, “Better?”

“Yeah.” Dean mutters, still watching you.

It truly is a strange expression. Brows pinched, tight-lipped, jaw clenched. You’d think he was angry, if you couldn’t see the softness in his eyes. They’re almost glossy, as if he’s going to start crying.

But before you can ask if he’s okay, the look vanishes, and his voice returns to normal.

“Better.”

———

It’s quiet tonight.

It’s quiet most nights, in the bunker. The days can be filled with chaos and shouting and loud bangs—followed by another shout, this one from the garage as Dean decides he’s okay and doesn’t let anyone check in to verify that—but then the day moves on, and the night is quiet.

Sometimes you’re home alone. Sam will pack up for a few days to visit Eileen for a few days, and the last loud noises are Dean teasing Sam about having a girlfriend, then the rumble of an engine as Sam pulls out of the garage. Dean then groans, gives you a strange look, then grumbles that he’s going out.

He never asks you to go with him. It’s a small mercy, but one that only turns bitter in the morning, when he returns with a mark on his neck and the smell of cheap perfume.

Those are the nights you hate the most. Sam has Eileen. Dean has anyone he wants, but he doesn’t want you, and you’re alone. You lie in the silence of the bunker alone, and try not grab your gun at every single creak down the hall, or start crying when the pain hits your just right. When the darkness of the night gets under your skin, and you don’t have anyone to help you chase it away.

You always wipe your tears before Dean comes home.

He doesn’t need to worry about more things. If you can love him in one, silent way, it’ll be never making him worry.

That’s why you love these types of quiet nights. There’s no pain or worry. At worst, all of you are tired, and energy is something you’ll need to save for the morning. Sam goes to do yoga—because he’s insane—and you and Dean watch a movie.

“Don’t eat the ice,” Dean mutters your name as you both move around the kitchen for snacks, and you roll your eyes.

“You’re not my dad, Winchester-“

“It always makes you cold-“

“And that’s my right as an American.”

Dean snorts. “Pretty sure we’re both enemies of the state, sweetheart.”

“So?” You stick your tongue out at him, then squeak as he tries to grab the glass from your hands. “Hey-“

“Calm down, I’m just giving you the maple syrup.” He holds up the bottle, and you eye him suspiciously. “C’mon, I’m not gonna try and take it from you-“

“Yeah, you are- Dean-“

He grabs you by the hook of your elbow, tugs you forward, and hold your gaze as he pours the syrup into your ice. Your lips are parted, and your knees are weak, and he’s not even really touching you. You need to get it the fuck together.

“Thanks.” You mumble, and he shrugs.

“Don’t.”

He shuffles off to the Dean Cave, and you sway uselessly for a second before scrambling after him. And when the movie starts, you try to pay attention to the screen instead of Dean’s thighs. But he always spreads his legs, tips his head back slightly, and throws his arm around the back of the couch.

It's not fair. He’s just there, and now you have to swallow and pull your knees to your chest.

“You cold?”

You blink at him in the dark, and Dean’s looking at you. He should be looking the TV. He’s always looking at the TV. You’d know.

You’re always looking at him.

“No.”

Dean frowns. “You look kinda cold, I can grab a blanket-“

“I’m not cold, Dean.” You force yourself to stop rubbing your calves. “Do you want a blanket?”

“Nah,” he gives you another odd stare. “I actually feel kinda hot. You sure you’re good? If you don’t feel well, we can go to bed-“

“I’m okay.” You cut him off with a voice that’s too soft, and you know he hears it.

But we.

He can’t say we can go to bed, when you know it’s just going to be you.

“I’m just tired.”

He shrugs, frown still tight on his handsome face. “Then we’ll finish in the morning-“

“No- Dean-“ You grab Dean’s wrist before he can take the remote, and he raises his brows.

“You’re tired, sweetheart. And it’s just Batman. You know what happens.”

“Not that kind of tired. I wanna finish.” You swallow, and give him a tiny, nervous smile. “Please.”

Dean lets go of the remote, leaning slowly back on the couch, and you must have gotten away with it. You love him, but he’s not the most emotionally perceptive, and there’s no way he’d be able to hear the desperation to be close to him—just for a few more minutes—painted all over your voice. He’s never heard it before. You’re probably safe-

“You sure you’re okay?” He mutters, his attention now fixed firmly back on the TV. “You’re kinda acting like I’m poison or something.”

Fuck.

Your eyes fall on the large gap between your bodies, an invisible barrier you set for your own sanity. It’s too much, to be close to him while doing something like this. It’s one thing to be pressed into a closet with him on a hunt, feeling his bulge near your ass and his body all around yours. That’s necessity.

This would just be sitting in the dark, glued to his side, with a million other places to go but no desire to be anywhere but here.

But he said it like a joke. With a dry, hollow chuckle that you know too well. You know Dean too well.

Love him too much.

So you put on your best, exasperated mask, and scoot closer. Until you’re not molded into his, but you’re leaning at little into his side. Your feet are brushing his thigh, as you keep them to your chest. You can feel the heat from his body. See every color in his eyes and all the shifting shadows from the TV, cast over his handsome face.

“Better?”

He rolls his eyes, but gives you a bright grin. “Yep. You want that blanket?”

You shake your head and he shrugs, looking back to the TV.

His throat is bobbing. Jawline firm. If you reached up, you’d be able to trace the shape of his lips.

And he’s not a dog. He won’t be able to smell the wetness forming between your legs, when he groans about something or his big, rough fingers accidentally brush your arm. He’s not going to taste arousal on the air when he scoots closer, and you can feel the heat from his body.

You always try to make yourself small anyway. There’s a fairly large part of you that knows, if you gave in and climbed into his lap, he’d let you. Kiss you like you’ve always dreamed, let you ride his muscled thigh until you were whining for more, then give it to you. Flip you over and fuck you into the couch.

Be the best of your life, then walk away.

You’d lose all your dignity and break your own heart—Dean can’t be breaking it, he doesn’t even know it’s in his hands, so you’d be the one taking a hammer and smashing it to tiny, fractured pieces—and then need to learn how to walk and breathe again. Because you will have to learn. Your legs don’t know how to move away from Dean, and your lungs don’t know how to breathe if it’s not air you’re sharing with him.

It will be a lot of work. Not impossible, but too much. You know yourself. You’ll love Dean until you’re in a grave unless you teach yourself not to. And you really don’t want to learn how to hate Dean. Don’t want to learn how to be indifferent to him, either.

You like loving him. It makes apples taste sweeter and water feel cooler. It’s a new kind of heaven, to be able to look at Dean and love him at the same time. He’s a force of nature.

So you stay at his side. And when you do start to get cold—eating ice will do that, but you always seem to think this time will be different for some fucking reason—you keep your gaze fixed firmly on the TV as you tuck your arms between your legs and try to keep yourself warm.

Then something warm wraps around your body. Soft and warm and-

A blanket.

Dean barely moved. He’s still looking at the TV. But the glass somehow moved from your hand to his, and now you’re tucked into a blanket.

He doesn’t say told you so.

When he feels your gaze, he turns and gives you a challenge look. Daring you to call him out on it.

You really don’t want to. It’s too good a selfish opportunity, to lean a little closer and let out a soft sigh when Dean fully moves his arm over your shoulder.

He’ll rip you apart, if you ask him nicely.

That’s not a burden you want to place on him. Certainly not one worth disrupting Sam’s yoga over.

The quiet falls again. Dean doesn’t say a word about the blanket, or ice, or how his hand is relaxed against the bare skin of your arm. But you don’t tell him that you feel like you’re on fire.

This is a silence you could live in. Drown in, if Dean let you.

Fuck, it doesn’t matter if he lets you.

You’re going to drown in him—even if he never gives you anything at all—no matter what.

———

It gets worse, after the blanket. It’s like he’s living in your head. Like he knows you well enough to never need to ask what you need, always seeming to pick up on it before you even can.

First there’s the diner. You go to the bathroom while they’re ordering, and when you come back Dean is gone.

“Where-“

“Got a call.” Sam shrugs, and you nod, frowning around the table.

“Did they take our menus?”

“Yeah, we ordered while you were gone. Don’t worry, Dean got yours.”

You swallow, give a weak nod, and focus your attention on the crayons and children’s placement they set at the table, despite none of you being kids. Sam starts to ramble about hunting ideas as you try to color in the black and white farm picture, looking up only when the diner doorbell rings, to check it it’s Dean.

Eventually, after a few disappointments you’re never going to admit make your stomach feel like a hollow pit—you’re a grown woman coloring like a child in a diner and talking about killing vampires, you don’t need Dean to come back—he reappears.

It’s like watching the sun climb over the horizon. Everything is brighter and warmer, when he walks back into your view. There’s a bubbly little high that rushes your body, when his eyes meet yours and he grins.

“Dean, I think there’s a nest in Nebraska-“

“Yeah, whatever.” Dean slides back into the booth, right at your side. “You like the crayons, sweetheart?”

You flush, your gaze dropping back to the placemat. “I- Um- Yeah. I know it’s for kids, I just-“

“Helps you focus.” He shrugs. “I know. ’S why I asked for them.”

You blink at him, at the soft, crooked grin and light in his eyes, and chew on your lower lip to stop it from crashing into his. “Thank you.”

“Anytime.” He bumps his shoulder with yours, then looks back to Sam. “Dude, I think we gotta drop the vampire thing-“

“It’s a nest, Dean, we can’t just ignore it-“

“There’s a demon problem in Mississippi.”

“Shit.” Sam sighs, frowning back to his laptop. “We can do that, then Nebraska?”

“Sure. That sound good?” Dean says your name, and you blink at him a little dumbly.

He can’t see it now. The love written all over your face. He’s never seen it before.

But something still flashes over his features, when you nod. He swallows, hand curling on the table.

“Awesome.” He grunts, almost tearing his gaze away, and whatever he and Sam keep talking about is lost to your ears.

