Game Changer & Make Some Noise
$LAYYYTER
NASA
Andulka
❣ Chile in a Photography ❣
YOU ARE THE REASON
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if i look back, i am lost
Jar Jar Binks Fan Club
Sade Olutola
KIROKAZE
almost home
🩵 avery cochrane 🩵
@theartofmadeline
he wasn't even looking at me and he found me
tannertan36
Game of Thrones Daily
Keni
Claire Keane
Product Placement
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@multifandomdiva
Diva's Masterlist
▪︎☆○■ Eva | she/her | nineteen | Leo | fandom connoisseur
Browse all fics: #Diva's fics
An unusual meeting || 1.4k || Sam Winchester x reader
Dean drags Sam out to a bar after a hunt.
Sudden hostility || 1.9k || Sherlock Holmes x reader
You can't quite understand Mycroft's newfound hostility toward you.
Humans are space orcs
Give Me The Blame Masterlist
Summary: Tim’s boot is late for work at the start of her last week of the FTO program and he is not happy. But today is about to turn into Tim’s worst nightmare…
Pairing: Tim Bradford x Rookie!reader
Warnings: language, thriller vibes, violence, kidnapping, forbidden romance, near death experience, smut, PTSD, parental abuse, angst, fluff
A/N: This series is complete!
Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
Part 5
Part 6
I NEED EVERYONE TO READ THIS STAT!!
this is soooo good, I love the attention to detail and the dynamic between R and Tim is just 🤌 *chefs kiss*
THE VAMPIRE DIARIES UNIVERSE.
★ - indicates personal favorite!
return to master post
flufftober 2025 masterlist
KOL MIKAELSON
Princess ★ (fluff, a bit of angst)
Summary: Bonnie, Elena, and Caroline find out the real reason Kol calls his lover princess.
Flavors (fluff)
Summary: Kol learns about modern day beauty products, his favorite being flavored lip balm.
Claustrophobia (fluff, a bit of angst)
Summary: When you’re trapped in a tiny space with Kol, you find out one of his fears.
The Darkness ★ (angst, fluff)
Summary: The real reason you return to Mystic Falls is revealed to your brothers.
100 Years of Wishes (fluff)
Summary: You and Kol celebrate your 100th birthday.
Haunted Manor (fluff)
Summary: Kol uses his magic to scare you. (Witch!Kol) [flufftober day 8]
Face Paint (fluff)
Summary: You paint Kol’s face for a halloween party. [flufftober day 13]
ELIJAH MIKAELSON
Build-An-Elijah (fluff)
Summary: You give Elijah a teddy bear with a suit.
Makeup Menace (fluff)
Summary: You need a model to practice your skills, thankfully, Elijah is there to help… and distract you.
Stepping Up (fluff, a bit of angst)
Summary: Your daughter attends a daddy daughter dance.
Boo Basket (fluff)
Summary: Elijah learns what a boo basket is. [flufftober day 6]
Costumes (fluff)
Summary: Elijah doesn’t do costumes. [flufftober day 12]
KLAUS MIKAELSON
Muse (fluff)
Summary: Always the artist, never the muse… until now that is… sorta?
Carved (fluff)
Summary: Carving pumpkins with Klaus and his family. [flufftober day 7]
Tricks and Treats (fluff)
Summary: You and Klaus are going to take Hope trick or treating together. [flufftober day 16]
THE DARKNESS
Pairing(s): Kol Mikaelson x Salvatore!reader, Platonic!Mikaelsons x Salvatore!reader, Platonic!Salvatores x Sister!reader
Summary: The real reason you return to Mystic Falls is revealed to your brothers.
Warnings: Emotional Neglect? (on the Salvatore brothers side), Betrayal (duh), Blood, ANGST, Violence, Klaus getting dagger happy, Klaus being incredibly cruel and deranged (normal Klaus behavior), Reader is traumatized (because of Klaus), Reader isn’t really a good person, A lot of neck snapping, Katherine Pierce, Inaccurate historical depictions, Switches between past and present, Some timeline errors and changes, Uses of Y/N, Kol not showing up til like 2k words in, Inconsistencies in the tense it’s written in (what a shock.)
Notes: THIS WAS ORIGINALLY TITLED ‘THE ART OF BETRAYAL’ BEFORE I DECIDED ‘THE DARKNESS’ FIT BETTER!
Reader is ten, turning eleven when she meets Katherine. She isn’t turned into a vampire until she’s 19.
Pizzelles are an Italian cookie. (Yes, this is random. Yes, this is kind of important.)
Canonically Kol was daggered in 1821 because of his lovely iteration of Hamlet, he wasn’t undaggered until 1901. In this, we’ll say he was still daggered in 1821 but was undaggered some time before 1870. Again with the dagger stuff, Rebekah is canonically daggered until 1887 after all the Marcel thing, in this she was undaggered some time before 1870.
And finally, a big thank you to @wholoveseggs for all her support and encouragement while I’ve been writing this because without her, I probably wouldn’t have finished this!
Word Count: 16.3k (goodness gracious)
MASTER POST , TVDU MASTERLIST
“Specs and the Flyboy” Masterlist
Summary: It was an undisputed fact that Jack Thompson, Chief of the New York SSR, and (Y/N) (Y/L/N), the Los Angeles SSR’s newly-hired codebreaker, hated one another from the moment they met. But what happens when an off-the-books investigation into Jack’s near-fatal shooting forces the two of them to put aside their differences and work together to solve the case?
Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Chapter Twelve Chapter Thirteen Chapter Fourteen Chapter Fifteen Chapter Sixteen Chapter Seventeen Chapter Eighteen Chapter Nineteen (Part 1) (Part 2) (Part 3) Chapter Twenty
Spotify Playlist: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/21pWY7OiMFj8LaYpxhtVtW
“Tales From The SSR” Masterlist
Tagging: @nnon-it-up @fluffymadamina @remmyswritings @ourstarsailor @coffeeandcrimeshows @darkusangelus @josis-teacup @marvel-jackt-loki-buck @yeetyeetchickenmeat @sameoldbaby @theserenityspace @seeing-but-not-observing @supervoldejaygent @momc95 @brooke0297 @kinda-c0nfused @outoftheregular @mads-weasley @mostclevermiss @crowleysqueenofhell @groovy-lady
THE LORD AND SAVIOUR OF JACK THOMPSON X READER!!!!!!
Seriously, where are all the fics, guys???
Aliens not understanding how men are the 'stronger' gender, women are the ones who bleed once a month, loosing an average of approximately 62 men of blood in their lifetime. They are also the ones who endure childbirth, a concept entirely new to aliens as they are all laid as eggs, none having to go through the horrific torture that they have been told is a pregnancy.
Their human crew members tell them that the female body has to house and grow another human for nine months which is accompanied by all kinds of pains. This all ends with having to push said human out of themselves without sufficient amounts of painkillers. This process is also, in some instances, deadly either for the baby or mother.
They also learn how painful it can be for a man to have his genitals attacked when one of the crew members stupidly attempts ship repairs entirely by himself.
Which of course, inevitably leads them to believe being a 'pussy' is considered a compliment and that the number of balls you have correlates to how much of a coward you are.
Boy, are they so wrong.
