️velvet ⚕

she he 🪽18 reblog page - writing: @impalafleurs

[glindaism]

if u followed on my writing acc and instead this one follows back or this one likes your posts im sorry i just made this blog first so its my primary🤦🏻‍♀️🤦🏻‍♀️

[aseafullofstars]

you lead ☆ dean winchester

summary: dean's always wanted to see the beach. but maybe, just maybe, sex in his beloved car by the water beats it by a mile

pairing: sub!dean x reader (gn) | genre: smut (mdni) | word count: 4.0k

warnings: pwp (there is like no plot to this i'm sorry lol), lots of smut (semi-public smut (car sex, gettin handsy on an empty beach), unprotected sex (don't do this !!), oral m!receiving, kinda whiny sub!dean, shamelessly horny dean), older!dean

notes: my first and only pwp fic, prolly won't write another one lolll i'm too asexual for sex without lore

Dean hates summer. The heat’s sticky and persistent, clinging to his skin like dozens of hot burrs, only chased away by cold showers. It makes the vinyl of his Baby’s seats burning hot, hot enough to sting even through the denim of his jeans, the steering wheel faring no better on his palms. He’s got the window cracked open a little, but the breeze that filters through is just as hot, if not hotter, a tidal wave that makes him feel like he’s being baked alive. There’s an empty beer bottle sweating in the cupholder, condensation pooling in a ring at the bottom, a ripple of a pond frozen in time in his car.

The radio’s blasting some cassette he’s not really listening to, repeating the same songs for the last hour. Ordinarily, he’d have the mind to change it out for something different after the fifth time, to put something else in that’ll give his brain the kick it needs to focus on the road, but he can’t bring himself to care. He’s mindlessly driving, eyes scanning the road every so often, peeking out the window at the blue strip of ocean along the side of the car, but his attention is captured elsewhere, trapped by you and kept prisoner for as long as you want.

You’re in the passenger seat looking unfairly beautiful for 90-degree heat and an obscene humidity index. The slight breeze ruffles through your hair, Dean’s sunglasses perched on the bridge of your nose as you stare out at the slice of ocean. Your feet are up on the dash, something Dean would ordinarily argue about, but he can’t bring himself to be mad when the motion makes your shorts ride up and expose your thigh. He realizes with a jolt you’re wearing a pair of his boxers; and instantly, the oppressive summer heat is nothing compared to what’s simmering low in his stomach, vibrating under his skin, itching to make itself known.

Your bottle of Coke is half-empty in the cupholder, and you take lazy sips from it, letting the cool drink wash over you. The condensation on the bottle catches the sunlight and spins it back onto your skin, washing you with that summery glow Dean only thought possible in movies and skin mags; yet here you are, stunning and sitting pretty right at his side. Your eyes are trained out the window, searching for a spot to pull over and take a peek at the water, maybe run down to the sand and stick your feet in the ocean for a minute or two. Pretend that you’re normal for a few hours; a normal couple who’s biggest worry is tax season, not hunting monsters.

The hum of the road beneath the tires lulls Dean into a sort of trance, one where all he can see is you and all he can feel is the road and the heat in his bones. The humidity clings to you in the form of a sheen on your thighs, and Dean almost makes a sound at the sight. It’s embarrassing, how easy it is for you to get him worked up just by sitting in his car and looking like you belong. It’s sinful how at home you look, like the car itself makes space for you and you alone, your own orbit that pulls Dean in ever closer.

“Oh, Dean, pull over here,” you say, snapping him out of his reverie.

It takes him a moment to get his brain in gear and realize where you’re pointing, but he leads the car off the road at your request. You take your feet off the dash, slipping them into worn flip-flops and readjusting the hem of your shorts, boxers covered. The disappointment is immeasurable, and Dean chastises himself for it. He feels like a teenager again, hopelessly horny over every little thing you do, because he just can’t help himself around you. It’s intoxicating, the control you have over him, leaving him flushed and a little ashamed, yet he always comes back for more. How could he not, when you taste the way you do and feel the way you do and look at him with those eyes that he’d go to war over?

“You coming or what?” you say, hand on the door and grinning brightly. “C’mon, we gotta go see the water.”

“It-. Ain’t it gonna be cold?” Dean asks.

“So? You’re warm, just hold me.”

The wink you send him makes him shiver despite the heat, jeans already feeling tight on his hips. Finally, he gets out of the car, locking it behind him and discreetly readjusting himself as he trails after you down to the shoreline. The beach is empty in this spot save for a few seagulls, hidden on both sides by sandstone ridges that soak up the sun, accenting the bars in the rock that Dean vaguely recalls Sam saying were different geological layers.

Dean’s heavy footsteps match yours all the way down to the water, his eyes shamelessly trained on your ass the whole way. Now that he knows you’re in his boxers in those sinful shorts, there’s nothing else he can think about. Except for maybe the way you kick off your flip-flops at the shoreline, scurrying into the surf to stop the sand from burning the soles of your feet. You turn your face to Dean, and he sucks in a deep breath, brain flatlining at the sight of you.

The sun’s reflecting in the flyaway strands of your hair, giving you a halo you should’ve had years ago. Golden light, golden soul, everything pretty he thought he’d never get. You look like salvation and promise, an alter he’d kneel before day after day and pray at, even if it made his knees ache and his back stiff. He stay until he was old and grey and then he’d stay until he was dead and then he’d pray from beyond the grave, because he’s not in heaven if he’s not worshipping you. The world means nothing if he can’t look at you like you hung the moon and stars. There’s no point to any of it if he can’t look at you and see his past and future in your eyes, if he can’t see the way you’ve changed him and led him into the light that so kindly emphasizes your silhouette on the shoreline.

“What’re you staring at, Romeo?” you tease.

“Hm? Wh- nothin’. Wasn’t starin’.”

You giggle, teeth showing and that crooked smile of yours making his heart skip half its beats. “Nothing, huh? Guess we’d better change that.”

Before he can ask what you mean, you’re tugging off your t-shirt and shorts, leaving yourself in just his borrowed boxers. He finds himself thanking every god he knows of that the strip of beach is secluded, because you shouldn’t be seen by any eyes other than his own. The curve of your hips, the dimples on your lower back that disappear into the waistband of the boxers, the humidity making sweat pool in the divot between your collarbones; Dean’s not ashamed of the way his dick twitches in his jeans at the sight.

“You just gonna stand there and watch?” you say.

“Maybe. You’re a damn sight, sweetheart.”

You laugh, the sound refreshing. “So’re you, if you take those damn layers off.”

Dean quirks up an eyebrow. “You askin’ me to strip?”

“Maybe.” You grin devilishly. “I’m also saying you’re hot when I can see all of you.”

“Even though I’m gettin’ grey?”

You smirk. “Especially since you’re getting grey.”

Dean doesn’t need more pushing than that. You’re sauntering toward the waterline, dipping your toes in the ocean as he’s hurriedly pulling off his shirt, balling it up and discarding it beside yours. The jeans come next, Dean hopping a little when one leg gets stuck on his heel. When he’s stripped to just his boxers, he follows you into the water, sucking in a sharp breath at the chill.

“You lied,” he accuses.

“I didn’t lie. I just didn’t tell you the whole truth.”

You wade in deeper, water lapping thirstily at your knees. Dean strides after you, toe stubbing on a rock and making him curse. When he’s up to his waist, he gives a muffled shout at the chill, thin boxers doing nothing to stop it. It certainly fixes his situation, he’ll give it that, but it’s cold in places he should never be cold.

“Gonna freeze my balls off in here, sweetheart,” Dean grumbles, moving closer to you.

“Oh, yeah?” you say. “Tough luck.”

He dramatically puts a hand over his heart. “Ouch. It’s a hard life.”

“I’m sure it is.” You move closer, hand drifting down to his waist.

Dean catches your wrist, eyes sharp. “Careful,” he says.

You ignore him, hand palming him through his boxers anyway. Dean sucks in a breath, careful not to make too much noise in case someone’s listening in from further down the beach or up on the roadside where he’s left the Impala. Your palm is warm, fingers deft as they work him, all without touching his skin. He almost whines when your hands leave him, stifling a moan when you kiss the fingers on one hand and press them to his bulge.

“I’d say you’re doing just fine,” you say.

You dunk yourself in the water before Dean has a reply ready, shaking your head like a dog when you come back up for air, splattering water all over his chest. He has just barely enough time to take a breath in preparation before you tackle him, pushing him back into the waves and throwing him in the water. He shouts in surprise, arms instinctively going around your neck and pulling you down with him.

“Dean!” you yell as you fall, laughing all the way down.

“That’s karma, sweetheart,” he replies.

His lips are on yours as soon as the words come out of his mouth, lapping up the salty taste of your skin. The heat and the ocean water make for an intoxicating blend, and he can’t help the way his tongue sweeps along your lips, chasing after it. He moans softly into your mouth when you nip at his lower lip, teasing it between your teeth, running your hands along his bare chest. You trace the tattoo, then the line of his freckles, your palms landing on his ribs and dancing over them. He’s panting when you break away for air, lips tingling, summer heat burrowed into his skin and living there.

“Not here,” you murmur, breath tickling the shell of his ear. “Not where people could see.”

Dean nods, words dissipating somewhere from his brain to his tongue, strands of memory leaving his body with his heavy exhales. You’re straddling him in the low surf, thighs on either side of his hips, hands gliding over his shoulders. You grind your hips on him experimentally, and Dean’s hands shoot up to your waist, scrabbling for purchase in the plush of your skin. He tips his head back until it hits the sand, mouth lightly parted and eyes squeezed shut. You do it a second time, and Dean groans.