Because the food is delivered only seconds later, and Dean ordered for you.

He got it all right.

His hand is lingering on your shoulder again, as he stretches his arm over the booth.

And it only gets worse from there.

Your leg starts to bounce in the car, and he pulls over so you can go to the bathroom. Your head starts to hurt after the demon hunt, and he passes you water and an Advil before you can even rub your temple. On the vamp hunt he’s always right around the corner, swinging his machete before teeth can even be bared in your direction.

You get the shower first, when you get back to the motel. Dean’s covered in more guts and grime, but he opens the bathroom door, and makes a dramatic, sweeping gesture with an almost sweet and boyish grin.

“Ladies first.”

Sam groans from across the room. “Wait, Dean, I smell like shit-“

“We all smell like shit.”

“Dude, I’m literally covered in literal shit-“

“So is she.” Dean snaps, and you sigh.

You are. Somehow, every fucking hunt on a farm always end in someone covered in shit. But Sam got the worst of it. He took a full topple into the pile. Dean caught you before you could join him, and it’s mostly on your shoes—which now have to be burned—and hands after you helped Sam to his feet.

“Dean, it’s alright.” You sigh, giving him a small smile. “Sam can go first.”

Dean stares at you for a second—not quite a glare, closer to that strange look from the kitchen—then grunts.

“Whatever. I’m gonna go find a drink.”

He leaves, looking back once with that same, odd expression, then vanishes out into the dark.

If he’s mad at you, you didn’t mean it. It’s just a shower. But the door slams, and you want him to come back, and if he’s drinking that means he’s looking for company. Company that’s not you.

It aches, all over your ribs.

But he doesn’t know.

So you’re not allowed to chase after him and beg him to come back.

“You think they’ll serve him covered in blood?” You ask Sam, gaze still trapped on the door like Dean might return.

“Dunno.” Sam sighs. “Thanks for letting me shower first. I’ll- Uh- I’ll be quick.”

You hum, and Dean doesn’t come back. When it’s your turn to shower, the water is warm, but your bones feel cold. You miss him. It’s been twenty minutes, and you miss him.

It’s been like that the entire time you’ve known him. You love him, and miss him, and he drifts in and out, never understanding that you’re trying to drag him up to shore. He doesn’t have to keep drifting. You’re right there. If he asked you to fall into the ocean with him, you’d go in a heartbeat. If he crawled out of the waves and told you he didn’t want to drift anymore, but didn’t know how to stop, you’d sit in the water with him until he was ready. You’re always waiting.

Even when he’s out, and it’s all quiet, you’re waiting for Dean to break the silence and tell you something. Anything.

You’re just waiting to hear his voice all the time. It doesn’t have to be I love you too.

Just something, telling you that this doesn’t end the way you know it’s doomed to. You in a silence that’s never going to be broken. Dean walking out a door and not coming back.

When you pass out , you somehow manage to sleep through the whole night without being woken up by Sam and Dean coming and going from the bar. And you expect him to not be there in the morning. This is the exact type of bloody hunt that usually ends with Dean chasing comfort at the bar, Sam going for a ten-mile run, and you sleeping for about twenty hours straight before you can make yourself move. He’ll be back later, and your heart will stutter in your chest with the pain that he didn’t want you to help him forget, then you’ll keep going, and say nothing.

You’ve gotten really good at choking on the sore feeling of not being the one Dean wants to help him, and saying nothing.

But when you wake up, Dean’s on the couch. Feet kicked up on the table, watching TV on low volume and glancing over his shoulder when you try to sit up.

“Shit-“ You groan. “What time is it?”

“Noon, sleeping beauty.” Dean almost appears in front of you, passing a coffee into your hands. “Sammy’s on a walk, he wanted to check out the park. They got a butterfly garden, if we wanna catch up.”

“I like butterflies.” You mumble, and Dean’s lips twitch.

“Yeah, I know. Eggs?”

“Wha-“

“You gotta eat,” he says your name with a shrug, and maybe it’s the lingering sleep, but you sort of feel like you’re floating. He’s not looking at you—attention focused on the coffee in your hands, like it’s the most important object in the world—but he is standing right over your body. Blocking the sun leaking through the blinds, mixing with the dust of the motel room to give him the appearance of a halo.

You could just still be dreaming. Dean offers you his hand to help you up, and when you take it, his grip is firm. Gentle, but firm.

It’s too easy to imagine that grip on your hips, or throat, or thighs. Spreading your legs apart for him to take whatever he needed from you, until you have nothing left to give.

“C’mon.” He keeps his hand in yours for a second too long, eyes darting back up to meet yours. “Breakfast.”

You nod, he moves his hand away, and you can’t chase it. You know how to walk alone.

But you don’t want to.

And when you walk to breakfast, Dean slows his pace to match yours. Like maybe he doesn’t want to either.

There’s a soft bird song in the air. The rush of morning wind past your ears. And when you trip on a crack in the pavement, Dean’s arm wraps around your waist, and he pulls your right up.

He stares at you for a moment. So close. Your heartbeat in your ears and his large hand settled easily on your hip.

You don’t tell him to move away. He doesn’t ask if he should let go.

The birds keep singing. The sun is soft, melting through morning fog, and he looks like he has a halo again.

Neither of you say a word.

Dean’s hand stays on your hips.

———

This is the kind of silence that kills. That sinks into things and erodes them, unless you scream and force it away.

But you don’t know how. You can’t be the one to break it. Dean’s the one that brought it into the car. The one who’s driving with a white-knuckled grip, who hauled you into the car once he was sure your stitches would hold, slammed the door without a word, and took off with only a glare through the rearview mirror. Your throat is too dry to speak, and he’d passed you a water, but he’d done that in silence as well. He’s not even turning on the radio to drown out your ragged breaths and the engine.

That’s how you know this is the horrible, poisonous kind of silence.

Dean’s fury is only still and quiet when it’s getting ready to burst. Like the air right before a storm. Electric and empty. Promising wreckage soon, but not now. Now is about the dread. Now is about watching Dean glare at the road, and trying to guess exactly what he’s going to say so you can keep your own footing when he explodes.

There are too many options. You don’t even know why he’s that mad. It wasn’t a good hunt, but it was far from the worst. You’d gotten hit, but you’d made it out. There was a deep gash in your stomach, but Dean treated it quickly. Picked you up with barely a grunt, carried out to the car, and laid you down on the hood without a word. You’d whined a little as he a pushed your shirt up and disinfected the wound, but he grumbles more when you’re just treating his knuckles. And you hadn’t even said anything. The silence had already started to settle, everything had been painting in pain, and all your focus had gone into focusing on Dean.

His hands, skimming over your sides and resting on your abdomen for better stitch work. His attention, focused entirely on you, splayed out below him. It had been far too easy to pretend you were there just to be touched. That his hands were promises of more, and he was scanning over you not to see if you needed the hospital, but because he was trying to work out where he wanted to start. If he was going to kiss you fully and deeply, latch his mouth onto your breasts, or kiss down your stomach and between your thighs.

So easy to pretend, when you couldn’t feel the silence choking you, too lost in warm hands on your hips and your heartbeat in your ears.

But now silence is all there is.

And it’s going to bury you alive.

He won’t even look at you, when he parks the Impala at the bunker. You get a stiff hand to guide you out of the car, but he’s staring right over your head.

It could not be about you. Maybe he’s just tired. He was out late last night, and he came back smelling like booze and flowers, and that was fine. Not your business what he does at night, even if he’d spent the whole day before grinning at you over diner tables and indulging in a long rant about your favorite book. Even if he’d held your hand, when you’d had a random breakdown only a night before.

Maybe that was it. Maybe you’d pushed the boundary of your friendship right up to the line, by crying in his arms.

But you’d been choking on the air, and hadn’t asked him to hold you. He just had. He’d fallen to his knees and tugged you into his arms, stroking his hand through your hair and keeping you folded gently into his chest.

“I- I’m sorry,” you’d whispered, still sniffing and clinging to his shirt like a child. “I’m just- ‘m tired, and I’m so- It feels so big.”

Dean had hummed, rubbing soothing circles on your back. “Big?”

“Yeah. All of it.” Your voice had dropped to barely a breath. “I- I don’t- It’s lonely. I’m alone.”

He’d pulled back, that odd expression back on his face. “You think you’re alone?”

You’d swallowed and nodded, and he’d sighed. Pressed a soft kiss to your brow, and pulled you a little closer to his chest. Another weak sob had torn through your body.

But he hadn’t let you sit in it.

Dean had muttered your name, his own voice filled with an odd strain you couldn’t quite place. “You’re not alone, you know. You got me.” He’d paused, then added, “and Sammy. We’re here.”

“Thanks.” You’d mumbled, and he’d let out a long, slow sigh.

“Course. I- I’m here. Whenever you need.”

You’d fallen asleep there. In his arms. And then neither of you had spoken about it, and he’d gone out the next night like you didn’t need him next to you all the time.

You did something wrong. You had to have done something wrong. Maybe it had been the breakdown. Maybe you’d stared at him a little too harshly, when he’d gotten back last night. You’d been able to taste your own bitterness, that someone else got to have him the way you dreamed about. It might have been tangible in the air, and now he was pissed at you for thinking you had any right over him or his heart.

You didn’t.

You just love him, too much to ask anything of him, but also too much to not hate him for doing this to you. Making you love him, then fucking off.

It could be something else. He passed you rubbing alcohol back at the house, to ease the pain of the stitches. Maybe you had said something. Maybe your head had been fuzzy, and Dean fingers had brushed the soft skin of your stomach, and you’d moaned. Maybe you’d been thinking about him touching you aloud. Maybe you’d done something without remembering, and now he was never going to look at you again-

“Woah.” Sam shoots to his feet as Dean half-carries you inside—why is he still helping you when he’s never going to look at you again—and gapes between you. “What the hell happened? I thought it was just a salt and burn-“

“It was.” You mutter, wincing as you start down the stairs, and a new, white-hot pain shoots through your body. “Strong ghost.”