Sudden hostility
Pairing: Sherlock Holmes x fem!reader
Summary: You can't quite understand Mycroft's newfound hostility toward you.
Warnings: Mycroft being a misogynistic prick.
Word count: 1,941
Author's note: I fear this is more about Mycroft than Sherlock... but, oh well. Also, props to anyone who can find the slight hunger games reference
Masterlist
When Sherlock suggested courtship, you hesitated. You weren’t sure why—you absolutely adored him and had thought of being courted by him before—but something didn’t sit right. You accepted despite that, assuring yourself it was silly nervousness. The feeling disappeared during those first few weeks of courting.
That is, until Sherlock and you were invited out by Mycroft. At the restaurant, things were cordial so long as Mycroft was engaged by the various patrons he intentionally associated himself with for their social connections.
Then the entrée arrived, and things became tense.
“I don’t expect you to understand the nuances of politics,” Mycroft said to you, dabbing politely at his mouth and mustache, “as anyone in your standing ought to be more concerned about the household. However, I do believe even your opinion is valid on the subject of these upstart ‘women’s rights’ proponents.”
You stared at him, unsure you had heard correctly. He had never insulted you before—and never so directly. Sherlock exchanged a glance with you as you fought to find words. “I suppose that women deserve some say, given that they make up half the population. Their needs matter, too.”
“What would you ever need outside a home?” Mycroft snorted and sipped from his champagne flute.
“Mycroft,” Sherlock warned.
You placed a hand on Sherlock’s sleeve. “Perhaps I should return home.”
“Indeed,” Mycroft mumbled into his glass. “It is your domain.”
You fought hot tears as you rode in the hansom back to your family home. You had known the Holmes brothers for years, and not once had Mycroft ever been hostile or oppositional to you. He had sometimes chafed against your ideas, but sparring over ideologies was different than direct ad hominem attacks.
“Mycroft was inebriated,” Sherlock explained as he walked you to the door.
You knew that wasn’t true. If anything, Mycroft had barely been tipsy. You appreciated Sherlock’s effort, however, and rewarded him with a soft kiss on his lips before entering your family home and crying quietly in your bedroom.
You convinced yourself that Mycroft perhaps had been feeling poorly or combative due to problems in his political life, but all hope of that was dashed when you saw him again and he flung a few choice snide remarks in your direction. Appalled to be treated so unusually by someone you had once considered a friend, you withdrew into yourself, distancing yourself from him.
That seemed only to incentivize him to attack you more savagely each time he saw you.
“Enola will be there,” Sherlock assured you as he helped you into your coat.
“That’s good,” you mumbled. Anxiety coursed through you at being in Mycroft’s presence once again. Dinner was being held at his home, and only family, including you, were expected. Without the safety of a public outing — one where a public spectacle would tarnish Mycroft’s reputation — you were sure to be subjugated to even more ridicule than usual.
You refused to ask Sherlock to keep his brother in check. The last thing you wanted was to cause unnecessary strife between the brothers.
So you straightened your shoulders and proceeded to the dinner in faux high spirits.
Seeing Enola did brighten your evening at first, at least. She was full of brilliant energy that dazzled you whenever you saw her. For someone so young, she was vibrant and overwhelmingly intelligent. You expected nothing less from a Holmes, though she did seem the smartest of the three.
She eased the tension between you and Holmes brothers merely by virtue of being herself. The conversation momentarily turned somber when she brought it to the subject of their absent mother, a topic that easily engaged Mycroft’s displeasure, but it wasn’t long before Mycroft turned his sights on you.
“Perhaps you have some illustrious insights into our mother’s fickle nature,” he began.
“I couldn’t say,” you answered.
“No? Surely you two are similar birds of a feather.”
A frown tugged at your mouth. “In what way?”
“You being a female of the species…with your fickle natures. You chose at your own whims and with complete disregard for any other’s consequence.”
Before you could answer, Enola leaned forward, her young face furrowing. “Excuse me?”
“I wasn’t talking to you.”
“No? But I’m a ‘female of the species’.”
“Hardly,” he scoffed, and he swept a sharp glance over her, tutting at her less-than-ladylike appearance.
“You can’t talk to her that way!” you scold Mycroft, despite yourself.
“I can talk to her in any way I deem fit! I am the man of this house.”
“Mycroft,” Sherlock snapped.
“I’m sorry, can the lady’s fragile constitution not withstand truth?” Mycroft looked at you pointedly.
The muscle in your jaw jumped as you clenched your teeth, your hand tight around your fork. You couldn’t tell if you were going to scream at him or burst into tears, your whole body vibrating with emotion.
“What is your problem?” Enola cried.
“I am merely highlighting the problems inherent in the women of this era—”
Enola slammed her knife into the table, making the glassware rattle. Mycroft stared at her in horror.
“That is imported!”
You pushed yourself away from the table with a mumbled excuse. Hastening from the room, you stopped in the entryway to the house, trembling.
Sherlock’s distinctive tread approached you. Steeling yourself, you tried to put on at the very least a neutral, unaffected expression.
“I apologise for his behaviour,” he said.
Shaking your head, you stared down at the lush carpet runner lining the length of the hallway. “I don’t understand. Why is he so… changed?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Have you asked him?” the question slipped out before you could stop it. “No, don’t do that. I don’t want to cause any more harm.”
“Harm? You’ve done nothing.” his hand moves to rest against your cheek, thumb rubbing against your cheekbone as if to sooth you.
“Clearly I’ve done something.” finally you look up at him, the tiredness evident in your eyes.
“He’s jealous of you and Sherlock,” Enola called from down the hallway.
You stilled. Jealousy? Why hadn’t that occurred to you?
The pieces clicked into place. Of course he was jealous. Mycroft had been the one you were closer to as children, always together, running about in the gardens and spending endless days in the kitchens together. He may not have possessed his younger brother’s nerve to court you — not yet, at least — but he had to have been planning on it, surely. That much you gleaned from a quick catalog of your memories leading up to Sherlock’s overtures. Now that he was no longer a viable candidate, overshadowed yet again by his younger brother, he was lashing out.
You pressed a hand to your mouth. “Sherlock…”
“It isn’t your concern nor your fault,” he answered immediately. “Mycroft will have to adjust, or I will resolve the issue.”
“I don’t want to be the source of—”
“He is acting like a child,” Sherlock looked at you pointedly, holding your chin in his soft grip, “and therefore he is deserving of punishment.”
Enola snorted down the hall.
“But Sherlock…”
“He insulted you. Greater men require less to defend a lady’s honor.”
Passing a hand delicately over your face, you sighed. “This isn’t what I wanted.”
“What’s a little enmity between siblings? Enola and Mycroft already don’t get along.”
“That’s right,” Enola agreed.
“Another sibling shouldn’t be too catastrophic to him.”
“Alright,” you whispered. “But- may I speak with him first?”
“Absolutely.” Sherlock answers reluctantly.
Slowly you re-enter the dining room, careful not to disturb the quiet that has now blanketed the room, emphasised with the soft crackle of burning logs in the fireplace. Mycroft still sits in his chair — the head of the table, the head of the household — yet his body is slumped, the weight of his own thoughts crushing him beneath them. He hasn't heard your steps nor seen your shadow approaching from behind him.
“Would you have done it?” At the sound of your voice Mycroft’s body goes taught and straight, as if a string has just been pulled from his head, like a marionette. He doesn’t turn.