“Thought you said we weren’t doin’ this here,” he pants.

“We’re not. I’m just making sure you’re ready.”

Something stirs low in Dean’s gut, arousal and challenge mixed into one emotion he can’t quite name. It’s hot, whatever it is, burning through his insides and turning his muscles into mush, his brain on one track and one track only; he needs your mouth on him now. He needs you, needs your warmth, your body, your control. He needs you so bad it hurts, stinging desire that makes him feel like a patron at your temple.

“Oh, sweetheart, I’m ready,” Dean says, low and rough.

You swing your legs off him, extending a hand to him and tugging him upright when he takes it. “Yeah? Prove it.”

Dean walks you back onto the beach, mouth on yours and hands fisting into your hair, pulling you flush against him so there’s no mistaking the hardness against your thigh. You smile into the kiss, your lips moving against his with equal fervour, spurred by some desire that’d been growing all day, the tension in the Impala a testament to it. Dean slots a knee between your thighs, guiding you to grind down on it as he walks you toward your clothes and shoes.

“Gotta put those clothes back on,” he says. “Don’t want anybody lookin’ atcha.”

You break away only to do just that, and Dean hastily puts his jeans back on, forgoing the fly and button for the simple walk back to the car. Belt hanging open, it clinks with every step he takes, the sway of your hips matching the sway of the loose ends. There’s sand everywhere, and normally Dean would be pissed about it touching his car, but he’s too eager to feel you to care about the sand. He’ll clean it later, when he’s not two seconds away from coming in his boxers if you don’t get your hands on him quick.

You throw the back door of the Impala open, practically shoving Dean inside in the process. He lets himself go limp, lets you ragdoll him around until you’re comfortable, straddling him again. The door gets slammed behind you, window cracked open, the salty ocean air flooding his nose and the sound of waves crashing on the beach a backtrack to his current fantasy.

“You always talked about going to the beach,” you say, tugging Dean’s shirt off and running your nails down his chest, making him shiver. “How about getting fucked by it?”

Dean makes a high noise in his throat, your words going straight to his dick. His hands push uselessly at the hem of them, only shoving them down and kicking them off when you raise your hips up enough to free them. He’s still in the confines of his boxers, achingly hard beneath the thin material, and you’re still in your shorts, and all he wants is for you to get rid of them so he can see you, see all of you. Your fingertips trail down his stomach, over the light plush of his skin, thumbs dipping beneath his boxers. You lightly tap his hips once, and he raises them, letting you slide the material off and throw it on the Impala’s floor.

“So pretty,” you murmur, mostly to yourself as you take him in.

“Yeah?”

“Mhm,” you hum, already shifting down his legs. “Legs apart, baby.”

You tap the insides of his thighs, his cue to give you room. He does, as well as he can in the cramped space, and he angles himself a little to give you the room to fully sit. Your hands trail over his thighs as you settle between his legs, tracing from his knees up to his hips. You press feather-light kisses over the insides, making Dean’s toes curl and his stomach twist into knots with the anticipation. You take two fingers in your mouth, coating them and stroking him a few times until you’re certain you won’t hurt him with your mouth; like you ever could. Dean’s certain you could shoot him point-blank and he wouldn’t feel the sting.

“Ready?” you ask Dean.

He nods, throat bobbing as he swallows harshly. You give him one last grin, wide and curling up at the corners, front teeth on full display. The smile lines around your face look gorgeous with the way the light deepens the shadows and accentuates the natural curves of your happiness. You purse your lips to kiss his tip once before taking him in your mouth, fingers teasing at his thighs and stomach as you work.

You take him slow, agonizingly slow, so slow that he’s convinced the fire in his stomach will burn him through into ash before you’re done with him. He’s about to tell you to speed up when you take the remainder of him in your hand, working him with that too. As much as he hates it and as much as it makes him wither away inside, he can’t help the fact he’s completely pliant under you. If twenty-year-old Dean could hear the sounds he’s making right now, he’d be ashamed. If twenty-year-old Dean could hear the way he’s whining with each pass of your tongue, the way he gives heady moans when your hand strokes just right, he’d be mortified. But Dean right now is too high out of his head on your love to think about his reputation.

All he can feel is the heat of your mouth, the passes of your tongue along the underside of his dick, the way you pull off on occasion to kiss the tip before taking him again. Each time you do, you hum as you take him deeper, the vibration shooting straight to his core, spurring the rising wave of arousal. He feels like he’s down by the water again, ripples of the waves lapping up around his ankles, swirling higher and higher, stronger and stronger. He’s almost at his peak, sounds becoming impatient and needy, hands grabbing anywhere he can reach; your shoulders, tangling in your hair, gripping the edge of the seat. Right when he’s about to come, when he feels that wave start to crest in his spine and in his stomach, he gives a breathy moan from low in his chest, eyes squeezing shut and stomach muscles tensing.

The wave never hits, because you, the devious tease you are, pull off him with a pop at the very last second. Dean waits a moment longer, hoping you’ll give him the pleasure, hoping you’ll cave and give him relief from the get-go just one time, but you never do. Not when you can see him wrecked like this, no doubt flushed and sweaty, the ocean pounding in his ears along with his heartbeat.

"Please," Dean begs, airy. "Please just-."

"Not yet," you reply.

“You’re evil,” Dean pants as you climb back onto the seat.

“Not evil. Just don’t wanna waste all the fun.”

Dean rolls his eyes, taking a few steady, heaving breaths. You kiss along his shoulders, over his collarbones, taking a detour to suck a mark at the dip between them. He moans as you work your way up his neck, sucking spots on his skin and soothing them with gentle kisses, the tenderness a shock to his system each time. When you reach his lips, you kiss him so deep he can taste himself on your tongue, the faint saltiness of the ocean and his sweat, the musky scent of his own skin. Something in the back of his head says it should turn him off, but if anything, it makes him impossibly harder.

“That good?” you ask, sitting in his lap.

“Yeah,” he says breathlessly. “Would be better if you finished the damn job.”

You nip at his lower lip. “Patience, Dean.”

You lift up your hips just a little, slowly peeling off the shorts and boxers, revealing yourself at a pace that makes Dean want to just rip the clothes from your body. He won’t, because he’s good that way, but he’ll be damned if he’s not begging you to speed up. Finally, finally, the shorts and boxers clear your hips, joining his clothes on the car’s floor, and you’re hovering above him completely bare.

“Ready for me, Dean?” you whisper.

“Always.”

Smirking, you adjust the way you’re sitting so that he can slide into you cleanly. Dean gasps as he feels the way you take him, your muscles tensing around him as he slowly pushes in. You bob up and down a few times, each shift of your hips making Dean’s breath catch in his throat. When you fully sink down and he’s completely sheathed inside you, a choked, broken moan escapes him, and he closes his eyes, tipping his head back against the seat with a dull thud.

Your mouth is on the exposed parts of his neck instantly, nipping at the pulse points as you grind slow circles over him. Your movements draw half-desperate bucks out of him, hips twitching up against you in what isn’t quite a full thrust but is enough to make you groan softly. He sees the moment when he brushes the right spot inside you, because you throw your head back with a moan of his name and sink down harder. His hands go to your hips, keeping you stable, letting you take control back from him as your movements get faster, harder, more desperate.

By the time you’ve worked him up to his peak again and the wave is about to crash, he’s begging under you, whining your name in a way that would be sinful in all the bad ways if he wasn’t so drunk on you. He’s loud, but he doesn’t really care, because each of his sounds is parroted back by you in that tender sweetness that makes his head spin and his chest contract. One particularly full thrust of his hips meets you halfway through your motion, and his voice cracks around your name as you clench around his dick.

Your lips never part from his, consuming him until all he can taste is your sound. It’s messy, tongues and teeth, all desperate heat and a raw desire he’s never felt before, the need to have more, more, more of you close to him. He needs to never be apart from you again, he needs you to crawl inside his chest and live there, he needs you in his arms for the rest of his life.

To Dean’s mild embarrassment, he comes first with a sloppy thrust and a loud moan that comes from deep in his chest, back arching harshly under your hands pressing into the dimples there. The wave in his stomach breaks, drowning him in desire as he pushes up into you, holding himself deep as he comes. You ride him through the aftershocks, following him only seconds later with a cry of his name and a tightening of your hands on his shoulders, fingernails leaving marks on his skin.

Dean goes limp against you afterward, body completely boneless, turning to putty under your careful hands. Not only because you always give him the best sex of his life, but because he trusts you enough to let himself be vulnerable, to let himself not be in charge, to give up that control to your capable hands. He knows you won’t turn it on him and hurt him, knows that you don’t play around when it comes to him. He lets you lay him down on the bench, still inside you, thighs trembling and hands shaky as they reach to pull you close.

“You good?” you ask when your head lands on his chest.

“Yeah,” he sighs. “Really, really good.”

You’re silent for a moment, tracing shapes on his chest. “I’m proud of you, you know.”

Dean stills. “Proud? Why?”

“You didn’t fight me this time. Didn’t try to, I don’t know, prove you’re a man like you usually do.”

You’re right, Dean realizes. For the first time since getting with you, he never once tried to take over, never once tried to get you off first, never once tried to fall back in his old ways of the man being dominant. He’d let himself fall into your rhythm, let himself get carried away by the flow of your movements, the waves of your love and care. And he’d liked it. He’d really, really liked it.

“Yeah…guess I didn’t.”