“Are you-“

“I’m fine.” You give Sam a tight smile. “Nothing bad.”

Dean tenses around you, but still doesn’t speak.

Sam notices. Of course he does. He knows, just as well as you, that Dean’s never this quiet. “You alright, Dean?”

He grunts, settling you down into one of the chairs, and Sam raises his brows at you. All you can do is shrug in return. But the motion makes spots cloud in your vision, and a high moan of pain escapes your throat.

Dean shoots you a tight look, and when you try to stand up, he crowds over your body and glares down at you.

Sam clears his throat. “Dean-“

“I told you to wait for me.”

You blink up at him, blocking almost all the light. He looks more like a shadow than a man right now, and you shouldn’t want him to come closer. To maybe drop over you and smother your body. His body is broad enough to take up your whole vision, and it’s all tensed muscle and a handsome glower, searing right over your skin and making the air almost hum.

This is the hunter monsters and demons fear, not the man who watches cartoon and movies with you, bringing you ice and wrapping you in soft blankets when you get cold.

Really, truly angry.

With you.

“What?” You blink at him, trying not to feel dizzy—for the pain or his attention, you’re not sure—and his nostrils flare.

“I said wait.” His words are pushed through his teeth, fist clenched at his side. “You told me you’d fuckin’ wait until I got off the phone to go inside.”

“I- I did-“

“No, you didn’t.”

“Dean, I-“

“You have to fucking listen to me.” His voice is rising, gaze narrowing, and you might start crying again. “When I tell you do something on a hunt, you goddamn do it-“

“I did do it!” You scream, but your voice is too high. Too weak. “You hung up! It’s not my fault you started fucking texting someone and didn’t follow me into the house-“

“I followed you! I always follow you-“

“Then why weren’t you there, Dean?” You hiss, and you can’t control it. He can’t just hold you one night, fuck off the next, then act like he cares when you know he was texting someone else. You did the job. And you did it alone, with nothing but creaking stairs and the wind. He doesn’t get to be pissed at you for that. He fucking doesn’t.

And he’s gone still again, his gaze almost predatory. He can’t bite back. It’ll hurt you a lot more than anything you could do to him.

“I went in after you hung up.” You snap, all the fight already starting to drain from your body. “You don’t get to be pissed about that when you’re the one who wasn’t paying attention.”

His jaw ticks, his voice dropping to something low. Dangerous. “You think I wasn’t paying attention?”

Sam clears his throat from the background. “Guys, maybe now isn’t the best time to-“

“You weren’t there.” You mutter, ignoring Sam, and Dean’s lips curl.

“You weren’t there.” He sneers. “I looked up, you were gone, and when I find you again, you’re bleeding out on the fucking floor because you couldn’t listen-“

“So? I got the ghost-“

“You got hurt!”

He’s shouting again. You don’t have it in you to shout back—your head is starting to swim, and if you try, the sting in your eyes will overflow and you’ll fall apart—so you just sigh, and give him a tired look.

“It happens, Dean. You get hurt all the time.”

“That’s different.”

“Why? Because you’re a big man? Because chicks dig scars?”

He scowls, grunting your name, but you push on.

“At least they didn’t get my face, right? Nobody would want me if I got a big scar on my face. God, I’d be useless, wouldn’t I? I mean, it’s not like anyone wants me now-“

Dean’s face flashes with that odd expression again, and you’re going to cry again. You can feel it coming. Hear it in your voice, tight from the lump in your throat.

“Who could want a girl hunter, Dean? I should just follow your every order, shouldn’t I? It’s not like I can hunt alone. Go off alone. Go anywhere without you telling me what to do then dropping me the moment something better comes along? Right? You just want your fucking lapdog?”

Dean takes a step back, like he’s been hit. Just staring at you. And Sam’s frozen somewhere in the background, looking between you with wide eyes, and you can’t do this. Can’t cry in front on both of them. Not when you’re already so tired.

You push up on shaking feet, and Dean lurches slightly. Takes a stuttering step forward, then freezes as you level him with a glare.

“I’m going to bed.” You tell the air, not really caring if they hear.

Neither of them say anything. Dean doesn’t try to grab you, or chase after you to argue more.

You wish he would.

But the silence follows you down the hall, broken only by your door slamming behind you, and the sound of your own fractured sobs as you fall into the bed, alone.

———

“Don’t.”

Sammy sighed from somewhere behind Dean, and when he turned, the kid had his hands up in surrender. “I didn’t say anything, Dean-“

“You were gonna.” He grunted, crossing his arms over his chest. “I don’t wanna hear it. I know.”

Sam raised his brows. “Do you?”

“Sam-“

“No, Dean. Tell me what you think I was gonna say.”

Dean scowled. “That it’s my own damn fault she’s pissed at me.”

“And?”

“Shut your face-“

“Why?” Sam didn’t waver, and he was asking to get punched. “What else is there? I mean, if it’s your fault, that should be it, right?”

Dean’s scowl deepened. “I don’t know what they hell you’re trying to say-“

“Don’t you?”

A heavy lump was forming in Dean’s throat. He couldn’t do this not now.

Not when he could still hear Her words, ringing his ears with every moment of silence.

Not like anyone wants me now.

Dean wanted Her.

More than anything.

He could feel it in his chest, with how it glowed and swelled with light whenever She smiled at him. He could feel it over his skin, with how every other touch felt sickening when it wasn’t Her hands. It turned in his stomach when he kissed another woman, and told himself it was for the best.

She deserved better. Everyone deserved better than Dean, but She more than anyone else.

Sometimes, Dean would lean over a bar counter, and dream about Her getting out. Having that apple pie life with some normal, boring asshole who’d never let Her put herself into harms way, who’d know exactly what to do when She cried in his arms, who’d know how to say it.

The thing.

He’s tried to tell Her, all the time. That when he walked, it was always because he was trying to march in some time to Her heartbeat. He cleared Her plates because he was there for Her. He paid attention to Her, knew Her, and tried to make her feel it like that.

But he couldn’t even think it. That within itself felt like a curse. If he thought it, some angel or monster would hear and try to take Her away. And it wasn’t denial. He knew. Dean damn well knew why it lived behind his eyes, when he fucked some random chick and moaned the wrong name. Why there had been a broiling, cold, consuming wrath in his muscles, when he’d seen Her bleeding on the floor. Why part of him was shattered on the floor when She called Herself his lapdog.

He was Her lapdog. He was the one who followed and waited for Her. Who, if She ever left him, would stare at door and wait at the foot of Her bed until she came back.

And he’d fucked this. All on his own. He shouldn’t have been pissed, but She was right. He hadn’t been there. He’d gotten distracted trying to dismiss the girl from last night, because she didn’t get the one-night thing, and wasn’t deterred by Dean’s eyes been closed the whole time—even as he’d fucked her from behind—and the way he knew he’d groaned Her name when he came.

Then She’d gotten hurt. Dean couldn’t afford to have Her hurt. He wasn’t worth much, but he knew how to be a shield. How to stand in the line of fire.

And She’d still gotten hurt.

“You should talk to her-“

“No.” Dean grunted, ignoring Sam entirely. “She’ll get over it.”

She would. She was strong, and resilient, and-

Alone.

Her voice echoed in his again, right between the echoes of his steps in the hall. And he could see it. Her face flushed, cheeks shining with tears. He could feel Her in his arms, warm and soft and curved so damn well against his chest. She’d smelled like flowers.

Sounds so fucking sad, when She’d said she was alone.

Dean flopped down on his own bed, and stared at the ceiling. If he closed his eyes, he’d see the pale expression on Her face, and he just wanted to goddamn sleep. To wake up and be back at yesterday. He’d ignore the texts this time. She’d be safe, and—bonus—they wouldn’t be fighting.

But he kept hearing it.

Soft sobs that sounded an awful lot like Her’s. And he might be imagining them, but Her eyes and been glossy and Her voice had been strained.

Alone.

Dean was more alone than She was. She could have him however She wanted, but he had to settle for placeholders that never fit Her shape.

He couldn’t sleep.

He kept seeing Her face. Hearing Her voice.

A drink.

A drink would help.

Dean shuffled down the hall, trying to keep as silent as possible—She needed the sleep, and he didn’t need another lecture from Sammy—and found the liquor cabinet already hanging open.

There was a whole bottle of vodka missing.

Son of a bitch.

He didn’t run. He wasn’t so pathetic as to sprint to Her room. But he did walk fast. She shouldn’t be drinking with fresh stitches, it would thin Her damn blood and make her recovery worse. He’d only given Her a little bit to ease the pain before, and it had barely taken a sip to make Her head loll back, eyes flutter, and body turn to putty below him.

And Dean wasn’t a good man. He’d taken in the sight of Her—shirt riding up, relaxed and spread out on the hood of the Impala—and memorized it for later. For when She’d tuck Herself against his side on the couch, and he’d have to excuse himself to go chase relief in the bathroom.

But now She was drinking. Because of Dean. And She was going to hurt herself even more, and he wasn’t a good man, and she deserved better, but-

He raised his hand to knock on Her door, and it swung open.

She squinted up at him, lips in a pretty pout, and he swallowed. It was too quiet. He’d been planning to storm in and demand She just go to bed. Braced to take any of Her insults or fists pounding on his back as he tucked her in. The noise would keep the thought from his head. The one that meant he’d let Her goddamn shoot him, if it made Her happy.

He hadn’t been ready for the silence. For how She was swaying slightly, Her hand drifting up to press on Dean’s chest with a small frown, shoving him lightly.

“You’re here.” She mumbled, words already slightly slurring together. “Big.”

Dean blinked at Her. “Huh?”