“Done what?” he snaps back.
“If Sherlock hadn’t done so first, would you have asked that we courted each other?”
His head turns at that.
“Yes.”
With that one simple word you are reminded of the hesitation you first felt when Sherlock asked you, all those months ago — of the weary feeling. It was for Mycroft. You two had always been the close ones, your entire childhoods were spent together. Sherlock was always the ‘odd-one-out’ for lack of a better word, while you and Mycroft spent your days in the park, he was hauled up in his room pouring over old cases of newspaper clippings. You had no idea when one was traded for the other, when Mycroft became Sherlock — maybe when Mycroft began spending more time at the library than in the park or when Sherlock realised the importance of things other than solving a case.
“Then-” it seems awful even to ask it, but you do, “Then why didn't you?”
“Because-” he now stands, “because I never stood a chance!”
“A chance against what?” you ask incredulously, “There was never anything in your way!”
“Your father-”
“My father? That is absolutely ridiculous, my father has loved you since you were in diapers — if anything, it is Sherlock he has something against!”
“There were other men who-”
“How dare you insinuate that of me?” Now it was becoming clear, Mycroft never had any intention of admitting he was late purely of his own fault, “That I entertain the minds of every man I meet? I never even had a caller before Sherlock!”
“If you'd have just waited…” he whispers.
“Waited?” you blood boils at the audacity, and you stride up to him, “How many more days…? How many more months…? How many more years? Were twenty two not enough for you?” your voice softens, taking pity on the solemn face he now wears, “He asked me properly, there were no other prospects.”
The words seem to anger him as his face shifts, and he finally looks at you, “No, he’s my brother, the entitled bastard gets everything, why should he get you?”
“Because for once I was finally being looked at. Because he didn't demand that I make a fool out of myself for his attention. Because I finally had a chance to silence the voices calling me a future spinstress, and for once I decided to be selfish. Because for once I was finally being seen and I liked who he saw. Because I love him!” you all but shout it at him, surprising even yourself at the confession. The tension in the room settles in the silence and when it seems Mycroft has nothing left to say, you turn to leave.
“What about- me?”
Your feet stop beneath you, “No.” a whisper, as he takes slow steps towards you. His body is warm against your back as he leans in, reaching a hand up to stroke your cheek, you recoil away from the touch
“No, you're- you're being mean—”
“I love you.”
“That’s not fair.”
“Would you have waited, had you known I was there waiting for you?”
Your confidence overtakes you, “Would you have spared me from the demeaning insults you deem necessary to pellet me with? Or would I have had to find out later, when I had no escape, just what kind of man your emotions mold you into?”
The room grows silent without any rebuttal from Mycroft, unable to configure a pitying response. Slowly you nod, taking the absence of an answer as confirmation.
kisses will make it better
summary - you think you’ve made aaron upset so decide not to tell him when you’ve been in a car accident
pairing - aaron hotchner x gf!reader
word count - 3k
Today was shit.
Like really terrible.
It was one of those days where nothing had gone right and you felt like the universe was caving in on you. From missing a meeting due to traffic to getting harassed by your boss again, there was nothing that had technically gone right.
Which is why you were calling Aaron on your drive home, because you knew he would make it better.
It was dangerous to rely on someone to make you feel better, but he was your person and there was no one you would rather speak to than him.
Through Stone and Shadow
Pairing: Jacaerys Velaryon x Targaryen Cousin!Reader (ft. Aegon)
Description: You're a Targaryen princess with a dragon, a seat on the small council, and a hole in your wall that looks directly into the Crown Prince's chambers. You should seal it. You should forget what you've seen. You should definitely stop watching your cousin fuck his way through King's Landing's noblewomen.
But you don't. And when Jacaerys starts looking at you like he knows, like he's been waiting for you to break—well. That's when things get complicated.
Genre: voyeurism, jace likes to fook, he definitely knows you're watching, fucking your cousin (it's targaryens what did you expect), why does everyone want to marry him, angst with your hand between your thighs, oblivious pining except he's not oblivious at all, im not sorry, SLOW BURN, VERY VERY SLOW, he hasnt even kissed you and its been 30k words, that type of slow, why do u want to fuck. every cousin........... porn with heavy plot
WC: 28k (100k projected) also on ao3 (where it will be updated!)
All Mine, Forever - Masterlist
ALL MINE, FOREVER - Adrian Chase/Vigilante x Reader
Summary: You're losing your mind. You've been waking up with blood and dirt on your clothes, and the lingering feeling of armor against your skin. Your windows are open. Your locks are broken. The police are no help, and it's just getting worse. You can't remember the last time you had a good night's sleep, and you aren't sure how much more you can take.
Adrian Chase loves his girlfriend. How could he not? You're the absolute best thing that's ever happened to him. Unfortunately, you don't actually know any of this yet. But you will. Soon. You're not sleeping lately, after all, and what kind of boyfriend would he be if he didn't help you?
Part 1 Part 2
All Mine, Forever - Masterlist
ALL MINE, FOREVER - Adrian Chase/Vigilante x Reader
Summary: You're losing your mind. You've been waking up with blood and dirt on your clothes, and the lingering feeling of armor against your skin. Your windows are open. Your locks are broken. The police are no help, and it's just getting worse. You can't remember the last time you had a good night's sleep, and you aren't sure how much more you can take.
Adrian Chase loves his girlfriend. How could he not? You're the absolute best thing that's ever happened to him. Unfortunately, you don't actually know any of this yet. But you will. Soon. You're not sleeping lately, after all, and what kind of boyfriend would he be if he didn't help you?
Part 1 Part 2
Showtime
Aaron Hotchner x reader
summary: The BAU team is being sent to catch an unsub going after couples with age-gap relationships. How are things going to go when you have to go undercover with your boss in order to catch him? word count: 7 K 🌵
-
“Alright,” Hotch’s voice evenly said, “Let’s go over what we know.”
Garcia clicks the remote. Four crime scene photos take over the screen. The team breaks their gaze on their files in front of them to look. Same town. Similar neighborhoods. Same brutality.
You take a long sip of your coffee. Trying anything to get your brain caught up with the team. You’ve been a part of the team for nearly nine-months, the newest and youngest addition. You thrive under the pressure, but seeing pictures like this at this hour of morning is something you hope to never get used to. You’ve gotten comfortable with the team at this point, facing countless horrors together is impossible not to bond someone. Except for Hotch. All frowns and corrections on the surface. You do a lot of things to make him frown. Some of the team had taller walls than others. Hotch being one of them. You tease him, but cling to the fact that his dark eyes follow you. Watch you when he thinks you won’t see. You can always feel it.
“All victims are couples,” Garcia looks over the group, ducking away from the images, “All of the attacks occurred in the Coyote Springs just outside Flagstaff, Arizona. All within a gated subdivision, heavy neighborhood watch presence, but it’s a large neighborhood. There’s nearly 6,000 residents in the community.”
“Woah, big neighborhood.” Emily sighs, looking back to the file.
Reid clears his throat, “The murders span six weeks. Each murder escalates in violence, but consistent within method. This suggests the unsub is a local. Or at least familiar with the area.”
“Not a drifter,” Morgan adds, “He knows their routines. Knows who belongs.”