You smile, kissing the soft skin of his chest once, lazy and slow and nothing more than a mere press of lips to skin. His hand strokes mindlessly up and down your back, never bothering to move or pull out. He’ll worry about that when you decide you’re ready to head back, to get out of the heat and take your time with him somewhere nicer than a car. Right now, he’s more than happy to bask in the afterglow with you, brief reprieve of the heat outside until it inevitably becomes too sticky to be touching each other anymore. Maybe he’ll drift off for a moment, maybe he won’t; maybe he’ll just sit in the quiet and stroke your hair and your back and soak in the soft touches of your fingers on his arms. What’s certain is he’s definitely letting you lead again.

tags : @sweetbabygirlsworld, @spectralgalaxygauntlet, @ladycain00, @andmeiamherdagger, @hxppythxughts-jpeg, @k4renp4ge, @0ccvltism, @shansonito, @bejeweledinterludes2, @thewinchesterwench, @castielscaplan, @spaghettiwoes, @andrealeahhee, @winchesterheart, @aniresrene

[wendichester]

heyy, could you write something on Dean finding out he's going to be a dad, reader finding out and telling him and Dean on his usual overprotective manner and being extremely lovely to her, something veryyy fluffy and emotional 💌

⋆˚꩜｡ two pink lines,

summary. you’re terrified to tell him you’re pregnant—until dean proves he’s been waiting for something like this his whole life.

pairing. dean winchester x reader ( f )

wordcount. 545 genre. fluffy fluff!

warnings. pregnancy reveal, emotional vulnerability, soft dean

<𝟑 .ᐟ consider supporting my work on ko-fi 🩷

You find out alone.

That wasn’t the plan. There wasn’t a plan. Just a pharmacy run for headache meds and a test you toss into the basket like it’s nothing. Like it doesn’t feel heavier than a gun.

Two pink lines.

You stare at them so long your vision blurs.

You don’t cry.

You just sit on the edge of the bathtub, heart pounding, whispering, “Oh my God,” to no one.

Dean is in the bunker garage when you find him.

Music playing low. Hood of the Impala open. He’s elbow-deep in engine grease, muttering to himself about carburetors.

You stand there for a second, watching him.

He looks peaceful. Focused. Safe in his routine.

“Hey, baby,” he says without looking up. “You bring me that socket wrench?”

Your voice doesn’t work at first.

“Dean.”

Something in your tone makes him straighten immediately.

He wipes his hands on a rag, eyes scanning your face. “What’s wrong?”

You shake your head. “Nothing’s wrong.”

“That’s not how you say my name when nothing’s wrong.”

Your hands are shaking, so you just hand him the test.

He frowns at it. “What’s this—”

And then he sees.

There’s a full three seconds where his brain just… stops.

You watch it happen.

His eyes flick between the lines. Back to you. Back to the lines.

“You’re—” He swallows. “You’re pregnant?”

You nod.

Silence floods the garage.

You brace yourself.

For fear. For panic. For the weight of his past crashing down between you.

Instead—

Dean sits down hard on the bumper of the Impala.

“Okay,” he breathes.

You rush to fill the space. “If you’re not ready, or if this isn’t what you—”

“Hey.” His head snaps up. “Don’t.”

He stands again, closing the distance between you in two steps.

“You think I don’t want this?” he asks softly.

“I don’t know,” you admit, voice small. “You never really talked about it.”

He exhales shakily, one hand coming up to cradle your face.

“I didn’t think I’d get it,” he says. “That’s different.”

The words settle into you slowly.

He glances down at your stomach. Not obvious yet. Still just you.

But not just you.

“You’re sure?” he asks gently.

“Yeah.”

A smile breaks across his face, hesitant at first. Then brighter. Softer. Almost boyish.

“Holy crap,” he whispers. “I’m gonna be a dad.”

The awe in his voice makes your chest ache.

He drops to his knees in front of you without a second thought, hands hovering before carefully resting at your hips.

“There’s a tiny Winchester in there,” he murmurs, stunned.

You laugh wetly. “Fifty percent me.”

“Poor kid,” he teases automatically—then looks up at you with something so open it steals your breath. “We’re gonna be okay.”

“You sound very sure.”

“I am.”

He presses his forehead gently against your stomach, grease-stained hands warm and steady.

“I’m not my dad,” he says quietly. More to himself than to you. “I’m gonna do this right.”

Tears finally spill over.

He stands again, pulling you into his chest, holding you like you’re something breakable and precious all at once.

“You’re not alone in this,” he promises into your hair. “You got me.”

And for the first time since you saw those two pink lines, you know you’ll be okay.

ꔛ. all works ; writing guidelines ; writing schedule ── .✦ requests are currently closed.

[stargazedwinchester]

꩜༄.° @glindaism's 𝖍𝖚𝖓𝖙𝖊𝖗 𝖒𝖔𝖔𝖉𝖇𝖔𝖆𝖗𝖉,,

colour: purpleseason: winterchosen word: reverie

ʚଓ٠࣪⭑ your chosen weapon is a violin bow forged with a hidden blade: a bridge between art and survival. it hums when you move it, singing even in silence. it reflects the way you live, stubborn in your devotion to beauty, passionate in everything you touch, musical even in the midst of ruin. you don’t abandon softness to survive. you carry it with you.

ʚଓ٠࣪⭑ dean notices how you drift sometimes, eyes distant like you’re halfway inside a dream. how you hum without realizing it. how you care in ways that feel almost old-fashioned—steady and unwavering. he teases you for being stubborn, but secretly he loves it. you remind him that there’s more than survival. that there’s music even in the wreckage.

Snow presses against the motel window, turning the world violet and quiet. The heater rattles. A cassette plays too loud from the radio—Miss World, distorted and aching. You sit cross-legged on the bed, violin bow resting across your knees, humming along without realizing it. Dean pauses in the doorway. You always do this. Drift. Half-here, half-somewhere softer. He watches the way your fingers move like they’re still playing, the way your brow furrows with feeling. Stubborn, passionate, all heart. It hits him in the chest. “You know you’re gonna wear that tape out,” he says. You blink back into the room. “Sorry. It just… gets stuck in my head.” He shrugs, softer now. “Kinda like you.” You tilt your head. “Me?” “Yeah,” he admits. “You linger.” You smile at that, warm and a little sad. Dean looks away, because winter’s cold—but you aren’t. And somehow, you make him believe he doesn’t have to be either.

✧ 𝒊𝒇 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒘𝒂𝒏𝒕, 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒄𝒂𝒏 𝒔𝒖𝒑𝒑𝒐𝒓𝒕 𝒎𝒆 𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆.ᐟ // ✧𝒔𝒆𝒏𝒅 𝒊𝒏 𝒂 𝒓𝒆𝒒𝒖𝒆𝒔𝒕 𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 // ✧𝒓𝒆𝒒𝒖𝒆𝒔𝒕 𝒂 𝒑𝒆𝒓𝒔𝒐𝒏𝒂𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒆𝒅 𝒎𝒐𝒐𝒅𝒃𝒐𝒂𝒓𝒅 𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆.ᐟ

[wendichester]

⋆˚꩜｡ such a funny way,

summary. sam left for stanford and now he’s such a funny way in showing that he loves you. dean sees it all.

pairing. stanford!sam winchester x reader ( gn ) x best friend!dean winchester

wordcount. 1014 genre. angsty

warnings. long-distance relationship strain, emotional neglect, miscommunication, heartbreak, slow-burn emotional comfort, dean as emotional support (best friend energy), unresolved feelings

notes. you can blame @stargazedwinchester for bringing to my attention that miss sabrina had released a new song. check out her drabble for this song here!

masterlist˖ ݁♬⋆.˚ now playing ၊၊||၊ such a funny way by sabrina carpenter

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Sam leaves in late August.

The air is still warm when he packs the last of his things into the car, Stanford brochures crumpled on the passenger seat like proof he’s really doing this. He kisses you goodbye, hands on your waist, forehead pressed to yours.

“I’ll call,” he promises.

You believe him. Of course you do.

The first few weeks are almost sweet. Late-night calls where he sounds breathless and excited, telling you about classes and professors and libraries that smell like old paper and ambition. You fall asleep with the phone tucked under your pillow, his voice fading into static and distance.

You keep his hoodie. The gray one from the night you met. It still smells like him if you press it to your face hard enough.

Then midterms happen. Then papers. Then parties.

Then silence.

It’s not dramatic at first. Just… gaps. Missed calls. Texts that sit unread long enough to make your chest feel hollow.

hey, you busy?

miss you.

call me when you can.

Sometimes he answers days later, breezy and apologetic.

Sorry babe, slammed with work.

Phone died.

Crazy week.

You nod along to the excuses like they don’t scrape at you. You tell yourself distance makes people fonder. You tell yourself this is normal. You tell yourself love stretches.

Dean doesn’t say anything at first.

He just notices.

Notices you checking your phone during dinner. Notices the way your smile falters when it lights up—half hope, half dread. Notices how you laugh things off a little too quickly.

One night, you’re sitting on the motel bed, knees pulled to your chest, Sam’s name glowing on the screen as it rings.

It rings.

And rings.

And stops.

Voicemail.

You stare at the phone until it feels stupid not to cry. So you laugh instead. A small, broken sound that surprises even you.

Dean’s sitting at the table cleaning a gun. He freezes.

“You okay?” he asks gently, like approaching a skittish animal.

“Yeah,” you say too fast. “He’s just busy. Stanford, you know.”

Dean hums, unconvinced. “You wanna talk about it?”

You shake your head. “Not really.”

He doesn’t push. He never does. He just brings you a beer you don’t ask for and sits beside you, close enough that your shoulders touch.

Weeks pass. Then months.

Sam forgets things. Little things at first—your favorite song, the date you were supposed to visit, the fact that you hate being called after midnight because it makes you feel like an afterthought.

One day, a package shows up.

Your sweater. Folded neatly. Smells faintly of detergent that isn’t yours.

There’s a note.