“You’re big.” She took an unsteady step forward, and She’d touched him first.

Dean let his arms shoot up to catch Her, and She giggled slightly, leaning Her head against his chest.

“And strong.” Her fingers raised up, poking his chin. “Pretty.”

Jesus Christ. “You’re drunk, sweetheart.”

She snorted, rolling Her eyes. “So?”

“So, you’re injured-“

“You get drunk and injured all the time, Dean-“

“That’s-“

“Different?” She dropped Her voice to mock his, and pushed suddenly off his chest. “Shut up, if you’re just gonna yell at me again I’m not telling you my secret.”

“What secret- Shit-“ Dean lunged forward, grabbing Her before she could slam into the sharp corner of her dresser. “Slow down, baby-“

“Baby.” She hummed, hands suddenly grabbing Dean’s face and he swallowed. That was Her focus, analyzing face that She used in interrogations. A little dazed and soft from the drinking, but still sort of terrifying. Dizzying and scary and beautiful, keeping him frozen in place like She’d cast some sort of spell. “I’m not your baby, Dean.”

That drove right between his ribs. Damn near made him double over. But this wasn’t about him right now, so he choked on the broken sound of pain, and pushed on.

“I know, sweetheart, I’m sorry, just slipped-“

“Do you call them baby?”

He frowned. “I- Uh- Who?”

“Them.” She whispered, leaning against his chest. “The others.”

“Ba- Kid, I don’t know what you’re talking about-“

“Kid.” She scowled, and shit, even that was enchanting. “‘m not a kid.”

“I know-“

“Is that why it’s not me?” She asked softly. “Cause you think I’m a kid?”

Dean said Her name slowly, and he wasn’t sure when he’d grabbed Her hips. She wasn’t moving him away.

He’d take it.

“I don’t think you’re a kid-“

“But you’re comin’ to tell not to drink.” She mumbled, Her face dropping fully against Dean’s chest. “And you don’t think I can hunt alone.”

“I don’t want you to hurt yourself-“

“You don’t care.”

Dean frowned. “Of course I care-“

“But you were mad.”

“I-“

“You don’t need to be here.” She muttered. “I’m not a kid. I can take care of myself.”

“I know you can,” Dean sighed Her name, and let his hand tangle in Her hair. “But I told you. You’re not alone.”

It felt right. Like where he was supposed to be, even if he knew he shouldn’t be allowed there. And She melted into him.

Dean had been the one that hurt Her. She wasn’t his.

But Her arms were wrapping around his neck, and she hummed softly, taking a deep breath, turning to bury Her face in the crook of Dean’s neck.

“You smell good.” Her words were half mumbled against Dean’s skin, lips brushing on his throat, and damn him, he wanted to stay here forever.

“Thanks-“

“And I love you.” She whispered, voice drifting off as lighting hit Dean’s whole body.

She was drunk. She couldn’t meant it, she was drunk and tired and pissed at him-

“Sorry.” She breathed. “Love you.”

Dean held Her firm as She became a slack, dead weight in his arms.

It was quiet again, save for the sound of Her breathing.

The only sound in the world that mattered.

It sounded sort of like hope.

———

Your head doesn’t hurt as much as it should, when you wake up. There should be a migraine. A pounding pain, reminding you that you’d tried to drink away all your pain, only for it come knocking on your door right as you’d been ready to stumble and plead for it to keep hurting you.

Because not only is there no pain, but you can remember everything so damn clearly. Talking yourself into chasing Dean, and seeing if he’d do you a favor and beat your heart a little further into the ground. Maybe you’d manage to salt the earth, and that would be the end of it.

Deep down, you know it would only have bloomed again. It always does.

But Dean fighting you more would’ve meant he cared enough to shout. He had cared enough to shout.

And the details of him being in your room are a blur. There’s a feeling of warmth, and a phantom sensation of arms around your body, but all you can really remember is the ache. The hunger to have him, and the pain as you remembered you couldn’t.

But you had.

There’s a haze of being wrapped in him, and a low voice right in your ear, and the room spinning but around the same center of gravity. And he’d held you back. You’d grumbled and hit his chest, but he’d held you and put you to bed.

Maybe put you to bed. You don’t remember getting in bed yourself.

But you also don’t remember there being a heavy weight, on the other side of the mattress.

“I know you’re awake,” Dean mutters, and your fingers curl into the sheets.

He’s here.

He’s still here.

And you can remember a little more of what he said. What you said.

You told him you love him.

Aloud.

Fuck.

“You don’t have to get up.” Dean lets out a long breath, and you feel sort of sick.

You’ve lost him. You’ve never even had him, but you lost him. This is the part you’ve dreaded from the moment you looked at him, and realized it really was never going to be better than this. Then Dean. Humming to himself and drumming on the wheel. Loud in a way that makes the rest of the world seem to quiet. That makes you want to make things louder to match him, rather than let him force himself to drag down.

And he’s not going to ask you to leave. He would never.

But he will turn you down. Tell you that he doesn’t do relationships, and it will be the end. Worse, he’ll say he doesn’t love you, but if you want something without stings, he can offer that. And you’ll take it. You’re weak, so you’ll take it.

You hope he doesn’t offer it. You’ll overflow with love. It will start to weed, with nowhere else to go.

Dean takes in a sharp breath, and you brace yourself for the blow. It’ll be better if you take it lying down. You don’t really want to look him in the eyes.

“You, uh-“ He clears his throat, the sound oddly tight. “You don’t have to get up. Or say anything. Just listen. Okay.”

You don’t answer, trying to breathe evenly through your nose, and Dean lets out a dry chuckle.

“Alright. I did say you didn’t have to talk, guess that’s on me. I- Uh- I’m sorry.”

Here it comes.

“Sorry for yelling at you, sweetheart. You’re never anything but good to me, and I know you weren’t trying to get yourself hurt. I just- Son of a bitch, I can’t lose you. Won’t survive it. I need you. More than damn near anything, I need you here, with me. And I’m sorry.” He takes a deep breath. “Don’t leave. I’ll- Shit, I’ll do anything you want. Just don’t stay pissed at me, baby. Please.”

Oh.

You don’t know how to move or speak or react, because oh. That wasn’t an I don’t want you. Wasn’t an I don’t feel the same.

It was an oh.

Dean coughs. “I, uh- I know I said you didn’t have to say anything, but it sorta- Can you say something? Even if it’s telling me to go to hell-“

“I don’t want you to go to hell.” You mumble, words muffled in your pillow. “And I’m not that pissed. I just- I can do things myself-“

“I know you can, sweetheart-“

“Do you?” You roll over, trying to give him a firm look, but it doesn’t work that well.

The asshole can sit on your bed all night, and still be the most attractive man alive. It makes all the—albeit pretend—anger die within a few seconds. He looks desperate. Short hair messy, like he’s been running his fingers through it all night. He’s in a thin, tight shirt, frowning at you like you’re the most important thing in the world.

“I do.” He mutters, his voice rough in a way that rushes right into your core. “I promise I do, baby. I just- You looked so freakin’ small. You were in pain. And I-“

“Can’t lose me?” You finish for him, sitting fully up on the mattress, and he gives you a tight nod. “You could never lose me, Dean.”

He lets out a dry laugh. “In my experience, that’s not exactly something you get to decide.”

“Maybe.” You shrug, drawing your knees to your chest. “But they’d have to drag me away.”

He raises his brows. “They would.”

“Yeah. They would.”

Dean nods slowly, giving you that odd look, then clears his throat. “You sort of- You said a thing.”

Fuck.

“I know.”

You fidget with your fingers, trying to hold his gaze, but it’s hard. He looks sort of like a cornered animal. Making himself bigger while preparing to be kicked all the same.

“Did you mean it?” Dean whispers, and you give him a tiny nod. “How long?”

“Two years.”

“Son of a bitch.” He runs a hand over his face, giving you an almost exasperated look. “And you didn’t think to freakin’ say something-“

“You didn’t say anything! And you slept with- I- I know I don’t have a say in what you do, but-“ You swallow, trying to prevent your voice from getting too high and needy. “I’m not going to tell you when I think you don’t care, Dean.”

He sighs, grimacing slightly. “Yeah. Fair. Does it matter if I tell you I don’t- That they’re not the same? As you are?”

“Not the same?”

“It’s not- I don’t care about it. With them.” He sighs. “With anyone but you.”

“Oh. Okay.” You give him a small smile, and there’s a spark in your chest. It’s dangerous. It’s going to let you fall into this, even if it’s a lie, but you don’t think it is.

With Dean looking at you like that, it couldn’t be.

“Okay?” He mutters, and you shrug. “Alright. Do you still- Y’know-“

“Love you?”

He nods, and you frown.

“Of course I still love you, Dean. It’s- I’ve put up with a lot more of your bullshit than this and still loved you. One fight isn’t changing that.”

He swallows, eyes wide on yours and voice to soft. “Can you say it again?”

You don’t have to ask what he means. “I love you, Dean.”

His throat bobs, and he leans slightly forward. You can see the dilation of his pupils. Watch the tip of his tongue, flick out over his lips.

“Can I kiss you?”

His voice is hoarse, you can almost feel the hunger in it. Written all over handsome features, mirror in your own hands curling on your knees and thighs pressing together.

“Yeah.”

There’s nothing else to say.

Dean leans forward, wrapping a hand carefully around your neck and resting the other on your knee, then kisses you softly. Slowly. It’s already more than you know how to handle. His lips against yours, moving carefully as he angles your face back, finding a gentle, dizzying pace that already sends you into a high that’s better than anything before. His hand slowly dragging your knees down, letting him lay you flat onto the mattress as his tongue traces over your lips.

He presses down lightly. Asking for permission, right as rough, calloused fingers brush your sides, and he settles between your legs.

You open for him, letting out a soft sigh down his throat as he sucks on your lower lip, and it’s still soft, but something shifts.