Your gaze sharpens, “Which means he’s comfortable there.”
Hotch nods without looking up to acknowledge you, “And patient.”
Reid leans forward to add more, “There’s another commonality. Every couple has a significant age gap.”
“Yeah,” JJ agrees, “All of these women are at least fifteen years younger than their husbands.”
“That’s not a coincidence,” Prentiss confirms, “That’s motive.”
You speak without hesitation, “Resentment.”
Rossi turns to you, “Elaborate.”
“When I was working in hostage negotiation,” Your voice calm, “large age gaps in relationships came from extremist ideology and vigilante thinking. They see themselves as a moral authority. He isn’t killing these couples, he’s correcting something he sees as wrong.”
All eyes on you. Your eyes dart to Hotch. “Theft of youth.”
Reid’s eyes light up, “A savior complex. He may believe he’s actually rescuing the younger woman from-”
“-a perceived predator,” Rossi finishes.
“Which makes Coyote Springs his hunting ground. His own aquarium. Everyone inside thinks they’re safe.” Emily continues.
Hotch exhales slowly, “So we canvass. Interview neighbors. Increase patrol presence.”
“That could spook him into hiding.” JJ argues.
“Yeah,” Morgan agrees, “This guy thrives on control. You flood the neighborhood with badges, he disappears.”
Prentiss tilts her head, “Unless he comes to us.”
You feel the shift before anyone could actually say it. Her eyes darting to you. Then Hotch.
Rossi’s eyes flick between you two now, “You’re thinking bait.”
It didn’t go over anyone’s heads that you and Hotch have a scarily similar age gap as the victims. Beautiful. Active. The perfect setup.
“I’m thinking opportunity.” Emily corrects, “Two people who could fit the pattern. A new couple moves in quietly. Lets the unsub think something perfect fell in his lap.”
“No.”
Hotch’s answer immediate.
You blink. Then laugh. “Wow, look at us already on the same page.”
His eyes turn to you now, sharp and warning, “This is not a game.”
“Never said it was,” You reply lightly, “I’m just agreeing that maybe the two of us playing house isn’t the best play.”
JJ steps in, “If the unsub is watching, he’s choosing couples that look stable. Happy.”
“Yet another reason this wouldn’t work.” You mutter, Rossi elbow in your side tells you he’s the only one that caught the comment.
“Which means?” Garcia questions.
“A married couple, or at least one that presents that way would statistically be the most appealing to draw him out.”
More eyes fall back to you.
You slowly look around, “Oh, absolutely not.”
Hotch doesn’t look at you, “Agreed.”
“You telling me you’re scared, Y/Ln?” Morgan grins.
You look him dead in the eye, “I’m telling you I’m smart enough to know that Hotch and I can’t sell married and in love.”
“Well,” Rossi turns his gaze over to the rest of the group, “Are there any other alternatives here on the team?”
The group looks around at each other. You know there aren’t any. You don’t need to look around to know that most of them are too close in age to raise that kind of brow.
“I can’t believe this.” You shake your head with a humorless laugh.
Hotch’s jaw tightens, “He’s looking for a performance.”
The rest of the room quiets at his words. You’d be ashamed to admit to the warmth pooling at the dark look on his eyes. This shouldn’t be able to work.
“Look, you’re both qualified.” Emily claps, “It wouldn’t be your first time going undercover.”
“I mean no offense by it, but Y/Ln is the perfect trophy wife bait.” Morgan holds up his hands in self defense.
“Somehow I’m still offended.”
Rossi raises a brow to you and Hotch, “The unsub is escalating. If we miss him again, someone else dies. This isn’t about what’s comfortable. It’s about leverage.”
Hotch pinches the bridge of his nose. Silence stretches while everyone tries to come up with an alternative.
“So maybe it is the best play.” You sigh, coming to the same conclusion as the rest of the team. Your hand slides to cover your face with a groan.
“For what it’s worth, this is like so hot.” Garcia bites the end of her pen looking at you both, “So hot.”
“Babygirl.” Morgan sighs with the shake of his head.
“You’re enjoying this way too much, Pen.” You warn with a smile that is anything but friendly.
“Immensly.” She continues to beam.
A long pause.
Finally Hotch exhales, “If we do this-”
He pauses to read your face. You aren’t supposed to profile each other, but you can see he’s looking to see if you’re truly comfortable. If you can do this. You know you can. You give him a subtle nod.
“-we do everything by the book.” He continues, “Full surveillance. Backup within minutes. No unnecessary risks.”
You suddenly smirk, “You’re gonna hate every second of this.”
“Yes,” He said flatly. You grin wider, “Then I’m in.”
He looks at you. Really looks.
“Wheels up in two hours. We prep covers immediately.”
Garcia squeals. Prentiss smirks at you. Morgan claps once.
This is going to get complicated.
-
The jet's familiar hum rings over them lowly. You’re curled sideways in your chair, Emily to your right. Hotch directly across from you, Rossi to his left. A table separating you both. Morgan was making calls to get a stakeout van for the rest of the team. They wouldn’t be the only eyes on you two while undercover, but they would be most watchful.
“Alright,” You smile, “Let’s build our beautiful lie.”
Hotch’s eyes dart to yours over his file, “We already have preliminary covers.”
“Preliminary is not convincing.” You reply, turning to Emily for help.
“She’s right.” She shrugs, “Especially since we know this unsub is watching his victims.”
He doesn’t argue, he simply sets down his file on the table. “Progress.” You bite your cheek. “Aaron Hayes. Attorney. Corporate litigation.”
“Third marriage,” You add with cheer, “Which no offence, you can sell.”
His mouth tightens, “It’s realistic considering the previous victims.”
“And it adds baggage.” You continue, “Baggage is realistic. That’s what he’ll like.”
Rossi raises his brows, “What about you?”
“Y/n Hayes.” You quickly reach out a hand to shake his with a pearly smile plastered to your face, “Twenty-six. Former marketing assistant. Now… professionally vague.”
“Trophy wife.” Hotch said flatly. You beam, “Exactly.”
His eyes study you, “You’re sure you’re comfortable with this?”
“Hotch, you’ve seen me pretend to be sympathetic to truly terrible people. Being hot and underestimated is a vacation.”
He exhales quietly.
“I want to add something else.”
He looks back up.
“Power.”
He frowns, “Explain.”
“You’re already older. Already established. Already married multiple times, but I think we lean into it harder.” You lean back in your chair, “Make you a professor. Law school. Ethics. Authority.”
He immediately stiffens, “That’s unnecessary.”
“Is it?” You tilt your head, “Our unsub in punishing perceived imbalance. We don’t know how long he watches his victims, he may have already picked his next couple. But if we tip the scale? Give him something that makes his skin crawl.”
The jet goes silent as it’s clear he is contemplating your idea.
“A professor implies mentorship. Influence.”
“And the implication that I was dazzled,” You add lightly, “By your mind. Your status. Your power.”
The silence stretches back over the jet.
“That makes you uncomfortable.” You observe.
He pinches the bridge of his nose, again, “It complicates the dynamic.”
“That’s the point.”
He stares for a long moment, “Fine.”
You grin, “Great! So, how did we meet?”
“A conference.”
“Boring. Try again.”
He sighs, “Guest lecture. You were assisting with event coordination.”