Thought you might want this back.

That’s it.

You read it three times before your vision blurs.

Dean finds you in the bathroom, sitting on the edge of the tub, sweater clenched in your fists like you’re afraid it’ll disappear.

“Oh,” he breathes. “Sweetheart.”

That does it. You break.

You don’t sob loudly. You just fold inward, tears spilling silently, shoulders shaking as if you’re trying not to inconvenience anyone with your pain.

Dean kneels in front of you without hesitation. He doesn’t ask permission. He just pulls you into his chest, arms solid and warm and real.

“He doesn’t even say it anymore,” you whisper. “He doesn’t say he loves me. He just… disappears. And then comes back like nothing happened.”

Dean’s jaw tightens. “That’s not fair to you.”

“I know,” you sniff. “I keep thinking if I wait long enough, he’ll remember me again.”

Dean presses his forehead to your hair. “You shouldn’t have to beg someone to choose you.”

You cling to him like a lifeline.

The night Sam finally ends it, it’s over the phone.

He sounds tired. Detached. Like he’s already moved on to the next part of his life.

“I just think we’re in different places,” he says. “And this isn’t really working anymore.”

You swallow hard. “So that’s it?”

“I’ll always care about you,” he offers, like a consolation prize.

You hang up before he can say anything else.

You don’t scream. You don’t throw things. You just sit there, numb, until Dean appears in the doorway.

One look at your face and he understands.

He crosses the room in three strides and pulls you into his arms. This time, you cry hard. Ugly. Desperate. Your fingers twist into his shirt as if anchoring yourself to something solid.

“I feel stupid,” you choke. “Everyone knew something I didn’t.”

Dean rubs slow circles into your back. “You’re not stupid. You loved him.”

“I still do.”

“I know.”

That’s the worst part. He knows.

Days pass. You function. Barely.

Dean becomes constant in a way you didn’t realize you needed. He brings you food. Sits with you in silence. Lets you talk when you want and doesn’t rush you when you don’t.

One evening, you’re curled up on the bed, staring at the wall.

“You ever think,” you murmur, “that some people show love by leaving?”

Dean snorts softly. “That’s a real messed up way of sayin’ it.”

You smile weakly. “Guess he had a funny way of saying it.”

Dean looks at you then, something unreadable in his eyes. “You deserve someone who stays.”

You don’t respond. You just lean into him, letting your head rest on his shoulder.

It feels safe. Too safe.

And somewhere deep down, something quiet and dangerous begins to shift.

Not love. Not yet.

Just the realization that the person who never forgot you was right here all along.

Dean doesn’t take advantage of your heartbreak. He doesn’t blur lines. He just stays.

And sometimes, that’s everything.

You laugh again eventually. Not because you’re forcing yourself not to cry—but because you finally don’t need to.

Still.

Some nights, when the world goes quiet, you think about distance. About forgetting. About all the ways love can slip through your fingers while insisting it’s still there.

Such a funny way.

And when Dean squeezes your hand in the dark, grounding you back into the present, you let yourself believe that maybe—just maybe—love can also mean never letting go.

ꔛ. all works ; writing guidelines ; writing schedule ── .✦ requests are currently closed.

[wendichester]

Sam would never be a jock.

oh this is my ROMAN EMPIRE actually, thank you for enabling me 🤭 essay incoming. grab a coffee. or a cigarette. (actually no bc smoking is bad for you!) or dean’s discarded EMF reader.

˗ˏˋ JOCK SAM x GEEK DEAN IS NOT A HOT TAKE. IT’S CANON ˎˊ˗

people insist on flattening the winchesters into: ≫ sam = soft nerd intellectual ≫ dean = cocky jock womanizer and that’s just… lazy fandom shorthand. canon says otherwise. LOUDLY.

if you swap the lens for two seconds, the dynamic clicks into place: ≫ sam is the jock who never got the field. ≫ dean is the geek who never got permission to be silly.

SAM WINCHESTER: THE JOCK WHO WAS ROBBED

sam has everything that makes a classic jock archetype — except the environment that would’ve let it bloom.

≫ tall. broad. physically dominant without trying. ≫ charismatic in a way that pulls attention rather than asks for it. sam isn’t awkward about his body---he weaponizes it. early seasons sam steps into people’s space, squares his shoulders, looms. that’s jock behavior. the boy knows he’s intimidating and uses it without apology. ≫ hyper-competitive ≫ confident to the point of arrogance when he believes he’s right. argues for sport, escalates immediately, hates losing. sam is constantly bitchy with dean in the early seasons. eye-rolls. smug little looks. the “i’m smarter than you” tone. he argues like someone who’s used to winning, not like a shy nerd. half of his fights with dean aren’t emotional, they’re ego contests.

and most importantly? sam expects to be good at things.

that line in s1 where he complained to dean about having to learn bow and arrow. he doesn’t say “i wondered what it’d be like.” he says i wanted to play and dad didn’t let me. entitlement. expectation.

in a normal household, sam would’ve been the guy teachers love and peers resent:

≫ starter on the team ≫ good grades without killing himself ≫ a little (a lot) smug about it ≫ fully aware people watch him walk into rooms

and stanford? not proof he’s a meek academic. proof he’s self-correcting. sam in canon is constantly trying to contain himself---his ambition, his appetite, his need to be more than the room allows. sam absolutely had that “quiet jock who pretends he’s above it but isn’t” thing going on. the kind who says he hates parties but still shows up and somehow ends up central to the room.

jessica didn’t “get” sam---she anchored him. jess didn’t effortlessly land him. she was stability, safety, permission to rest. if sam had grown up whole? jess wouldn’t be his first orbit---she’d be one of many attempts to pin him down. (and ofc, she is gorgeous and a smokeshow, but still)

healthy sam doesn’t imprint that fast. healthy sam makes people chase.

take the leash off and you get ruby-era sam:

≫ commanding ≫ assertive ≫ morally flexible but certain ≫ terrifyingly confident in his own judgment

sam is a jock at heart because jocks are about presence---and sam dominates space when he stops apologizing.

DEAN WINCHESTER: THE GEEK IN A LEATHER JACKET

dean, meanwhile, is cosplay. brilliant, tragic cosplay.

he performs the role of the player because it’s survivable. but look at what he actually loves:

≫ obsessive knowledge about cars, weapons, pop culture ≫ meticulous rituals (music order, food habits, routines) ≫ emotionally attached to objects ≫ deep nostalgia, deep sentimentality ≫ fixates on lore, rules, systems

that’s not jock brain. that’s geek brain.

dean is the kid who:

≫ would’ve built model cars ≫ memorized trivia for fun ≫ rewatched the same movies until the tape wore thin ≫ read the manual front to back

and socially? dean doesn’t hunt. he deflects. he flirts like armor, not strategy.

his so-called “player” moments are:

≫ one-night stands ≫ shallow connections ≫ performative confidence

contrast that with how he behaves when he actually cares:

≫ awkward ≫ hesitant ≫ emotionally clumsy ≫ terrified of wanting too much

dean isn’t smooth. he’s rehearsed.

a true jock thrives on social power. dean avoids vulnerability like it’ll kill him---because once, it almost did.

WHY JOCK SAM / GEEK DEAN WORKS SO WELL

because their friction makes sense.

sam pushes forward. dean holds back. sam wants more. dean wants safe. sam believes he deserves the world. dean believes the world is borrowed.

jock sam challenges authority---including dean’s. geek dean hoards knowledge and responsibility to justify staying in charge.

sam is bratty confidence. dean is anxious control.

and that’s why sam feels “bitchy” early seasons---he is. he’s a younger brother who knows he could’ve been something bigger and resents being folded small.

and dean reads as cocky---because he’s hiding the fact that deep down, he’s a soft-hearted nerd who would rather be fixing an engine, quoting movies, and keeping everyone alive than actually being desired.

THE CONCLUSION (AKA: THE HILL I DIE ON)

sam winchester raised right is a varsity nightmare with a god complex and a charming smile. dean winchester raised right is a gentle geek without the pressure of having to be his dad but tiny version.

canon didn’t erase that. trauma just rearranged the packaging.

[dhazefawn]

I (DON’T) HATE YOU ╱ with JASON TODD ಇ. VIGILANTE!READER 𖡎 smau .ᐟ ⠀⠀ ────⠀⠀⠀ enemies forced to partner—then forced to admit they’re in love.

‧˚꒰ৎ୭ 🗒️ — another requested smau!! i loved this dynamic between jay and reader! thank u anon for the req <3 i added little details to show how their relationship grows, which was very fun. ꒰ ´ᗜ`๑ ꒱

‧₊˚🖇️✩ links — main masterlist﹐more smaus.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎̲ ‎̲ ‎̲ ‎̲🔗 ‎ ‎̲ ‎̲ ‎̲ ‎̲ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎₍ DHAZEFAWN do not repost, copy or use my work for ai ...₎

[dictearchive]

[impalafleurs]

Back to you ༉‧₊˚.

summary: you run into Dean Winchester a lot, this time you're a drunk mess genre: angst-ish warnings/content: fem!reader, drunk reader, mentions of a bar and hangovers, pet names, slight anger towards dean, inspired by the song everytime by ariana grande word count: 1040 a/n: been an idea for a bit now. missed writing about deanie<3

Dean and you had been on and off for years. 

“I wish it was different, I swear.”

“I just have to protect you. You’re not safe with me.”

Dean didn’t mean to hurt you. He hated every second he did.

But he had a job to do, a different life to live.

And you deserved better, you both knew it.

But how do you fight a force like Dean Winchester?

The first time Dean abruptly left was when you were both around 16. It wasn’t much then, just a few shared moments and your first kiss. You didn’t know it was the beginning of everything.