First it’s the kiss. Deeper. All the way into the mattress until you’re breathless, and his weight over your body somehow becomes not enough. You need to feel him. Feel more. Then his hand trails under your shirt, a knuckle brushing against your breast, and your back arches off the bed. Dean groans, his mouth starting to trail down to you neck—sucking tiny bruises as he kneads the skin of your waist—and when you moan his name, you can feel him. Hard, pressed right against your inner thigh. It just builds another, louder moan, and god, he knows what he’s doing.

Just kisses, possessive marks and touches, are unraveling you in a second. And the shift is heat. There’s so much building heat, in every moan and wet sound of Dean’s lips on your neck, and he’s moved above you. Kissing the base of your throat, his bulge pressed right over your core, and you need more.

“Jesus,” Dean grunts, pushing on his forearms to scan over your face. “Baby, please don’t start a game you can’t finish.”

You blink up at him slowly. “What if I want to start?”

He swallows. “Don’t-“

“Do you want to start?”

Dean sighs, dropping his brow down to yours. “More than anything, baby.” He rolls his hips against you, grabbing your back and kissing the side of your head when you shiver from the feeling. “You got no idea, how bad- how much-“

“Can you show me?”

Dean stares at you, and you hold his gaze. You want it. More. All of it. Whatever he’ll give you, and if the blown out, starved expression on his face is any sort of promise, he’s going to give you a lot.

“Yeah?” His voice is low, deeper than you’ve ever heard it, and you were already ruined. It’s a little unfair how just loving Dean ruined you.

Touching him might remake you. Or wreck you all together.

You’d really like to find out.

So you grab his jaw, tugging him back to your level, and kiss him. Slow and long and fir, biting his lower lip and trying not melt when he groans.

“Yeah.” You whisper against his lips. “You care about it? With me?”

He nods, trying to chase you when you lean back, but you stop him with a hand on his chest.

“Prove it.”

It’s not a shift anymore.

It’s a snap.

Dean’s eyes darken. Narrow. His lips from a tight line, and he nods to himself. Like a challenge accepted.

And he’s still so slow. Taunting. Pressing you back down into the mattress with a heated kiss, going and going until you’re breathless, hands roaming anywhere he can reach as you cling to his neck. One grabs your breast, palming if for a seconds before rolling a nipple between his thumbs, right as the other wraps around your hips and gives a tight squeeze to your ass.

“Dean-“ You gasp, and he grunts, nipping your lower lip. “More- please-“

You start to tug on the hem of his shirt, and he rises up, ripping it off and tossing it away. But you barely get a second to reach up, let your hands wander the muscles panes of his chest or take in the virtual god towering over you—muttering your name, somehow muttering your name—before he’s tracing over your shirt, and raising his brows.

“Take it off,” he grunts, and you’ve never listened to an order faster.

The clothing flies off both your bodies, Dean’s hands both playing with your tits for barely a second before he’s yanking off his own underwear.

And Jesus.

Someone must have owed you a favor.

He’s everything. Strong and firm, but soft too. Broad. And you’ve see him flexing as a joke, or when he fought hand to hand, but that’s nothing compared to the view of him shedding his pants, towering over you, and slowly starting to stroke his own cock as he holds your gaze.

Even his dick looks sort of like art. Big and thick and heavy in his hand, standing proud, close enough for you to touch if you reach up.

“Hey.” He swats away your hand, shooting you a firm look. “I’m touching. You’re taking.”

You’re taking.

Dean wants you to take.

And you’d have to be insane to tell him no.

“Okay.” You whisper, and he smirks down at you.

“Good girl.”

Oh, god. Your thighs try to press together, but he shoves them apart. You’re still in your pants, but when he presses his palm over your pussy, there might as well have been nothing between you. Your hips jerk, and you try to grab his wrist, but he bats you away and starts to rub. Slow and firm, still beating his own cock as you fall apart for him from nothing.

“You gonna let me take care of you?” He moves his knuckle to press over your clit, and a high whine leaves your throat. “Gonna take what I give you?”

“Yes,” you gasp, trying to wiggle to get just a little more friction. “Dean, just- Why-“

He laughs at your high whine, his hand gone from your pussy and slowly starting to trail down your thigh.

“Relax, baby girl,” he mutters, pulling your legs up into the air. “I’ve got you.”

You melt into the mattress, and nod weakly. He’s got you.

Dean helps you out of your pants and underwear before kissing the inside of one ankle, then the other. He slowly starts to make his way up your legs, kissing every bit of skin he can find. Leaving a small bite on your knee before kissing it better, right as he grabs your hips, massaging his thumb in firm circles.

Every breath starts to hitch, as he makes his way to your inner thighs. Another tiny bite, another wet kiss, then a heavy breath over your clit. A soft kiss.

“Dean,” you moan, your whole body burning with need. “Dean, I-“

You squeak as he lands a sharp slap on your cunt.

“Take it.” He grunts, teasing two fingers on your dripping pussy. “So fuckin’ wet- I’m taking care of you, right? Told you, baby, all you gotta do is settle down and take it.”

You nod, trying to lay back into the sheets, but it doesn’t last long.

A loud, desperate moan leaves you as Dean dives between your legs, and you’re going to fly out of your skin. He’s good. So good. And you might be screaming that, as his tongue fucks in and out of your cunt, it’s impossible to hear yourself over the sound of Dean devouring you. His nose rubs your clit, the stubble of his beard burning your thighs, and when you scream something that’s probably his name, he groans right into your pussy. It vibrates through your whole body, sending you so high so fast, and he senses it.

Dean starts to lick your clit, quick and small until you’re a bucking, moaning mess below him. Gasping for air as his forearm over your stomach pins you to the mattress, tugging his hair in a silent plea to come, then making a high noise as he groans again.

Finally, his lips latch around you, and he sucks, tongue never ceasing its movement.

Your orgasm hits you with fireworks and light, eyes rolling back in your head and body going limp, and Dean doesn’t stop until you’re floating down from the high. Then he kisses your hip, up your stomach, and pauses at your breasts. Takes one nipple into his mouth while playing the other between his fingers, switching the moment you start to grind below him, then kissing back up your chest. You get a wide, boyish grin for half a second, then his lips press back over yours.

Demanding.

Still so soft.

“Taste like heaven.” He mutters, and you hum, scratching at his shoulder. He chuckles. “Need more, baby girl?”

You nod, and he grunts.

“C’mon, sweetheart. Haven’t fucked you yet. You’ve got some words for me in that big brain-”

“More.” You gasp. “More, Dean. You- Your cock. Need your cock. Please.”

He groans, kissing your deeper. “There she is. Good girl.”

You whine, and he pulls back slightly, giving you a small frown.

“Protection-“

“Are you clean?”

He blinks at you. “Yeah, but-“

“Pill.” You mumble, spreading your legs. “If you’re okay, I- Please. Wanna feel you.”

Dean stares at you for a second, then crashes back down into you. This kiss is feral. Hungry and messy and teeth, only broken after Dean rolls you over his body.

He picks you up like you weigh nothing, slowly guides your down his chest, and raises your hips. Your mouth falls open in a silent moan as he helps you sink down onto his cock. Splits you open so gently, looking up with such awe as he rubs your thighs and lets you adjust.

You’re full. So fucking full.

And you need more.

You squeeze around him, rolling slightly and whining when he presses that spot deep inside you, and Dean groans your name.

“Shit- Take what you need, baby.” He grunts. “I’ve got you.”

You nod, nails digging into his chest, and start to ride Dean’s cock. It feels so good. Your clit rubs over your abdomen, all the noises in the world just the wet sound of his dick buried in your pussy, and every whine from your throat as you start to climb up again.

Dean groans when you squeeze around him, head thrown back and fingers teasing over your nipples, but it’s still not enough.

“Dean,” you gasp, squirming over him as your legs start to burn. “I- I need you-“

He moans, hips jerking up, and takes over without another question. Firm hands grab your hips and start to bounce you on his cock, and all you can do is feel it. The dizzying high of Dean inside you, the warmth of him under your hands, the sounds from his chest rolling through your whole body until you’re hovering back on the edge.

And he knows, before you can plead with him. That you still need more. Dean pushes up on one hand, crashing his mouth back against yours, and pins your down on his cock. You’re trapped against him as he starts to fuck up into you, hitting so deep in your body you might be seeing stars, every groan from his mouth into you like lightning through your blood.

He’s close. You can sense it, in the way his movement are growing harsher. Hear in his every moan.

“Dean- Dean, I’m-“

“I know.” He growls, slamming against your g-spot with every thrust. “C’mon, baby. Cum for me.”

The coil in your gut snaps, and your mouth falls open as your vision goes white. It’s maybe the most powerful orgasm of your life, only doubled as Dean just keeps fucking you, shoving his tongue down your throat, and groaning your name as he paints your cunt white with his own release.

He collapses with a groan, still slowly grinding up into your pussy, and you’re only still upright because of his hold on your hips.

Dean’s thumb wanders slightly. Flicks over your clit, making you both moan as you spasm around him.

“Dean.” You grumble, and he grins up at you.

“Sorry, baby.”

“No, you’re not.”

“Yeah.” He laughs. “I’m not.”

He’s laughing. Grinning. Relaxed below you, and still sheathed inside you. Then Dean rises up, and you meet him halfway. Wrapping your arms around his neck as he kisses you, slow and deep, and slowly roles you under his body. You whimper when he pulls out, and he just softly kisses your neck.

“Be right back.” He mutters, taking your hand and squeezing it gently.

You hum, letting your eyes flutter closed as his weight vanishes over your body. This is a warm, comfortable silence. There’s no need to speak. You can feel Dean anyway. There’s a dip in the mattress and a kiss on your ankles, then a warm sensation between your thighs, as he cleans you up.

“C’mon.” He mutters after a second, pulling you into his arms. “You gotta pee.”