“Ooh, I love that!” You agree, “I spilled coffee on you.”
“You did not.”
“I absolutely did. You were very patient about it. Very kind. I thought you were intimidating.”
Hotch’s lips twitch into a smile for a split second before he could correct it . For a split second, you saw it.
“And then,” You continue, “you asked me to dinner. Which I declined. Twice.”
“Why twice?”
“Because it makes you chase.” You answer obviously, “And because neighbors love that kind of story.”
Hotch closes his file, “You’ve done this before.”
“Something tells me you really didn’t look at my resume all the times Straus sent it back when I was brought on.”
Rossi leans in closer to Hotch, “She did this for a year for the FBI. It was prior to the hostage negotiation.”
You watch the realization and curiosity pass over his face. He hadn’t looked into you much at all. There wasn’t much desire after Straus insisted upon you.
The jet began to descend shortly after that. By the time you guys touchdown, the local office had coordinated everything. A house at the end of a cul-de-sac in the middle of Coyote Springs. Clean title. Plausible history. A U-Haul full of furniture staged to look like it was from a loving family.
As soon as you both stepped onto the tarmac, you slid your hand into Hotch’s. Walking over to the small public airport rather than the waiting black SUVs with the rest of the team. Hotch froze for a half second.
“Breathe. Like you like me.”
“I don’t-”
“In character.” You correct yourself, “It's game on.”
Realistically the unsub could be anyone. Which is why they weren’t afforded with the luxury of riding with the rest of the team. The show has begun.
You keep your posture relaxed, smiling brightly. By the time Hotch parks the U-Haul in the driveway, three neighbors were already watching from their front porches.
“Showtime.” You give Hotch one last smile before hopping out of the truck.
You make your way around to his side, wrapping both arms around his waist and pressing a kiss to his cheek. You look at the house in front of you both. He stiffened again, then recovered. He slips an arm around your shoulders.
“There you go.” You whisper, “Professor Hayes.”
He glances down at you, “You’re enjoying this.”
“Immensely.” You tease.
They began unloading the truck under several curious eyes. You laugh loudly at his dry comments. Leaning into him. Stolen touches and passes. Selling the lie with ease.
“Newlyweds?” A voice calls out.
You turn to see a woman from two houses down. You answer without skipping a beat, “Six months!”
Hotch blinks, looking back down at you.
You tip your head forward before Hotch can flinch. Ripping off the bandaid. You knew he would tense if you didn’t catch him off guard. He’s still trying to protect you. You can feel the hesitation. Your lips are soft on his. Convincing. He relaxes into it.
When you pull back, the woman waves before heading inside. You look at Hotch, his eyes still on you.
“Relax.” You place a hand on his chest, “You’re doing great.”
His voice is low, “You don’t hesitate.”
You pull him down for a hug, whispering in his ear, “Neither does our unsub. We can’t afford to.”
You press another kiss to his cheek, grabbing another box out of the back of the truck and hauling it inside. Hotch stood for another second before grabbing something himself. He was beginning to have the feeling that this cover was going to test more than just his professionalism.
-
The surveillance van arrives a couple hours after they had returned the U-Haul. It pulls into their corner of Coyote Springs under the guise of a local internet provider. Uniforms are convincing, and plenty of equipment inside.
Garcia is already online and active before Morgan can put it in park. The cameras in the house are connected now. Her screens fill with all different angles. Street coverage. Door sensors. Motion alerts.
She hums in their earpieces, “For the record, the neighbors clocked you as ‘very affectionate’ within twelve minutes of you pulling in the driveway. Linda from two doors down texted her sister Sharon about you.”
You arch your brow, “What’d she say?”
You can practically hear Garcia’s grin, “Quote ‘The new wife is gorgeous and very young. He’s either lucky or stupid'."
”I’ll take it.” You hold up your mug of coffee in mock salute.
Word spreads fast in this neighborhood.
The team backs off for a while, letting them get settled together. Leaving you in a house that grows quieter and quieter. Heavier.
You open the fridge and take a peek inside, “We should establish routines.” you say, practical as ever, “Food. Morning patterns. Something that feels lived in.”
Hotch nods, “I’ll take mornings. Coffee. The paper.” “I don’t do early.” You decide immediately, “But I’ll fake it if I have to.”
He glances at you, something like amusement flashing across his face before he hides it. “Noted.”
“I can handle dinner.” You decide, “What kind of trophy would I be without something warm on the table for you?”
You make a face at him that reveals your true feelings about that role you're playing. You still need to establish how much the mask stays on inside. You know the unsub was watching his victims, but not how. You start pulling ingredients and getting things ready on the stove.
“I can help.” He gets up from the counter, eager to wipe the sour look from your face.
“Respectfully, you moved us in today. You should shower.”
The way your grin lights up your face, turning back to the stove top without a care in the world, makes Hotch freeze. His heart skips a full beat. It already feels so domestic. You catch it and turn back, taking a half step closer to him.
“Don’t forget, I’m your hot twenty-six year old wife. Act like it.” You press a kiss to his cheek before he can protest. Now you actually focus on the stove, eventually hearing his steps take him away from the room.
By the time Hotch is done with his needed shower, he can smell the food coming from downstairs. Spaghetti. He’s impressed that you’ve even set the table. Creating the fantasy. Creating his illusion. You set down his plate at the end of the table, and you take the seat closest to his on the right.
“If we’re too distant we stand out, and now that we’re here-” Hotch clears his throat, “You’re right. I need to act like it. At any point now the unsub could be watching us.”
He smiles as if he hadn’t said something so horrifying. The place had already been swept for bugs, and now they had eyes on them. Now they would have to wait and see if the unsub was watching them too.
“I’m glad you’re officially on board.” You grin, placing your hand in his.
You guys both practically drag your feet cleaning up from dinner. Avoiding the bedroom. The last line to cross.
The room has been staged well, it’s a pretty room. A large bed right in the middle of it. Hotch pauses just behind you in the doorway, “We can take turns on the couch.”
You shake your head immediately, “No. Couples like us don’t do that.”
He exhales slowly, “Understood.”
You leave him in the bathroom and take your bag to the bathroom. You change quickly and then open the door back up while you take off your makeup and brush your teeth. After spitting in the sink, you look up in the mirror to see Aaron walking in. He’s changed into long pajama pants and a black t-shirt.
You were hoping if you were fast enough, Hotch would be in bed with the lights off by the time you came out. You blush when you notice him taking in your cover wardrobe. You’re supposed to be a young hot wife, that means little for the pajama department.
He begins brushing his teeth while you do your skincare. The silence stretching painfully rather than peacefully is the only clue that this isn’t real.
You’re nearly done by the time Hotch leaves and heads back to the bedroom. You follow after turning off the lights and pull back the covers. Total darkness and silence.
You lie on your back, your hands folded over your stomach, “Night, Hotch.”
“Goodnight.”
Neither of you sleep very well. He stares at the opposite wall. Plagued by listening to your soft breaths while you sleep. Morning comes too fast. He’s already up by the time your eyelids pull open.
You pad into the kitchen to see a pot of coffee on, Hotch manning the stove. He still has on his pajamas, his hair disheveled from sleep. You’re surprised he didn’t fix it first thing. But, this isn’t really him.