When he first returned, 18 was the age you both shared. Adulthood. 

You were just about to leave for college and your room was a mess. Boxes everywhere, clothes on the floor, and tylenol on your desk for your stress induced headache. A knock interrupted your thoughts.

It was the first of many times when you’d open the door to be greeted with his beautiful smile. Where your heart would dance, but then sink at the same time. 

“Dean” your breath would hitch

“In the flesh” he’d say, always with the audacity to smirk

You wish you could count the amount of times this scene would replay throughout your 20s.

But now that you’re 28? It was pathetic. 30s were a big deal and it was clear Dean wouldn’t be a serious additive to them. 

Work was stressful and this day in particular, was a pain in the ass. So, you found yourself at the bar. You deserved it. 

It was inevitable that you’d probably have way too many drinks tonight, but what you didn’t see coming was running into him. 

You were stumbling out of your seat, trying to still seem put together despite it all. 

“Doll?”

You froze at the familiarity of the voice, the oh so comforting one.

“Dean?”

There was that breath hitch again. Darn.

“What are you even doing here?” you said sternly, desperately trying to stand your ground at a time like this

He chuckles, “sweetheart that shouldn’t be a question. I can, however, ask you the same thing.”

“Whatever. I need to go home.” you try to brush this whole night off and miserably attempt to walk towards the bar entrance. Suddenly a body is blocking the door.

“Woah you are not in any condition to walk out of here alone” dean had awkwardly laughed while saying it, but if you weren’t so drunk, you would be able to see his slight panic.

“Just get out of my way, you are always in my way!” you drunkenly protested. You meant to point at Dean to get your point across but it was towards a poster on a wall instead. 

He sighed, “Please just let me drive you home. You can’t drive in this condition, princess”

The familiar nickname made your chest ache “don’t call me that, alright?” perhaps if you were sober you would’ve allowed it.

He nodded and opened the door as you stumbled out. As soon as he stepped out, he was by your side, guiding you to your car. Thankfully, Sam had dropped him off, so he would just tell him to come to your house later instead. 

You groan, but don’t fight his touch. “God this is so like you. To show up and save me. I don’t need saving!”

Dean didn’t say anything, he didn’t want to interrupt however you felt about him tonight. His goal was to have you home safe. You weren’t in a state for a serious conversation anyway. Besides, he just really missed your voice. He’d listen to you call him an asshole on repeat for 30 minutes just to hear you.

Once you were on the road, your comments had stopped, and slumber overtook you.

Your scent was all over the car. The smell of sweet, gentle, vanilla. Sweet and gentle you. Dean breathed it in as much as he could, not knowing if he’d get this lucky again. He didn’t know that the universe laughed at his thought then, for the universe always makes your paths cross again and again. 

When he pulled into your driveway, he turned the engine off, and let the night sit still for a moment. He glanced over to your sleeping figure, how peaceful you looked. A small smile crept upon his face, before he got out of the car. 

He gently picked you up from the passenger side all the way up to your bedroom. He still kept an extra house key you gave him years ago, it was the first time he actually used it.

While you rested in your bed, Dean went to get a warm rag that he placed on your head, and set a coffee on your nightstand. He knows you get pretty bad hangovers. Only he would know all of this, would do all of this.

As he was about to walk out your bedroom door, you shuffled in bed. He froze.

“De?” you murmured, probably half conscious. Now it was him whose heart ached from the familiar nickname.

“Right here, sweetheart”

“Mmm, thank you. For tonight. I…. missed you” 

He hadn’t smiled as he did then in months.

“Thought you were sick of me” he teases

“Mmm, no. never sick of you.” and even with your eyes closed, you smiled.

He walks closer to the bed “need anything?”

“Yes. Will you stay? Just for the night… please?” all your pride fell apart, it’s not like you can fight it for that long with him. 

His heart breaks. He should say no, he was on a case, but he figures Sam could get him in the morning. And you were so endearing like this.

He takes off his boots as he answers, “yeah, sweetheart. I'm right here.

“Don’t feel you” you mumble

“Still impatient I see” he smiles as he lays next to you.

“There you are” you get closer to his chest, finding your safe haven.

“Hey Dean?”

“Hm?”

“I wish you could stay forever” you whispered

Dean kissed your head delicately, “me too, princess. Me too.”

Because no matter how drunk you got and pretended you were over it, you’d run back to Dean’s arms every time. 

[violained]

𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐨𝐨𝐧 ─ dean winchester

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: dean lets himself love you, gently. 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭: gn!reader. established relationship. fluff - mild angst. non-sexual intimacy, close proximity, kisses. use of pet names (baby, pretty). dean winchester whining! implied nsfw.

masterlist ♡

Dean's head rises and falls slow, from where it rests on your stomach.

Your thighs press warm over his shoulders, and his nose travels on and up towards your navel. Sure fingers squeeze and knead at the plush of your waist, and his heart batters against his ribs.

He doesn't get to be like this often.

It's nice, he thinks. Not acting as a killing machine nor an attack dog. There are no orders with you, only soft murmurs and gentle touches and a feeling so tender within him. It makes him ache, all over. Strange and unfamiliar and not deserved.

But he could get used to it. He'd really like to.

Maybe it's greedy. As he kisses up your sternum, he feels as though he's overindulging. He swallows the swell of guilt that rises up his throat. He's gotten much better at that, with your help.

"You can be loved," you'd told him, not so long ago.

His eyelids flutter shut at the feel of your fingers in his hair.

You can be loved. You can love. You're capable. You deserve it.

One of your soft hands slips down to hold his cheek ─ he could die here ─ as he reaches his destination. The pointed tip of his nose brushes yours, green eyes half-lidded and glassy with a sheen that's only for you.

Because of you.

"Baby," he breathes out. It's a needy, whining sound. "Please."

He's not sure what he's begging for. All he knows is that he wants you, everywhere and all at once, in whatever way you'll give yourself. His forehead bumps to yours and he sighs, shuddering. Feeling so much for you, that he hasn't let himself before.

Love is overwhelming, he's learning.

You're ever patient.

"It's okay," you coo. "What d'you need, pretty?"

His throat bobs and he dips low to kiss and nip desperately at the curve of your jaw, trying to think up an answer. Something coherent and easy and not entirely vulnerable.

His effort is futile.

You, you, you.

"Just..." he tries. Another nip to the place beneath your ear. "you."

Luckily for Dean, you can give him just that.

[violained]

thinking about dean winchester with a soft, sensitive reader and how absolutely lovesick he would be!!!!

you're the gentle to his rough, the soft to his sharp, and he just can't get enough of you. your soft touches on his face and arms, the quiet cadence of your voice, the way you just always understand him.

he feels so very full of love and adoration and something purely honey-sweet for you, whenever you're near him or far away.

maybe you prefer to stay at bobby's place to help with research while he and sam go out to work cases, and his heart just absolutely aches while he's away. but after a hunt, he'll book it back to sioux falls to see you and without fail, you'll be waiting on the porch for him when he pulls up the road!!!

he'll immediately climb out of baby, leaving sammy to unload the car, and take u into his arms because he's missed you like a dog and needs to feel you now!!!!

he'll lift you up, warm arms looped around your middle and bury his face into the soft crook of your neck, nosing and kissing there whilst breathing in the subtly fragrant scent of you, which is just so soothing to him. he'll set u down and pull back just enough to meet your gaze, then. he thinks your eyes are so so pretty!

maybe u reach up and maneuver his face gently from side to side, inspecting for any scrapes and he'll let you, assuring you :

"m'okay, baby."

and he's gotta tell u :

"missed you so much, pretty. got some time to make up for, huh?"

it takes a lot of strength for him to not melt at the sight of your fluster.

[impalafleurs]

Soup Medicine ༘⋆

summary: frank's had a bad shift, you know just what to do genre: fluff warnings/content: wife reader, established relationship, mentions of rehab, takes place during s2 of the pitt word count: 770 a/n: yearning for dr. langdon so much lately.. i'm proud of this one! hope you enjoy:)

you and frank’s shared apartment currently smelt of herbs, warmth, and broth 

frank had already managed to complain multiple times through text today 

“im over it and it hasn't even been an hour”

“robby is still avoiding me”

“maybe we should move”

your heart ached each time your phone dinged, with a more upsetting message waiting to be read from your husband.

It has been around two weeks since he came back to the pitt from rehab and things are still not all in place. you stayed by his side of course, managing visitations, and a lonely home. 

waking up next to langdon has been a blessing, but hearing about how work has been for him is not. 

you knew and you both talked about the possibilities, the uncomfortableness. but you tried to reassure him that he worked through things for a reason, that he's meant to help people, especially at the pitt.

he texted you around 10 minutes ago saying he was on the way home, so you knew you could expect him in about 5 minutes to walk through the door. 

you had been preparing of course.

two hours ago, you started cleaning a chicken. it had been in the fridge from last week’s grocery trip and you figured it was the perfect time to use it. 

during your 3rd date with your husband, before you had a ring on your finger, you learned his favorite soup was chicken soup. 

“my mom would make it for me when I was feeling down” he chuckled, looking at the plate of food instead of your gaze. he was slightly embarrassed, but he still wanted to be vulnerable with you. 

this was the date when you knew you were falling for him.

you reached out and rubbed his knuckles, before clutching onto his hand. “That's sweet. ill make note of that”

his head peered up at your gentle touch, blue eyes finding yours. despite the moment being tender, he smirked “why? are you planning to be my wife or something?” 

you smiled then, “don't get ahead of yourself langdon, you should be so lucky if I was”

he laughed and squeezed onto your hand gently. it was as if he knew then too, that he wasn't gonna ever let go from this day forward.

the doorknob began to fidget as you plated the soup on the dinner table. you lit some candles, they were lavender scented to relieve stress. frank had teased you about it when you picked them out, but deep down, he found himself thankful.