You hum, turning your face into his neck, and when he sets you down on the toilet, you somehow manage to keep your brow pressed to his. Then it’s just even, easy breaths, gentle hands guiding you back to your bed, and Dean tucking you back against his chest.

He’s holding you like you’re fragile. His voice in your ear is still soft.

Nervous.

“Can I stay?”

You nod, twisting in his arms to press your face back against his neck, and he sighs.

“Are you-“

“‘m sure.” You mumble, wrapping your arms around his torso. “Love you. Want you here.”

His heart stumbles slightly. “Thanks.”

You hum, tangling your legs together, and he sighs, rubbing circles on your back as he shifts you comfortably in his arms.

He mutters your name, soft in your ear. “I feel it too.”

You smile against his skin. “Okay.”

“I- I just can’t-“

“Dean-“

“I’ve never- It’s not you, I just-“

“Dean.” You make your voice firm, leaning back to meet his gaze. “It’s okay. I know.”

And you do. You can see it now, in how he looks at you. See it before, as well, when you really look. In every blanket at ordered food and slower step. It might be there longer than you’ve loved him.

But it’s all the same, anyway. You’re still here. Whispering in the dark. Together.

“You do?” He mutters, and you smile.

“Yeah. I do.”

End Note: I don't like how my fyp knows how down bad i am for this man. If I get one more jackles Countdown shower scene, i'm gonna... write more horny stuff.

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@jofinka

#dean winchester x reader #dean winchester #dean winchester fanfiction #dean winchester smut #supernatural #—⋆˙⟡ fic rec

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wvffles · 3 days ago

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I haven’t even had the energy to do things I actually enjoy lately :/ but hopefully this week is a little better <3

#tired of being tired but i mean #i’ll catch up on reading soon <3

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wvffles · 6 days ago

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obsessing over this series just as much as the show !! <3

the opening itself was so good, you have such a way with descriptions it's so easy to get immersed and be able to visualize it all ✨

“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.

prime example right here. the wordplay? the phrasing? the descriptions?? insane. chefs kiss. 🤌🏽💋 had me blushing, fanning myself, talking into the air — amazing ❤️‍🔥🫠

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.

this is so sweet are u kiddingggg 😭

“What, you didn’t get yourself a little boyfriend? No ‘drop the soap’ action?” you teased.

this had me cracking up

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.

aghhh my heart 😩 the bathroom scenes in the show have been making my chest ache fr, i'm worried for himmm 🥺 (and now i'm worried for him in this series-verse too... loll)

“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.”

cryinggggggg i love this, and them 😭

“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.

I’ll admit this soft sequence with her mom made me cry a little 🥹 i've been missing my mom a bit extra lately and this really took me back to being in the kitchen with her :') lisette seems so sweet already, I loved her dynamic with the reader and with mark 💙 (even with rachel, ik that look of disappointment has gotta sting 😗)

“You grabbed three sets,” you pointed out.

…aw shit

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.

i know that's right !!! now this i love to see, get her 🤣

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.

I love that she went straight for the punch, that bitch deserved to get milly rocked hard lmao

Mark was on his way home, cutting through L.A. traffic the best he could during rush hour.

yikessss, i feel for him. traffic here is a nightmare but rush hour? blegh 😔

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.

aaaand crying again. i love that he had that with her and I hope with time he can get that again 💙

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.

hooooooly shit lmfaooooo this is so much better than i could imagine. para que se le quite a la pendeja 🤣

"I already told you I fucked him! I fucked your fiancé!"

and she's stiiillll lying like oh my god girl, give it up 🤦🏽‍♀️ bien que tiene los cojones para hacer desmadre pero no para decir la verdad? wild.

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.”

man :(( I feel for them, I really do. hopeful for those second opinions...👀

“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.”

I hope this truly sits with her, and settles deep into her bones. not for a redemption arc, but so she can actually take the time and effort to self reflect and stop being such a nasty person with terrible intentions. like her apologies mean nothing considering it took over nine months and a face full of dog shit to admit to what she really did.

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.

periodddddd

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.

aweeeeee 😭

i'm glad the table setting ended up working out, with a much better third guest :p i'm truly obsessed with mark and this little series verse, 💙💙 i'm excited to see where you take this !!

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.

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.

"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.

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.

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.

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 syndrome 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.

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.

“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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#mark meachum x reader #mark meachum #mark meachum fanfiction #mark meachum fic #countdown fanfiction #countdown #jensen ackles #—⋆˙⟡ fic rec

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wvffles · 9 days ago

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how i feel working on the story graphics rather than the story itself, lol

#hopefully one of the two will be out this week :D #if i can FOCUS 😔#also realized i’m a phone editor at heart #— text ᡣ𐭩

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wvffles · 12 days ago

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Jensen Ackles as Mark Meachum in Countdown S1E4

#he's sooo pretty <33 #obsessing rn #mark meachum #countdown #— gifs ⭑.ᐟ

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wvffles · 13 days ago

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oh this was everything !!!!! 😭💙

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.

not gonna lie, at first after reading the description, then seeing the nine months time pass, and reading this I thought a baby ??? ...until I remembered about his undercover prison mission lmfao 🤦🏽‍♀️🤣

all I have to say about blake is boo this man!, lmao. also she needs new friends, those girls are not a good support system at all :/

You walked away first—out of the seaside bar in beautiful Venice, California, with every piece of your heart bleeding out into the street.

heartbreaking, but such a beautiful line aaagh 😔

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.

ay pobresitaaaaa 🥺 i feel so bad :( but part of me is a sucker for the person a looking after a vulnerable person b so I liked where this was headed...😅

“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.

I swoon 💖 love me a protective man.

“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.

yeahh she deserves better friends for sure. friends she can be safely vulnerable with ...no matter how much i love the comfort opening this left for mark 🥲

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.

oh this hit hard :( 🤍 such a heavy feeling

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.

this sequence was so bittersweet to me. ❤️‍🩹 it felt like a reminder of their long and meaningful past, and just how much they really mean to each other despite all the angst surrounding them <3

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.

I don't trust Valwell at all...i'm worried for her 🥲

Your sister apparently hated you enough to fuck your fiancé. Had she been vindictive enough to lie about it?

damn. I wouldn't doubt her stooping that low tbh

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.

good, what a conniving bitch oh my god, she's terrible dude

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. 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.

...yeah she gotta get rocked, oh my. I have zero sympathy for her. like your sister looked out for you better than your own parents, you're mad at her for how your parents treated you (not her fault), so after trying and failing to seduce her drunk fiance...you send her deceiving pictures just to be evil.. you're a weirdo girly. me personally i would have put nair in her shampoo or something. no way she gets away with that scott free 🤠 I hope she does hate herself for this — what an awful thing to do to someone you're supposed to love.

“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.

awwwwwwww 😭

The divot between your brows deepened. “What about a second opinion?” He hesitated. “Have you seen another oncologist?” you pressed.

clinging on to the sliver of hope this is giving me omg

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.

I love this for them 💕 he definitely needs some soft comfort, now more than ever 🥺

i love your mind. this is amazing !!🫶🏽

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—”

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.

“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.”

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.

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.

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

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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

#mark meachum x reader #mark meachum #countdown fanfiction #mark meachum fic #mark meachum fanfiction #jensen ackles #—⋆˙⟡ fic rec

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wvffles · 13 days ago

Note

iiiiiii love you so much 😭💖💖

this is super duper helpful !!!! 🫶🏽🫂 guidance-wise I feel like the older I got the more detached my teachers became, which I don’t blame them at all for honestly. I mean dealing with like five different sets of almost forty students in a day, five days a week? is actually insane. (on top of everything else they had to do) and then the english course I took in college was completely online (covid era 🙃) so it was even more detached. eventually it became all about getting things turned in rather than working on skills 😩 I definitely want to work on it though

but anywho, thank you for taking the time to give such a detailed response !!!💗 (which you always do, and i’m always grateful <3)

hello my lovely, I hope you’re doing well !! 💗💗 I was looking to ask you for some writing advice today :) how do you get your concept from the outline, to writing the actual story?

I’m a very visual person/learner (like i’ll struggle with verbally giving instructions, it’s easier for me to just show how instead) and I think that’s what stumps me when it comes to writing ;_; I can jot down the ideas and like write out the plot easily in summary form, but when it comes down to actually bringing that concept to life and start telling the story, I freeze on how to go about it :’) I know I say this a lot but…I do hope i’m making sense 😅

i still wouldn’t really consider myself a writer, (I feel like I have imposter syndrome if I do lol) but I am currently working on my story for your summer writing challenge (💙) and alsooo a mark meachum fic 👀 not sure yet, i’m just obsessing over him so much rn and the story idea will not leave my mind, my brain just keeps adding and adding on to it 😭 the newest episode only contributed to this, lmao

Hello my lovely friend!! 💜💜 Ooh, this is a great question, because you're certainly not alone. This can always be a struggle for writers, myself included.

How do you get your concept from the outline, to writing the actual story?

I'll tell you my process, but honestly this looks different for everyone. I love that you're a visual learner, because I am too. I need to be able to see it in my mind's eye when I'm writing, like the scenes of a movie.

So that's how I think of writing. Like a movie in my head! 😆

Here's my writing process in 5 basic steps:

1. Character Bios

Before I even create an outline for a long-form story, I'll typically I start with the most basic part of the puzzle: who are the characters?

Main characters only to start with, bulleted with short character descriptions of who they are and what their arc will be in the story.

2. Summary & Storyboarding Structure

Summarize the story as a whole in 1 paragraph. If you can do this, then you can start to break it down into outline, and then draft.

Because you're so visual, it could also help you to conceptualize the story into a basic 3-act structure, like we study in classic narrative:

(Another resource (with a video) for 3-act structure here.)

But yeah, like I've literally taken out a notebook and drawn this by hand and filled in details to help myself visualize a plot.