“Morning, professor.” Your voice lazy from sleep.
He freezes for half a second.
Then recovers, “Sleep well?”
You smile, taking steps closer to him. He reaches out an arm to wrap around your shoulders. The food smells good.
“Like a dream.” You lie. He knows.
You wrap your arms around his waist while you both sway together. You’d be ashamed to admit it once you were more awake, but you lean your weight against him to support.
By noon, you’re laying out by the pool. The bikini is not subtle. It isn’t meant to be.
Garcia groans over the comms you can all hear again, “This seems deeply unfair.”
“Tell me about it.” Emily whined.
Hotch watches from inside, his jaw tight, posture rigid. He knows exactly what you are doing and why it works. He’s almost alarmed at the pace you could set for the unsub.
Neighbors slow as they pass. A man across the street checks his mail. Twice.
You don’t look at any of them. You keep your sunglasses on, body relaxed and unconcerned.
It’s bait.
And it’s effective.
Hotch’s eyes finally snap up from your figure when he sees someone approach the fence. A woman smiling brightly and waving you over. You get up from your lounge chair and walk over to her.
“Hi! I’m Linda. We’re having a block party on Friday, and I thought we’d invite the new couple!”
You smile, all warmth and charm, “Isn’t that sweet!”
Hotch steps out the back patio door and walks over to join you. His arm wraps around your lower back so his hand can find home on your hip. Linda notices. Everyone does.
“Aaron.” He extends his other hand to shake Linda’s.
It’s clear Linda is trying to hide her gaze on their PDA. She stutters out the time while focusing on your hand placed on Hotch’s warm chest. The rock the FBI provided glimmering brightly on your ring finger. The sun continues to beat down, Hotch very aware of how you’re all skin right now. He’s only touching bare skin. He vaguely hears you ask if you should bring anything. He misses the response.
“Lovely.” She waves, “We’ll see you then!”
Linda walks away, you wave goodbye as she walks back to her house.
“So, that's what it takes to get you to come outside?” You turn, Hotch’s hold still on you, “Linda?”
“What-”
“I mean, I’ve been out here for how long, Garcia?”
His hand tightens again, not expecting you to circle the team back in. He forgot their eyes and ears are on everything.
“Forty-five minutes.” She answers.
“Disappointing.” You whisper, it fans over his face.
“I’ll work on it.”
He leans down before you can pull another stunt, he presses a kiss to your brow.
-
Later Emily and Morgan come over under the guise of friends bringing a housewarming gift. They welcome them both in and accept the wine with hugs. They gather together in the kitchen, everyone’s face all smiles but Emily’s tone tells another story.
“I think we’ve got to work on being what the unsub is looking for.” She reminds, “You both need to work on being closer. Physically.”
Morgan nods, “She’s right. The profile says entitlement. Ownership. A guy who thinks he’s won.”
“You don’t protect, Y/n. You flaunt her.”
Hotch’s jaw tightens, “That’s not-”
“That’s the role,” She cuts in, “A man who would absolutely brag about locking down another wife half the age of the last one.”
Emily is exaggerating obviously, but she makes her point clear.
“I’m good, Hotch.” You smile, wrapping your hand around his arm and pulling him closer, “I’m not fragile.”
He exhales slowly. Once. Controlled.
“Understood.”
The shift is nearly immediate. You can feel it. He changes how he stands. How close he is. How his hand settles on your waist when you pass him in the kitchen. Unapologetic.
An arm draped over her shoulder as they sit on the front porch enjoying the summer night, the sky beginning to darken. Morgan and Emily left a little bit ago, leaving them alone again. This time you claim each other's space.
A neighbor you haven’t met jogs by on a late run, waving to them as she passes. Linda’s husband takes out the trash, putting it at the end of their driveway. A group of kids pass through on their bikes, loud yells and laughter.
Lots of activity in this neighborhood. Lots of eyes. You and Hotch are putting yourselves in full view.
“You good?” You ask quietly.
“Yes,” He answers, “Are you?”
You study him, “I’ve played worse roles than this.”
His mouth tightens, “That doesn’t make it easier.”
“No, but it gets the job done.”
You reach up to card your hands through his hair. Running along the side, pushing it back.
“Uhh, guys?” Garcia chimes in the earpiece. You both keep faces neutral.
“One of the exterior cameras just changed angles.”
You still. Hotch does too. You’re not sure you would be able to tell if you weren’t practically in his lap right now.
Inside the van, Rossi leans closer to the screen. “Did we do that?”
Garcia typing away furiously.
“No. And the system didn’t flag it either.”
Emily frowns, “Can someone access it remotely?”
Garcia hesitates before answering.
“If they had administration credentials they would have remote access.”
“So, the unsub is watching right now?” You ask, eyes still on Aaron.
“I would assume so since he adjusted the exterior to include you both in frame.”
“Let’s give him a show.”
You want to pull Aaron to you, but you know he needs to push this. He is the pursuer. Your hand is still in his hair when he leans down to connect your lips again. You don’t give him the chance to cut it short, leaning into him.
He opens his mouth wider to deepen the kiss, you sit up against him. Throwing one leg over his lap, practically indecent for the front yard.
“Take me to bed.” Your words are pressed against his lips.
Hotch stiffens under you for a second. His eyes wide, before you give a small nod. He picks you up from his lap, carrying you into the house. You let him set you down and pull him up the stairs by the collar of his shirt. Still full of smiles and teasing. Aaron corners you against a wall in the hallway, pressing hot kisses down your neck.
You push back from him, taking his hand and pulling him into the bedroom and shut the door. The second the door shuts, you both let go, but are still out of breath. Hotch paces a few feet away from you. The bedroom is one of the few places they didn’t put a camera.
“Garcia, did any other angles in the house change? Any interior cameras?” Your voice sounds a lot more calm and clear than you feel.
“Um,” She clears her throat, obviously still reeling from everything she just witnessed. “Uh-I-uh it looks like he has. The hallway is angled more in the bedroom than it was when it was installed. I think I can see if he’s watching.”
There’s a long pause while she works before she comes back on, “Wait, yes! He’s online. He’s still active on the hall camera. I’m guessing he’s waiting for the afterparty.”
Emily nods, “He’s watching for something. He wants to know if they fit his needs.”
Inside, the performance continues. You mess up your hair, Hotch’s to be fair already was. You change out of the clothes you had on before and opt for just one of Aaron’s law t-shirts. It feels right. Puts a little pressure on that authority insecurity.
“Is he still watching?” You ask Garcia.
“Mhm.”
You open the door and casually skip down the stairs to the kitchen to get a glass of water. You're still flushed from the couch make out. Didn't have to fake that.
“Babygirl, you’re a genius.” Morgan claps.
It only needs to give the illusion they need. Just enough to piss him off.
-
You made brownies for the block party. Aaron had to run out to the store, leaving an opening for the unsub to approach as well. They don’t know his true patterns and if he’s confident enough to approach them both at once.
All morning there is activity out in the street. People are setting up tables, music, and food. It looks like they don’t do anything small here in Coyote Springs. You picked out the perfect summer sun dress, and curled your hair and leaving it down simply. It’s short enough to put your legs on display.
“Safe choice,” Hotch nods, looking at the tray covered in foil.
Safe to comment on the food, not the dress.