“honey im- hey” 

you were greeted with frank’s charming smile, as you slowly walked towards him, cupping his face. he wasted no time in gently pecking your lips, melting into you. “hey frankie” you murmur

his smile only grows, “god I missed you”

you back away and turn to the table, decorated with the candles and a centerpiece of roses. frank changes the flowers every week for you, a tradition he brought to your marriage.

“missed you too. I made your favorite”

he puts down his hospital bag by the coat rack and walks over to the table. his mouth doesn't close once. “baby…” 

“I know you had a shitty day. I also know I can't fix how everyone’s treating you, or that im not rob-“

the sound coming out of your mouth stops as frank places his lips on yours. his arms gently squeezing your waist closer to his, his smile lines being present is the last thing you notice before closing your eyes.

“you dont need to say anything else. thank you. I don't know what I'd do without you.” even though it was just you two in the apartment, he said it only loud enough for you to hear.

you chuckle, “probably lose your mind even more. kidding” you quickly add the last part even though you probably don't need to. you want frank to always be reassured about how you view him. even if banter is one of the major parts of your marriage.

he hums “you’re probably right” he kisses your forehead before sitting down in front of the ceramic bowl of soup. 

“not gonna get into something more comfortable?” you wonder

he shakes his head, “the soup can't wait” 

you smile at your husband endearingly, before joining him at the table. 

“its perfect” he says after a spoonful “you’re perfect” 

frank knows he has to hold his breath when he clocks in, but he also knows that when he clocks out, he has a way of breathing to come home to. and that always makes everything worth it.

[peterpcrker]

X-MEN 2000 | dir. Bryan Singer

[se7entyrell]

another man's jeans - chapter eight.

(a frank langdon exes to roommates to lovers fic)

It's been a long ten months for Frank Langdon. Rehab, endless meetings to prove he's fit for his job, and losing you.

It's his own fault. He knows that. He couldn't handle the pressure of his entire life going to shit, and combusted, destroying your life in the process. If things had gone to plan, the two of you would've been married by now. Instead, you're near strangers, and Frank doesn't know how long he can watch you date a guy that absolutely doesn't deserve you.

Until you turn up on his doorstep, with nowhere else to go after being kicked out by your ex.

And so, Frank Langdon's second chance begins.

warnings: this fic is 18+, mdni! will feature explicit sex, medical gore, and some violence.

masterlist

After the massacre at Pittfest, the hospital feels oddly quiet. There are still patients everywhere, some critical, some barely grazed, some dead. And yet, it feels like everybody’s let out a breath, for the first time in five hours.

And Frank’s nowhere to be found.

He’s been spotty all day. Nowhere to be found when you looked for him after lunch, and appearing again randomly when things started getting bad.

Frowning, you head up to paeds to grab your things. Maybe he’s just showering. Trying to get rid of the blood under his fingernails. Backpack slung over your shoulder, you catch Robby and Abbot as they’re leaving. “Hey, have either of you guys seen Frank?”

They exchange a look, Robby’s expression falling a little. Immediately, your heart sinks. “Come on over here, we can talk,” He murmurs, hand at your elbow. “Frank was sent home.”

“Why? Is he okay?” Your mind starts to race a million miles a minute. Visions of him somehow getting hurt tonight. Although, surely if he got hurt, he’d still be here to be treated.

“He’s been stealing pills from the hospital. Librium. I’ve sent him home tonight, and we’re going to work out what to do tomorrow. It-it’s uh, likely that he’s going to need to do some kind of treatment programme. Rehab.”

“Stealing?” you echo, frowning. “That doesn’t-” You trail off, shaking your head. “I didn’t see anything. He didn’t seem- I mean, Frank’s been stressed, sure, but-”

“Kid, it’s bad,” Robby interjects. “Like ‘might not have a job soon’ bad.”

“Oh,” you breathe, chest constricting.

You don’t know what your face is doing, but Robby’s expression softens even more. “I’m sorry you’re finding out like this,” he says. “Tonight forced my hand. I can’t let him be around patients when there’s a risk like that - we obviously needed him during the MCI, but starting tomorrow… he needs help.”

You nod, because that’s what you do when everything inside you feels loose and unanchored. When your life and relationship is going at ninety miles an hour, and about to run off the road entirely. “I— I should go,” You mumble, the decision forming fully in your mouth before you realize it. “I need to go home.”

Robby hesitates, then nods. “That makes sense. Let me know if there’s anything I can do. I’ll be in touch.”

The drive is the worst fifteen minutes of your life, but you’re suddenly very grateful you brought both cars to work today, due to an early meeting you had.

By the time you get home, your hands are shaking. The lights are on when you pull up, a thin, steady glow behind the curtains that makes you want to cry already. It’s so familiar, and yet you have the distinct feeling that everything is about to spiral out of control.

It’s quiet inside.

The bedroom door is open.

Frank is standing at the foot of the bed, folding clothes with careful precision. An open duffel bag gapes on the mattress, half-full of t-shirts, jeans, underwear.

He looks up when he hears you.

For a second, neither of you speak.

“What are you doing?” you ask, even though the answer is right there in front of you.

He swallows, nods once, like he’s bracing himself. “I’m… I’m going to rehab. Tonight. Or first thing in the morning. Robby gave me some numbers.” He gestures vaguely toward the bag. “I thought it’d be better if I just… got ahead of it.”

A fresh start.

“You were going to leave without talking to me?” Your voice is steadier than you feel.

“No,” He says quickly. Too quickly. “I mean- I didn’t know when you’d get home, and I didn’t want to put this on you after everything tonight.” He exhales, rubbing a hand over his face. “You’ve been through enough. I-I thought it would be easier this way.”

Your expression hardens a little. “You don’t get to decide that I don’t get to be here.”

That makes him flinch.

“I didn’t want you to see me like this,” He admits, eyes cast low. “I didn’t want to look at you and know I disappointed you.”

Your chest tightens painfully. “Frank… that’s not true-”

“I stole from the hospital,” He interjects bluntly. “From patients. From fucking Louie.” His voice breaks, just slightly.

You step closer without really deciding to. “Is that why you’re packing? Because you think leaving will make that better?”

He lets out a hollow laugh. “I think leaving might be the only way I don’t drag you down with me.” He finally looks at you then, eyes red, exhausted. “I need a clean slate. A fresh start. And I don’t know how to do that if I stay.”

The words sting more than you expect, knocking your entire world off its axis. At the idea that Frank doesn’t need you. Not the way that you need him. He wants to face this alone, and without you.

“You don’t get a fresh start by running,” You say, trying desperately to keep your voice level. The last thing either of you need right now is a screaming match. “You get one by staying and doing the work.”

“I don’t trust myself here,” He replies, still unable to meet your gaze. “I know how easy it would be to mess up again.” His voice drops. “And I can’t mess up again. Not after this.”

You think of the back injury. The long nights on the couch. The way he’d grit his teeth when he stood up too fast. “Why didn’t you tell me?” You ask, the question small and aching between you.

He closes his eyes. “Because I wanted to be better before you noticed,” he says. “Because I thought I could fix it on my own. I thought it would just be a few weeks.”

Silence stretches, thick and heavy. You think you might be sick.

“I’m not disappointed in you,” You say finally, a tear slipping down your cheek. “I’m scared. I’m angry you didn’t trust me. But I’m not disappointed.”

“You should be.”

“I’m not,” You repeat. “I love you.”

That does it.

Frank’s shoulders cave inward, like something inside him finally gives. He turns away, dragging a hand down his face, breathing hard. “I don’t deserve that,” he whispers.

“Maybe not,” You say. “But you still get it.”

He stands there for a long moment, back to you, then nods once. “I have to do this,” he says hoarsely. “I-I can’t do this. I have to go.”

When he shoulders the duffel bag, something in you snaps.

“No,” You say, sharp and loud in the too-quiet room. God, you hope the neighbours can’t hear everything. “Absolutely not. You don’t get to do this.”

Frank stops by the door. His back is to you, but you can see his jaw clench.

“Turn around,” You demand. “If you’re going to leave me, you can at least look at me.”

Slowly, he does.

“You think you can just pack a bag and disappear?” you continue, voice rising. Your hands are shaking now, fists clenched at your sides. “You don’t get to decide this by yourself. Are we just not getting married anymore?”

“Jesus,” He groans, frustration seeping into his tone. “A wedding is the last fucking thing on my mind right now.”

A wave of shame washes over you. So many people died today, had their life destroyed, and you’re thinking about yourself. “I didn’t mean it like that. I meant that you don’t want me to wait for you. That we’ve been together for almost three years and you don’t even want to try and let me be there for you.”

“I’m going to rehab!”

“And you’re breaking up with me,” You shoot back. “Don’t dress it up like you’re doing me a favour.”

His eyes flash. “I am doing you a favour.”

That lands like a slap.

“Oh, don’t,” You laugh bitterly. “Don’t you dare act like this is noble. You lied to me. You stole from your job. And now you’re running because it’s easier than staying and facing me. What do you want from me? I want to work through this, Frank.”

“I am facing you,” He snaps, voice raised now too. “I’m standing right here.”

“No, you’re not,” You shout. “You’re already gone. I-if I hadn’t come back when I did, you would’ve left me a note, and disappeared from my life entirely, with no regard for me.”

You pray he denies that. Shakes his head and yells at you for even thinking that low of him. Instead, he swallows, and you know you were right. He would have left. Frank drags a hand through his hair, breathing hard. “You have no idea what it’s like to look at you and know I failed you. Every day.”