There are also other types of narrative structure that you can explore here. (Joseph Campbell's Hero's Journey is my personal favorite.)

⟡ My ultimate favorite writer resource is Save the Cat by Blake Snyder and his Beat Sheets. Storyboarding/mapping out your story like this can be really helpful if you're a visual storyteller.

3. Outline

The way I beat writer's block is by having a map of where to go. The outline is that map, of course, but I'm also a very detailed mapper. I go chapter by chapter, scene by scene, even including dialogue for a scene if it comes to me in the moment.

I can always change, finesse, add, subtract things later, especially as I'm drafting, but this initial pounding out of the notes on the keyboard is really important for me.

I also need to go in order. I can't start from the middle or the end. I have to go beginning to end, like sheet music, or like that movie in my head. I need to know what my characters' motivations are for their decisions in every scene, or else the story itself can't move forward.

(If I have an idea for the ending or a concept I want to explore in future chapters, I'll jot it down as a bullet point (or more) at the top of the page so I don't forget it. Then I inject that bullet in later when I finally get to that scene in the outlining process.)

While I'm outlining, I'm doing any necessary research to fill in story gaps and background. This takes a lot of the pressure off while drafting.

4. Drafting

As you can see, my outlining process is almost "half-drafting." That way, by the time I get to the actual writing part, at least 40% of my struggle is already dealt with.

That's not to say I don't have "aha" moments, or stumbling blocks, or moments that I have to go back to the drawing board, or dig deeper into research while drafting. But the flow of writing each chapter is easier because I can already see so much of the narrative in my head.

5. Editing

This is actually my favorite part. 😂 Maybe because I'm an editor professionally, but I actually, truly love the editing process.

This is where I fine tune those lines of dialogue, sharpen the back and forth between characters, finesse the tone or flow or sequence of scenes, fill in the basic descriptions with more poetic lines, etc. This is where I feel like I truly find the soul of the story.

⟡ If you think your opening scene isn't strong enough: Consider why we're starting here, in this scene, in this moment in time. Think of your favorite movies or books with a similar storyline or trope. Would it be more compelling to start in the middle of the action? In a quiet moment? In a flashback? In a flash-forward (some point in the future)?

⟡ If you're struggling how to end your story: What has the main character (or characters) learned by the end of this story? What did they want at the beginning? Has that changed by the end?

What do you want to leave your audience contemplating? Do you want to leave room to make their own conclusions about an ending, or do you want to take a firm stance on how these characters end up?

What does this say about the main theme of the story overall -- and how does it reflect an aspect of life, and the human experience?

Hey, if you're doing any part of the 5 things above, then you're writing. You're doing the thing. Therefore, you are a writer. You're just young in experience.

The great thing about writing is that you keep learning through practice, through trial and error. And trust, I still have moments where I doubt myself and think:

"Aw shit, this isn't as good as other people's work."

"What am I even doing? This is hot garbage."

"Ugh. I was proud of this, but now I kind of hate this."

But after I take a break from it for a little while -- go for a walk, rewatch something for inspo, listen to some music that fits the vibe or the message of the story I'm trying to tell -- I try my best to get back into the story and finish what I started, and figure out how I can believe in the thing I'm writing again.

I'm sooo excited that you want to write for Mark!! He's giving me so much new creative life too right now loll. When those ideas spark and snowball on you, you know it's worth exploring. I truly hope these tips help you start cooking, friend, because I can't wait to read it! 😍💗💗

#writing advice #writing stuff #5-step writing process #lovely mutuals ⋆˙⟡

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wvffles · 15 days ago

Text

currently on the verge of sleep without bucky here in my arms and existing irl, so unfair 😔💔

meanwhile miss girl and bucky in this story be like;

These Nights

Main Masterlist - Bucky Masterlist

Read on A03!

Tags: Bucky Barnes/Female Reader, shameless smut (blowjobs, fingering, p in v sex), light angst, tooth-rotting fluff, no use of y/n, pre-established relationship

Summary: There's never a moment where you and Bucky would wish to be apart, so when you are, you have to make up for lost time.

Author's Note: Your honor, I need him to hold me so bad.

Word Count: 3.3k

He’s home late. No later than usual, but late all the same. For about three hours, the only light in your apartment has been coming from the TV. For even longer, you’ve been doing all but nothing, shuffling around and picking things up, glancing at the door in the hopes that it will open, and Bucky will walk through.

You know he’s never gone longer than he has to be. He tells you all the time, that he’d always rather be home with you than anywhere else.

It doesn’t stop you missing him. From bunching up the blankets until they’re in a Bucky-Shape, using his body wash and wearing his shirt to pretend he’s a little closer than reality.

But he always does come home. Past midnight, but home.

And you’re always waiting up for him, no matter how many times he tells you not to.

Bucky calls your name as he opens the door, and you can hear his exhaustion in his voice.

“In the living room!” You call back, and he groans.

“You should be in bed, doll-“

“Then why’d you call for me?”

There’s a brief silence, and you can picture his adorable, grumpy frown. “Shut it. It’s almost one in the morning-“

“You’re up.”

He sighs, moving around somewhere down the hallway. “‘M sorry, sweetheart, we had to run the debrief-“

“I know, Buck. It’s okay,” you call back, glancing to the doorway. “You need stitches?”

“No.” He materialize from the dark, shuffling across the room and flopping over your body, his words muffled as he presses his face into your chest. “Already had ‘em.”

You scowl, slapping his back lightly. “That’s not funny, James-“

“It’s funny.” His arms wrap around you, not moving from where he’s sprawled over your body. “What’re we watchin’.”

“The news.”

He groans. “That’s so fuckin’ boring-“

You shrug, letting your fingers glide up to play with his hair. “I wanted to know if you were safe.”

Bucky pauses, turning his head to give you a sad, open look. It’s an expression he only reserves for you. Where you’re allowed to see all the heavy weight on his shoulders, the adoration he has for you pained on every feature, and the gaze of a tired man that never feels like he’s doing enough.

He always is.

But no matter how many times you tell him that, he doesn’t believe it. You’ll keep saying it until he does. Just like he’ll keep trying to alleviate your fears until you stop worrying.

“You know I always come back to you, doll.” He murmurs, taking his hand in yours, and you give him a small smile.

“I do.” You cup his face, keeping your words soft. “But I love you, James. I’m going to keep worrying.”

He sighs. “Can’t talk you into goin’ to bed, can I?”

“Maybe you can.” You shrug. “Are you going to bed with me?”

Bucky opens his mouth and you slam a hand over it.

“I- Sorry- Did you eat.”

He raises his brows, but shakes his head and you sigh.

“James-“

“I was trying to get back to my best girl.” He grumbles, prying your hand away. “We’ll do pancakes in the morning-“

“Or you can have the Chinese I got you, now.”

Bucky blinks at you. “You got me Chinese?”

You nod, and try to push to your feet. “Lemme go- Bucky-“

He’s on his feet faster than you ever could be, keeping you pinned to the couch as he leans down and presses a deep, slow kiss over your lips. You melt into the cushion, your hands darting up to hold his face, and he smiles against your lips.

“I’ll get it, babydoll.” He mutters, pressing a smaller kiss to your nose. “But you gotta go to bed-“

“I’ll go to bed when you go to bed.”

Bucky leans back to glare at you, but you just smile right back. That glare doesn’t work on you anymore. You might be the only person in the world who can win a starting contest with Sargent Grumpy, and he knows it, because he gives up with a sigh.

“Just-“ Bucky sighs, tracing metal fingers carefully over your cheekbones. “Don’t fight it, if you get tired. Alright?”

“Alright.” You whisper, giving him a small smile. “Go eat, Buck.”

He grunts, pressing a final, firm kiss to the top of your head, and ambles out of the living room.

It’s only a few minutes that he’s gone, but you shuffle restlessly all the same. The smell of him is so much stronger than the shirt or the shampoo. His warmth is so much heavier, and more comfortable, than the blanket. And you’ve been aching for him all night, enough that you’ll probably climb or ride him first thing in the morning, but you can settle for just contact tonight. Only his body pressed over yours, and his face planted back against your breasts. He’s tired. You care about him resting far more than you care about him flipping you onto your stomach and kissing up your spine, maybe massaging his hands on your thighs or swatting at your ass-

“I love you,” he grumbles your name as he returns, Chinese food in hand, and flops back over your body. “’S unbelievable, how much I love you. You gotta know that, doll. I’d so anything for you. Steal the moon, give you a thousand babies.”

You smile at him, tucking yourself into his side as he grabs the remote and switches off of the news. “You like the dumplings?”

“I like you.” He kisses the side of your head, and when you give him an amused look, he shrugs. “And the dumplings. They’re my favorite, doll. Thank you.”

“I know.” You hum, not bothering to look away from Bucky as he eats. He’s yours. You can stare at him—at the sharp line of his jaw and fullness of his lips—all you want. “A thousand babies is a lot.”

He swallows his bite, giving you a tiny grin. “Then we’ll start with just me fuckin’ one into you, and see where it goes.”

You make an incoherent, sleepy sound and Bucky chuckles, tugging you a little closer to his side. He’s taunting you. It’s too late in the evening for you to just straddle him and grind in his lap until he gives you all the attention you need. Rest. Tonight is about letting Bucky hold you against him and eat his Chinese food, grumbling at the TV whenever a character makes a stupid choice and getting high on his chuckles whenever you make a joke.

It would be nice if he could pretend this was all about him. If he didn’t keep feeding you some of his food, and rubbing circles on your arm that prickle heat over your skin. If every time he kissed you, he didn’t do it a whole lot deeper than he needed to, before biting the tips of your nose and laughing when you whack his chest. Looking so handsome in relaxes in the dark, the tired expression he had when he came through the door long gone.