You smile up at him, “People trust baked goods.”
He opens the door for you both to walk out, and it’s already full. The party is already in full swing. People everywhere. Children running around. The smell of the grill takes over.
Too many faces.
You immediately feel your posture sag a little trying to keep track of everyone’s expressions while walking through. You keep one hand on the tray and the other curled possessively around Aaron’s bicep. You let him guide you around, introducing yourselves.
He leans down to press the occasional kiss to your lips, temple, brow. Anything to hear your low laugh. You both look inseparable.
From the street, it’s enviable. From the cameras, he’s raging.
“We’ve got a lot of eyes.” Garcia says into the earpiece.
JJ watches over the crowd, “He’s here. He wouldn’t pass up this opportunity.”
You move slowly. Deliberately. Introductions begin to blur. Retirees, young families, couples who’ve lived here twenty years. Kids continue to race around playing. Teens hang back in groups, too cool to really participate. You laugh easily, leaning into Hotch. You even let him speak over you once or twice.
You both stop near Linda, who is holding court beside the grill and a whole table of food.
“Oh! You made it,” Linda says brightly. “And you brought something.”
“Brownies,” You smile. “I hope that’s okay.”
Linda takes the tray. “Oh, people will love you.”
Her gaze flicks to Hotch. “You’re a lucky man.”
Hotch smiles wide, proud, exactly the wrong way.
“I know,” he says. “I really do.”
The reaction is instant. Not from Linda.
From just behind her.
A boy, sixteen maybe seventeen goes still.
Too still.
You can feel pressure between your shoulder blades. Hotch squeezes your hand, he saw it too.
“Oh, where are my manners!” Linda sighs, “Meet my family. This is my husband Bill, and my son Matthew.”
She then turns where the other boy still watches. “And this is my sister Sharon and her son Toby. They live just a couple streets down.”
Toby is tall, a little lanky. He wears a black hoodie despite the heat. He stands half in the shadow of a tree, his eyes won’t meet yours. Instead they’re on Hotch. Specifically where his hand is glued to your hip possessively. You shift closer and his grip bruises, Toby’s jaw tightens.
You turn to speak over Aaron’s shoulder so they won’t notice what you ask Garcia.
“Garcia, what do we know on Sharon and her son?”
There’s a pause. You turn back your attention to Linda and Sharon, waiting for her chipper voice to come on the earpiece.
“Let me see what I can find!” She eagerly begins typing. They had to move the surveillance van a couple streets down for the block party. It would be curious for them to be parked there with all the homeowners having a party together.
You keep smiling and turn your attention to Sharon and her son who hovers behind. “So, how long have you guys lived here?”
“All of his life.” Sharon answers, smiling softly at him.
“Must be hard,” You reply gently, “watching things change. New people are moving in, although I hope we’re welcomed!”
Everyone laughs at your comment, except for Toby. His gaze has yet to leave Hotch’s touch.
Sharp. Hurt. Furious.
Hotch squeezes a warning.
His eyes flick up to your face for the first time.
You excuse yourself from the group to refill both of your drinks. When you return, you immediately slide onto Hotch’s lap. You dive back into conversation totally unphased, but in your peripheral you can see Toby’s hands clenching.
Hotch makes sure to brag about his job, about you, about how good his life is now. Toby is locked in with his full attention. Every laugh from you is a needle. Every kiss gasoline. Building.
“I’ve got something juicy,” Garcia jumps back in, “Sharon was just divorced from Toby’s father last March. They had been married for twenty-two years, but he moved out and left. And then six weeks ago it looks like he was re-married.”
“Right when the killings started.” Emily reminds.
“It get better-or worse, I don’t know which is-what way it-”
“Garcia.”
“He has been teaching the girls college soccer team almost as long as they were married. His new wife? She just graduated from the team last year. Can you spell slimy?”
Garcia gags over the earpiece nearly making you wince and yank it out of your ear.
“She’s twenty-four, he’s fourty-nine.”
Bingo.
You turn to look over Hotch’s shoulder to see Toby’s expression, only to find him missing. Linda’s son is gone now too.
“Does anyone have eyes on him?”
No answer.
You both thank people as you’re saying goodbye. Smiles. Keep the act flawless.
The house feels wrong the second your foot crosses the threshold. Hotch’s hand moves instinctively toward his weapon and stops. Static takes over the earpiece.
-
Back in the surveillance van, the team waits anxiously. Re-watching footage to see if they can spot him disappearing. Eerie silence from the couple undercover. Garcia watches the door shut and suddenly the screens turn to pixels, static playing over the speakers.
“What the hell is that?” Morgan yells.
“I don’t know! Something is blocking the signal.” Garcia types furiously.
“We’ve got to go in now.” Morgan grabs his vest and his gun.
“If he’s not with them, this will blow their cover. We’ll scare him away.” Rossi adds.
“It won’t matter if they’re dead. Toby is the unsub, I’m sure of it.”
-
Toby is standing in the living room, holding a gun he shouldn’t know how to handle. And it’s aimed right at you both. His hands are shaking. Your hand tightens around Aaron’s arm.
“Shut the door!” He yells, you both slowly step the rest of the way into the house and shut the door.
His face is pale, eyes wide, and breathing way too fast.
He raises the gun closer to them, “Upstairs. Now.”
Hotch manages to keep himself placed between you and the gun as he follows you both to the bedroom. Every step is deliberate, intentionally trying to put you in the least amount of harm.
“On your knees.”
Neither of them hesitates. Neither of you tries to reach for your weapon. Yet.
Hotch’s shoulders brush with yours. Toby paces in front of you, waving the gun wildly in their direction the entire time.
“You think you’re better than everyone!” He yells, “You think it’s okay to take whatever you want.”
You tilt your head slightly, “What did he take from you?”
You try to remind that Hotch is not his father, although with the anger in his eyes you’re not sure he can tell. His pacing stutters.
“You watch people like us?” You continue, “You think you’re correcting something?”
“Correcting what he’s taking!” He jabs the gun at Hotch’s chest. You feel the air get knocked out of your lungs.
“Correcting my theft of youth?”
Your words from the beginning of the case now echo with Hotch’s voice. Toby freezes.
“That’s what he did,” Toby’s voice growing hoarse, “He took her youth. He took our family and replaced it with something younger. Easier.”
Hotch swallows when Toby turns his focus onto you. He lets the barrel of the gun slide across your collarbone.
“It’s despicable. This is the same thing.” He gestures between you two.
You hold his gaze, “I chose him. He didn’t take anything from me.”
Your voice softens, “And I don’t regret it.”
The truth in your voice is unmistakable. Hotch feels it like a shockwave. An earthquake.
“You don’t want to kill us.” You voice gentle, calming the room, “You want someone to admit what happened to you was wrong. That it was fucked up.”
Toby’s hands shake more, his eyes fill.
“He didn’t even talk to me about it. He just moved out.”
You nod, “Don’t you want it to stop hurting?”
His head bobs.
“Then put the gun down.”
He hesitates.
Hotch keeps his voice low and steady. Using his dad voice, “You’re not a monster. You’re a kid that got left behind.”
The gun lowers. Just enough. You reach forward and take the gun from his grasp and pass it back to Hotch immediately. You kneel beside him while he cries. Morgan breaks through the door, armed and ready.