“I didn’t ask for better. I asked for you.”

Silence cracks between you, sharp and loud in your ears.

“You think this is about you?” he fires back. “I’m trying to stay alive. I’m trying not to screw up again.”

“Do you have any idea what this feels like? To come home and find you packing? Like we don’t mean anything? Like this doesn’t mean anything?” You hold up your hand, engagement ring glinting softly in the light.

His voice breaks, then hardens. “I can’t get clean with you here.”

“What-” you mumble, stunned. “I’m a trigger now?”

“No,” He snaps. “You’re a reminder. Of everything I can’t live up to.”

You step closer, invading his space, anger blazing through the hurt. “Frankie, please. Tell me how to be there for you, and I’ll do it. Don’t do… this.”

The room goes dead quiet except for your breathing - ragged, furious, and exhausted. Finally, he speaks. “I have to-”

“Don’t.”

You can’t stand and listen to him explain all the reasons why he has to leave you.

“If this is what it takes to stop hurting you.”

Tears burn your eyes, but your voice stays loud, sharp. Masking the hurt. “I’m begging you. Stay. Don’t do this like it’s some grand sacrifice. Stay and let me be angry with you. Let me help you. Let me-”

“I can’t! I’m sorry. but I need to go.”

The words echo, ugly and final.

“You don’t get to come back from that,” You cry, not bothering to hide from him anymore. “You don’t get to leave and decide someday you’re better and just… knock on my door like you didn’truin this.”

He grips the doorframe, knuckles white. “I’m not planning on coming back.”

That’s the one that breaks you.

*****

He’s never looked smaller. After two emergency surgeries - the first to stop the internal bleeding, the second to remove his spleen after he crashed again in recovery - Frank finally made it to the ICU.

You got the story from Robby on the way to the hospital. He’d been on his way home, to you, when a drunk driver had hit him a couple of streets over.

He’d been bleeding out on the road just a few hundred metres from the apartment, and you hadn’t known a thing.

He’s not out of the woods yet, but you feel mildly less desolate than you did four hours ago. After dealing with all the paperwork, which you were very grateful to Robby for shouldering, you’re currently curled up in an uncomfortable chair, fingers laced through Frank’s.

Ever since he stabilised, and got moved to the ICU, you’ve had a small trickle of Pitt staff through to give you their condolences.

Dana brought food. You had thanked her, and then pushed it aside as soon as she left. The idea of eating anything right now still makes you feel sick.

Robby had brought Frank’s personal items. Clothes, signet ring, phone, wallet. You’d managed to keep it together until you’d found the polaroid tucked beside his credit card. It’s one of you, from a hike the two of you had done last month. You’d been in California for a conference, and Frank had used some of his annual leave to tag along. Your smile is wide, gaze focused just above the lens. On Frank.

By the time Samira appears, you’ve pulled it together a little. And then she pulls you into a tight hug, and you bawl into her arms.

Then, the ward gets quiet, and the night shift settles in. You get a single text from Jack.

Thinking about you both, kid. I’ve told everyone to leave you be, in case you want to try and get some sleep, or even just want to have a cry without worrying about Shen barging through the door every second. If there’s anything I can do, consider it done. I’ll pop by in the morning. Abbot.

God bless Jack Abbot.

You hope you have good news for everyone in the morning. That Frank comes to, and is completely on the mend. Except he doesn’t wake up that night.

Or the next.

It isn’t until day three, when you’ve spent approximately 65 hours at Frank’s bedside, when his hand finally twitches.

You’re on edge immediately, as his eyes flutter.

He goes to speak, choking a little, and you immediately grab for a cup on his bedside, pressing it gently to his lips. “W-what happened?”

There was a while when you didn’t think you’d ever hear his voice again, and the tears come quickly.

“You were in a car accident, Frankie. You had surgery, and they took out your spleen.” His brow furrows, and you press a kiss to his knuckles. “I-I was so scared-”

“Hey, hey, it’s okay, I’m okay,” He mumbles. “C’mon, don’t cry, honey-”

“I’m sorry,” You sob, leaning forward to rest your head against his shoulder. “I-I thought that you might not wake up, and you were going to die without knowing that I love you - because I do. So, so, much. And I never once stopped. Not even when I hated you. And I know that this might be a lot to take in, but I just- I need you to know that I love you. More than anything.”

His lip curls up slightly. “Can’t tell you how long I’ve been waiting to hear that.”

“I was going to tell you… the night it happened.”

“M’just glad I’m hearing it at all, sweetheart.”

You let out an incredulous laugh, and press your lips to his. Cupping his cheek, you sigh into the movement, being careful not to touch anywhere near his abdomen. “I should call in the doctor. Get you checked out.”

“You could just do it,” Frank offers, but you shake your head.

“I am purely here in a girlfriend capacity. No doctoring here unless absolutely necessary.”

“Girlfriend,” He murmurs, contemplating. “We should really do something about upgrading that, soon.”

You’re not quite sure how Frank Langdon can be on death’s door and still make you swoon, but somehow he manages. “Alright, Casanova. Just focus on getting better, and then we’ll talk. Okay?”

He just shoots you a grin. “I’m holding you to that.”

Six months later.

The white lace of the wedding gown drapes across your shoulders, as you try and manoeuvre the bodice over your hips. Normally a two person job, you’d insisted you could do it yourself, so as to get some semblance of a ‘first look’ with Frank.

After everything, you’re not exactly going about it traditionally.

You’d both had your bachelor and bachelorette parties last week, opting to spend your last night before marriage together. Your night had consisted of takeaway pizza, Almost Famous, and shower sex, and you wouldn’t have it any other way.

“Frankie?” You call through to the guest room, where Frank has been banished. “Can you help me lace up my dress?”

“You sure? There’s no going back once I’ve seen it.”

You roll your eyes. “Well, there’s no one else here. If you don’t come now, then this dress is not staying up and I’ll flash all of our guests.”

“Can’t be having that, can we? Think Whitaker might have a heart attack if-” There’s a pause. Then the door opens.

You hear him before you see him. A sharp intake of breath, that he doesn’t bother hiding. You meet his eyes in the mirror as he steps inside. No grand reveal. No aisle. Just the two of you, in your home. Together.

“Wow,” He says quietly, reverently, like anything louder might break the hesitant quiet of the bedroom.

Your throat tightens. “Hi.”

He doesn’t move at first, like he’s afraid this isn’t meant for him. Then he smiles, slow and familiar, and comes closer. His hands hover at your back, unsure for once. He presses a kiss to your bare shoulder, and you turn to pull him in for a hug. “You look incredible,” He murmurs.

“I like your suit,” You mumble, feeling the material beneath your fingers. “You look like Montgomery Clift.”

Finally, he pulls back, and you adjust the dress, holding it up against you. His hands are warm at your back, knuckles brushing skin as he finds the laces. You feel the faint tremor in him, the way his breath steadies as if he’s bracing himself. For someone who’s never been short on words, Frank is suddenly very quiet.

“You okay?” You ask, watching him in the mirror.

He nods once, then exhales a small, disbelieving laugh. “Yeah. Just - yeah.”

He starts lacing the dress carefully, pausing occasionally to drop another kiss to your shoulder, your neck, your cheek. Each pull draws the fabric closer, makes you feel more real inside it. Less like you’re pretending.

You meet his eyes again in the mirror. There’s something open there, something undone. You’ve seen that look before - in hospital corridors, in half-lit kitchens at three in the morning, after your brother’s wedding. It’s the look he gets when something matters more than he knows how to say.

“I’ve been so worried all morning that I’ll cry as soon as I see you, ruin my makeup,” You admit quietly.

His mouth tilts into a smile. “Still time.”

You huff a laugh. “Don’t push it.”

He tightens another lace and his fingers linger, resting flat against your spine. The touch is grounding. Familiar. It’s the same hand that reaches for yours in crowds, that presses into your back when you’re about to lose your nerve. That makes you feel completely and utterly safe.

“You look like you,” He says finally. “The most beautiful woman in the world.”

The words hit harder than anything else could have.

You swallow. “Are you trying to make me cry?”

He finishes the last tie and lets his hands fall, like he’s afraid to overstep now that he’s already crossed some invisible line. You turn then, fully, dress hair still loose, and allow yourself a good look at him.

“I love you,” You whisper.

There it is.

His face changes - softening even further, if that’s possible. His eyes shine and he doesn’t bother blinking it away.

“Jesus,” He murmurs. “I really get to marry you.”

You step closer, resting your forehead against his chest. You can feel his heart under the fabric, fast and sure.

“Looks like it,” You murmur.

He laughs quietly and wraps his arms around you. You fit there easily, like you always have. “What do you say? You ready to lock this thing down?”

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[inlovewithquestionablecharacters]

A family affair

Langdon X Fem! Nurse! Reader

Summary: You’re married to Frank, and Robby is your uncle, but people in the ER don’t know this and it ends up causing some problems

Warnings: kissing, workplace romance, false cheating rumors, family relationships, workplace rumors, no use of y/n

Word count: 2.0K

Requested by @thecranberrypineapple

a/n: finally managed to get some writing done! I haven’t had much free time with the holidays, traveling, and everything else, but I promise I’ll get to all the requests in my inbox...eventually 🫠

You’ve known Frank for a long time—long before you ever stepped into the ER. You met in college, both bright and eager to learn. From the moment you first talked to him, you knew you wanted to keep him around, wanted to make him a constant part of your life.

Luckily for you, you managed to get your wish. 

Years of friendship slowly shifted into something more romantic, and before you knew it, it had turned into a lasting relationship. And when Frank finally got down on one knee, there was only one answer you wanted to give him.