Maybe you could touch him. He’s tugged you so you’re straddling his thigh, but that doesn’t mean this needs to be about you. You can feel his semi hard cock, pressed on your inner thigh. If you lean down and take him in your mouth, it can be about Bucky and not you-

“Bed?” He asks suddenly, and you’re not sure how long you’ve been staring at him in the dark. Given the openly amused expression on his face, probably longer than you want to admit.

You tilt your head at him. “Are you going to bed?”

He shrugs, your eyes narrow, and you slide a leg over his stomach.

Bucky groans, his hands flying to your hips. “C’mon doll, go to bed-“

“I need you there with me.” You hum, bracing your hands on his shoulders, and he sighs.

“I can’t sleep,” he mutters, dropping his brow to yours. “Long mission. And you know I’m not supposed to get in bed ‘less I’m gonna sleep.”

Fuck, that’s true. Some sleep psychology thing Sam made him go to last year, that you’d told all the New Avengers about so they could reinforce it when he was on overnight missions. Unless Bucky knows he’ll fall asleep, he can’t be in bed. Not if he’s going to stop sleeping on the floor for good.

But he can’t just stay up. The heaviness might be gone, but you can still see the bags under his eyes. And you’re tired yourself, and you won’t be able to sleep without him, but he’ll beat himself up if you sleep on the couch just to be near him.

So there are two options here. The first one is the meds—strong enough to knock out an elephant, and capable of making Bucky sleepy—and the second one is making him relax.

The second one is the better option.

Because then it’s not about you.

You trail your hand slowly down his chest, holding his gaze as you move. He has time to tell you no. That he’s too tired for what you’re obviously aiming for.

But Bucky’s eyes just remain on yours, his lips parting slightly as you rub his bulge through his pants, and his eyes darkening with an expression you know far too well.

Lust.

He mutters your name as you slowly undo his belt, hand flying up to cup your cheek. “You don’t have to-“

“Want to.” You pull his pants down, taking his underwear with them, and start to stroke Bucky’s cock to attention. “Please?”

He blinks at you slowly, a low groan escaping his throat as you lean down to kiss along his jaw. “You’re askin’ me to jerk me off?”

You hum. “And give you head.”

He grunts, his hips jerking at just the suggestion and you smile. “That’s not playing fair, doll-“

“Not trying to play fair.” You lean back, your smile growing at his hooded, ruined expression. “May I?”

His eyes flick down to where you’re slowly pumping him, your thumb rubbing over the tip of his cock, and he grunts. “Yeah. Fuckin’- Have to be insane to say no-“

You crash down, giving him a deep, comfortable kiss and giggling when he groans your name down your throat, his hands skimming feather-like touched up your side as you pick up your pace.

“Off.” He grunts, tugging at your shirt—his shirt—and you moan as his metal fingers start to roll your nipples with an expert precision. “Gotta see you, sweetheart.”

You lean back to undress, and take the opportunity to readjust entirely. Sliding off of Bucky’s lap to angle yourself to the side, helping him all the way out of his pants before-

“Shit-“ Bucky hisses your name as you take him in your mouth, his hand fisting carefully in your hair. “Jesus, warn me-“

You hum, pausing to look at him under your lashes, his cock still heavy on your tongue, and he groans.

“Don’t stop- Fuck-“

His hips buck up again as you swirl your tongue around the head of him, one hand still stroking the base of his cock as the other braces you up, and you let out a lewd, muffled moan as he bumps the back of your throat.

“Shit- Sorry, sweetheart- Christ-“

It didn’t bother you. If this wasn’t about Bucky relaxing, you would’ve guided him to just start fucking your face. But you’re doing all the work tonight, so you just hollow your cheeks, relax your jaw, and start to bob up and down. Making him bully your throat and shifting your hand to play with his balls, moaning around him whenever he jerks on your tongue and sucking him off like you’ve been starved.

But Bucky never gets the memo that this is supposed to be about him. Because suddenly, when you’re licking a strong line up his shaft before dropping down and choking on him, you feel a warm hand massaging your ass and teasing over your panties, right on-

You pull off of him with a sharp gasp as Bucky rubs your clit, and he just chuckles, running your hair between his fingers.

“Bucky-“

“C’mon, babydoll.” He drawls, tugging your hair until you’re looking up at him. “Can’t take it as good as you give it.”

You blink at him, almost falling forward as he leaves a light slap on your ass, your hand still mindlessly playing with his balls squeezing slightly.

Bucky hisses, landing another hit before rubbing his finger back over your clothed pussy. “Play nice, sweetheart.”

You moan, slumping into his body as he slowly pulls your panties to the side, teasing his fingers over your bare, soaking slit.

“Thought you wanted to suck me off, doll?” Bucky teases, and you twist to bury your burning face in his stomach. “Begged me for it, too.”

“Buck,” you whisper, wiggling your ass in the air and whining when you get another light slap. “I need it, please-“

“I know you do, gorgeous.” He tugs your hair again, making you pull back from hiding. “Keep that perfect mouth on my cock and I’ll take care of you.”

You nod mindlessly, wrapping your lips back over his dick, and you’re immediately rewarded with Bucky’s fingers sliding into your cunt.

And he didn’t lie. He never lies to you.

You keep him in your mouth, sucking and moaning around him as he slowly fucks you with his fingers, and you might cum from just his voice. Drawling praise above you and moaning whenever you swallow around him, hisses your name whenever your tongue swirls around him, and-

“There you go,” he hums, his free hand still tangled in your hair as his hips start to jerk up, and you whine around him. “So fuckin’ wet for me, look so pretty when you’re takin’ me like a good girl, gonna fuck you ‘till you can’t walk-“

You moan at the promise, grinding up into the air, and Bucky chuckles.

“Like that, babydoll? Want me to stuff you full of my cock, let me fuck you stupid and sweet-“

He’s starting to slur his words, and you can taste the pre-cum, falling out of your lips with your drool. He’s close. It lights an extra fire in you, and you start to suck him off like there’s no tomorrow. Bucky moans, loud and echoing through the dark, and his fingers in your pussy falter for only a second before his efforts double. His hand twists so he can scissor his fingers in your cunt, his thumb finding your clit and starting to rub rapid, mind-numbing circles.

The coil in your gut snaps right as Bucky presses his thumb down, and you squeeze his fingers as he pumps you through your orgasm. It seems to spark his own release, because a groan of your name and slightly tug of your hair up is the only warning you get before Bucky’s cum shoots right into your throat. You try to swallow, but his fingers are crooking and rubbing on that spot deep inside of you, and you can feel a second orgasm rising up.

The dam breaks right as he yanks you fully off his cock, tugging you up into a wet, hot kiss and biting on your lower lip. You scream his name as you squirt over his hand, and he groans, already half-hard cock pressing against your stomach as you grind down onto his hand.

You shudder in his arms, a weak whine leaving your throat as his fingers pull out, and there’s a second where you both just stare at each other in the dark. You’re still aching, and the serum means he can go all night, and he did say he’d fuck you.

He tips your head back slightly, pressing those same fingers that were just inside you on your lower lips. You hold his gaze as you take them in your mouth, sucking them with just as much fervor as you gave his cock, and he groans.

“You got more in you,” he mutters your name, voice dripping with lust, and you nod frantically. “Wanna-“

“Bed.” You whisper, pulling back with a pleading look. “Or just here-“

Your words die in a yelp as Bucky stands, keeping you steady in his arms, and marches you right to your room. He kisses you as he stops at the foot of the bed, never breaking it as he lowers you both down to the mattress. The only half second, he pulls away is to pull his shirt off his head and toss in into a corner, before raising your legs up to help you out of your panties.

He groans at the sight of the mess between your legs, stroking his cock as he kisses on your calf, and lowers your leg down back down to the bed. “So pretty, babydoll. Gonna fuck you so good, promise.”

You don’t get a chance to respond before he’s falling back over you, capturing your mouth in a rough kiss before slowly guiding himself into your pussy. He moans as you flutter around him, leaning back to scan over your face for any discomfort, and you give him is a tiny nod and roll of your hips.

“More.” You gasp, fingers curling on his chest. “More, Bucky-“

He groans, kissing the words out of your mouth, and start to roll his hips, fucking you lazily. Slowly.

But he picks up the pace. You don’t have to beg or whine for him, Bucky always picks up his pace. Starting with hungrier, deeper kisses and tiny love-bites, before becoming a careful but firm grip on your hips, angling them up to give himself a better angle.

Then you moan his name, and he slams against that deep spot only he can ever reach. Your back arches off the bed with a gasp, Bucky groans your name as you flutter around his cock, and the speed picks up. The bed creaking under him as he fucks you, really properly fucks you, and you’re flying out of your skin as he groans against your throat, his mouth diving down to wrap around a nipple and sucking. You yank on his hair when his tongue does that maddening swirl and flick, and he start to groan, the sound vibrating thorough your body.

You cum together. Bucky’s lips press right over yours as he pulls out one last time, slams in with a groan, and you come apart in his arms. Your head spins with pleasure as he cums inside of you, kissing all over your face and rubbing his hands in slow circles on your hips as he lets you ease back down.

“Shower?” He grunts in your ear, and you nod, your hands rubbing over his back.

It glides by so easily, in the soft, comfortable bliss of Bucky’s presence. He helps you to the bathroom so you can pee, turning on the shower and waiting for you to be ready before guiding you into the warm water. By the time you’re both clean the mist has gotten to your head, and sleep is tugging at your eyes. You’d fight it, if you couldn’t feel Bucky humming as he washes your hair. You try to return the favor, but he just keeps you pinned against his chest, kissing over your neck.

He climbs into bed with you, after helping you dry off. Wrapped around you and out before you can even really register it. He’s a silent sleeper, but you know the difference. He’s relaxed, draped over you, and breathing deeply as you start to drift off.

Home.

He always comes home.

End Note: I think writing this kickstarted my ovulation.

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