That answer was yes.

You loved being Frank’s wife—loved knowing that at the end of the day, he was the one coming home with you. But there was one small issue: you both worked together.

Even though you’d started working in the same hospital back when you were just dating, and there was nothing that explicitly prohibited coworkers from being in a relationship as long as it didn’t interfere with their work in the ER, you and Frank had decided to keep your relationship quiet.

Not a secret exactly—more like something you simply didn’t mention at work. The moment the two of you stepped into the ER, you both slipped into your “professional mode,” only interacting with each other in ways that could be seen as two coworkers who happened to be friendly.

People knew you were married. Frank wore his ring on his finger every day, and you always had yours hanging on a chain around your neck—so yes, people knew you were married. They just didn’t know it was to each other.

It was kind of funny, actually. You and Frank had turned it into a sort of game. He would talk about his wife, always praising her, knowing you were close enough to hear. His eyes would find yours, giving you that knowing look that never failed to make you smile. And you did the same—talking about how amazing your husband was, your eyes often catching the soft smirk that would grace Frank’s features as you did. 

It was the way the two of you had found to still give each other love during your shifts without alerting the rest of the people at work that you were actually talking about each other.

But that wasn’t the only thing people didn’t know.

Frank turned off the car engine, the silence in the interior taking over for a moment. You closed your eyes, taking a deep breath—this would be the last moment of peace and quiet you’d have until another twelve hours had passed, and you wanted to savor it.

Frank grabbed your hand, causing your eyes to open as you turned to look at him. You gave him a soft smile as he gazed back at you.

“Ready to march into battle?”

You nodded, giving his hand one last squeeze before reaching for the door handle.

“Hey, you’re forgetting something.”

You gave Frank a confused look, which made him pucker his lips, exaggeratingly tilting toward you.

“My goodbye kiss.”

You knew what he’d said, but with his puckered lips it sounded more like, “Mu gubye kisth.”

You rolled your eyes, glancing around to make sure no one was nearby before leaning over the center console and giving Frank a quick kiss.

“Come on, Langdon. We’ll be late.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

As always, you and Frank walked in together. Nobody questioned the fact that you always arrived with each other—you’d given the bullshit excuse that you lived close by, and that it was easier for Frank to give you a ride than for both of you to drive to work. Plus, it was better for the environment. One less car on the streets.

Of course, people believed you. You gave them no reason not to.

When you made your way over to check the board, Robby caught sight of you. He smiled and made his way over with ease. You let him tug you into a quick side hug, your arm wrapping briefly around his waist.

“Hey, Honey. How you doing today?”

You pulled back so you could look him in the eyes.

“I’m doing good. How about you, Robby?”

Your eyes caught the bags under his eyes, and you immediately knew he hadn’t slept well the night before. But Robby hated people worrying about him, so when he said he was fine, you pretended to believe it.

“You searching for a target?”

At Robby’s question, your gaze flicked back to the board, briefly catching Frank disappearing into one of the rooms with Mel before settling on the writing on the screen.

“Gonna start easy, I think. A kid with a nosebleed might be ready for discharge. I’ll go check on him.”

“Alright then. The kid’s in good hands. See you around, Honey.”

You smiled as Robby gave your shoulder a soft squeeze before heading off, leaving you to make your way toward your first patient. You didn’t even notice the glances, didn’t hear the whispers as you moved through the ER. But that didn’t mean they weren’t there.

See, here’s the thing—people in the ER love to gossip. It keeps them entertained, helps keep the pain and sadness at bay as you all try to make it through your shifts. And when people don’t have all the information, they can come up with some pretty wild rumors.

The most recent one was that you and Robby were secretly married to each other. Which was absurd—not only because of the age difference, but because Robby was family. Literally family. He was your uncle. Biologically. As in, your father’s brother.

But people didn’t know that. Only a select few did—people who mattered, like Dana and Jack and the higher-ups. They knew either because they’d seen you grow up, in Dana and Jack’s case, or because they’d been responsible for hiring you and were aware of your family ties to Robby.

But everybody else?

Oh yeah. They had no clue.

Which ended up causing some… issues.

Because the Robby rumor was bad—but the Frank one was so much worse.

It started harmlessly. Frank bringing you coffee during a lull. Leaning against the counter beside you while you charted, shoulders brushing. A hand resting briefly at the small of your back as he passed behind you in a crowded hallway.

Normal things. Small things.

Things that meant everything to the wrong people.

They started noticing it one by one. Santos clocked the way Frank’s voice softened when he spoke to you. Javadi caught the way Frank’s eyes followed you across the ER when you laughed at something a patient said. Whitaker saw Frank step a little too close when you were visibly shaken after a bad case.

And then, to make matters so much worse, someone saw you and Frank in a very private moment.

You hadn’t thought anything of it—ducking into an empty break room, adrenaline still buzzing through you after a rough trauma. Frank followed, shutting the door quietly behind him.

“Hey,” he murmured, hands already finding your waist. “You did good in there.”

You exhaled, leaning into him, fingers fisting in his scrub top as he kissed you—slow at first, then deeper. Familiar. Safe. His hand slid up your back, grounding you.

You were so caught up in Frank that you didn’t hear the door hinges open slightly. Didn’t hear the soft gasp, or the door shutting a little too quickly.

Someone had seen you with Frank. And because they thought you were married to Robby—and didn’t know Frank was married to you—the speculation took a sharp turn, fast.

An affair. A scandal. A nurse cheating with a married attending.

And somehow—somehow—people thought they’d finally figured out the truth.

They had no idea how wrong they were.

And because you had no idea these rumors even existed, you ended up unintentionally feeding into them.

When a tough case got to you, Robby had pulled you to the side, giving you a bear hug as tears swelled in your eyes. And when he left the room to keep working, and you started to take a breather, Frank had slipped in, his forehead resting against yours as he spoke comforting words.

And people saw it. They saw these small, soft moments—and twisted them into something they weren’t.

But like everything in life, there was a final straw.

It came as an accusation.

You were hunched over the chart, scribbling notes after checking on your patient, when a voice from the nurses’ station broke the quiet.

“You know… you should really own up to it.”

You froze, pen in midair. “Excuse me?”

They leaned a little closer, a smirk playing at the corner of their lips.

“Oh, come on. Don’t be coy. We all know you’re… you’re cheating on Robby.”

Your hand dropped to the counter. “What?!”

Someone else, leaning over nearby, snickered. You blinked, utterly confused.

“Cheating? On… Robby?”

The first person shrugged, eyes sparkling with mischief.

“Yeah. I mean… it’s obvious. You and Frank, right? We see it all the time.”

You held up a hand. “Okay, whoa. You need to relax. You’ve got this all wrong. Completely wrong.”

By that point, movement in the hallway caught your attention. Robby and Frank had both emerged from different rooms, strolling in the general direction of the nurses’ station. Their heads tilted slightly, noticing you animatedly talking to someone, lips moving, hands gesturing.

“Oh no,” you muttered under your breath. “This is going to get worse before it gets better.”

As they approached, you straightened, pinching the bridge of your nose. 

“Okay,” you said, raising your voice just enough for everyone nearby to hear, “let’s get something straight. For everyone.”

The staff fell quiet, leaning in curiously.

“I am married—to Frank,” you said slowly, letting it sink in. “Robby is my uncle. I am not cheating on anyone. And yes, we all work together, but none of what you’re imagining is actually happening.”

A pause. Some eyes widened. Some shifted awkwardly.

And then there was Dana.

Dana had appeared quietly, arms crossed, a grin spreading across her face.

“Oh my god,” she said, barely holding back laughter. “This is gold. You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“Robby calls you ‘Honey’ nonstop. What’s the deal with that?” the accuser jabbed.

You groaned, pressing a hand to your forehead. God, people really liked grasping at straws.

“‘Honey’ is my middle name. Robby’s been calling me that since I was a kid.”

The accuser froze, mouth opening and closing like a fish.

“Now that we’ve cleared that up, go back to work.” You turned to glance around at the people still gawking at you. “Everyone, back to work.”

The staff reluctantly returned to their tasks, whispers and smirks lingering just a little longer than usual. And Dana? Dana lingered a little longer too, clearly planning to tease you about this for weeks.

That’s when Frank appeared beside you, hands tucked in his pockets, smirk fully in place. 

“Well,” he said, glancing around at the still-whispering staff, “guess the cat’s out of the bag now, huh?”

“Yeah,” you muttered, rolling your eyes but smiling. “I guess so.”

Frank leaned closer, voice dropping into a mock-serious tone.

“So… what’s stopping me from kissing you right here? In the middle of everybody?”

You laughed, shaking your head. “Decency.”

He raised an eyebrow, clearly offended. “Decency? Since when have I ever been decent?”

Before you could answer, he tugged you gently toward him. Lips met yours in a soft, fleeting kiss. You laughed against his mouth, and he grinned against yours before pulling back just enough to whisper:

“See? We should have told them about us ages ago.”

You shook your head, laughing softly. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Yeah,” he said, leaning his forehead against yours, “but you love me anyway.”

And you did.

You and Frank exchanged a look—quiet, silly, and utterly yours.

“Get back to work, Dr. Langdon.”

Frank gave you a mock salute. “Yes, Mrs. Langdon.”

You couldn’t help but smile and shake your head as he walked away. When he was finally out of view, you turned and stared at Dana.

“I hate you.”

She gave you a smile and pulled you into a hug.

“No, you don’t.”

You couldn’t hold back the smile that crept onto your face. Because yeah—you didn’t.

[angelsberrymilk]

Sam, Dean & Castiel as lps animals :)

[sylvanitchi]

the sweet little seal family