“It’s okay, we’re all safe now.”
Red and blue lights take over the room flashing in from the window. Morgan takes Toby down to the cars to bring him into the station. An ambulance. Police. Statements. Protocols.
-
The team gathers in the living room to discuss everything that just unfolded and establishing a time to meet at the jet.
“Sharon works for CPI Security. That’s how Toby was able to access the homes and the cameras. He was using her devices.” Garcia explains their total blackout on seeing and hearing them. Toby was smarter than they had thought. That’s how he was without a trace. The team gives them a couple looks, quiet comments about their act while they try to wrap things up.
“Enough!” You shout, “I would like to shower and then get on a plane and go home! Is that too much to ask for?”
“No ma’am!” “We’re going!” “Okay, okay!”
Rossi leaves to go get one of the SUVS so they can head to the airport. It would be a late night flight home. You and Aaron are left with a few officers downstairs taking pictures and taking statements while you both pack up your belongings.
“Well, I suppose I will have to give this back to evidence.” You sigh, holding up the rock on your ring finger to the light with a chuckle.
“Yeah, I’m sure that’ll take some getting used to. You’ll feel lighter.”
You roll your eyes, putting your toiletries away, looking at him in the mirror.
Leaning your hip against the counter you look up at him, soft now and unguarded. “You were very convincing. You stepped it up.”
He matches your lean, a step closer.
“You were extraordinary from the beginning.”
The smile on your face shifts into something real, “You used my words back there.”
“I know.” He says, “I know what they mean to you.”
A beat passes. You swallow, his eyes follow down your throat. One he has kissed numerous times now.
“Do you regret it?” he asks.
You shake your head without hesitation, “Not even a little.”
Hotch reaches out, slowly. Deliberate. He tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. The touch is warm. Bare. Uncharacteristically gentle.
“Neither do I.”
-
The jet hums as it cuts through the dark sky. Hotch sits at the table with a file open in front of him that he is definitely not reading. You took the same seat across from him as usual. Emily and Rossi join the table, Morgan and Garcia sit on the couch facing them with wide grins.
For the first six minutes of the flight, no one says a thing.
“So,” Morgan starts far too casually, “We gonna talk about the kissing, or are we pretending none of that ever happened?”
You close your eyes. Hotch exhales through his nose.
JJ doesn’t even look up from her tablet, “I witnessed at least nine when I was on cams.”
Garcia gasps, “I’ve got so many screenshots-
“Garcia.” Hotch warns.
You groan, “Oh my god.”
Rossi smiles into his coffee, “You know, I’ve been undercover a lot. But I’ve never seen Hotch commit like that.”
Morgan grins, “My boss went from ‘don’t touch me’ to ‘this is my wife, don’t even breathe in her direction’ in twenty-four hours.”
Hotch clears his throat, “Focus.”
“Sir,” Emily smiles, “You grabbed her waist every time someone looked at her for more than two seconds.”
“That was tactical.”
You snort loudly before you can even stop it.
Morgan points immediately, “See! She knew it!”
Garcia’s cuts in, “And can we discuss the wardrobe?”
You straighten in your seat, “Garcia-”
“The bikini,” She barrels on, “The sundress. The backless sundress. The way you were charming everyone and-”
“Garcia!” You say both mortified and laughing.
JJ smiles, “To be fair, it worked. He didn’t stand a chance.”
“Hotch or Toby?” Rossi asks with a jab.
Hotch’s ears turn red.
“Well, technically Y/n is closer in age to Toby than she is to Hotch.” Reid interjects. “Please, don’t ever remind me of that again.” You shake your head, a sour look on your face. “I would also not like to be reminded of that.” Hotch agrees.
Rossi raises his brow still looking at Hotch.
“It was part of the profile.” He reminds.
Impossibly so, Rossi’s brow aims higher at Aaron’s answer, “You told three different men you were ‘very lucky’ and ‘not stupid enough to mess this up’.”
Silence.
Your lips twitch with a smile as you look over to him, “You did?”
His jaw tightens, “That… may have come up.”
Morgan outright laughs, “Boss, you were bragging.”
You cover your face with one hand, “I can never show my face in Arizona again.”
“You absolutely can,” Emily disagrees, “You own that cul-de-sac now. Whatever you two were doing, it sold and it worked.”
Reid nods, “Yeah, no notes. Except, next time? I want hazard pay for having to watch all that.”
"Me on the other hand, " Garcia grins wickedly, "I saved it all!"
“You’re welcome, you pervs!”
You toss a harmless handful of plane popcorn at them, rolling your eyes. There’s an unguarded and warm smile on your face that makes Hotch shake his head watching it all unfold.
Hours later it’s early morning on the east coast when they finally land on the tarmac.
“Debrief tomorrow at 9AM.” Hotch says, “Get some rest.”
The team disperses, still chuckling and yawning as they walk to their cars. The cabin is quiet as you lean back in your seat while Hotch packs up his briefcase.
“You think any of them bought it?” You ask, a soft smile on your face. Honest and open.
He flashes you his rare smile. The one usually saved for you and Jack on the weekends.
“Probably not.”
extra of the team finding out here!
an// all too aware of the fact that it’s been almost two years since i’ve written for Hotch, but I am obsessed all over again i fear. i had so much fun writing for him again!
DUDEEEE THE ENDING?????
*chef's kiss* 🤌
ᯓ➤ matching for christmas ⊹܀˙
← ʙᴀᴄᴋ. ⋮ ⌞ jason todd ✘ reader ⌝ .ᐟ .ᐟ
ৎׅ ׄ synopsis ⋮ You get kidnapped and branded by the joker on christmas. The bat-family sees Jason unravel. word cnt. 14.6k
cw ›››› torture, branding, suicidal language, violence, blood, gore
ᯓ➤ matching for christmas ⊹܀˙
← ʙᴀᴄᴋ. ⋮ ⌞ jason todd ✘ reader ⌝ .ᐟ .ᐟ
ৎׅ ׄ synopsis ⋮ You get kidnapped and branded by the joker on christmas. The bat-family sees Jason unravel. word cnt. 14.6k
cw ›››› torture, branding, suicidal language, violence, blood, gore
handed on a silver platter
well hellooooo!! so this is loosely inspired by this ask, only with a few tweaks of my own!! this is a b!adrian centric fic, our main boy is um- out for this one 🫣, hope you enjoy! as always comments and reblogs are super appreciated xoxo <3
b!adrian chase x reader cw: SMUT, kind of what chris pulled with earth x emilia but worse OOP, reader is not aware it's b!adrian during, if you're not comfy with that please don't read!!!!!. Content is 18+, MDNI.
"Oh my gosh- why the fuck are you a chipmunk?" Adrian muses and cackles to himself when he sees the small critter figure that sits cutely at the front door of his house.
Well- okay, it's his mom's house. His alternate dimension mom's house more exactly.
Adrian believes this is where he'll finally get the help he needs to take down Peacemaker and the Top Trio back in his own hellscape of a dimension.
Because whats better than one Vigilante? Two Vigilantes.
still the same, only entirely different — j. todd
dcu masterlist | main masterlist | | song inspired fics masterlist
gn!reader x jason todd
summary: to cure the ache left in the wake of jason's death, you move to london to pursue a career in literature—something you know jason loved. after jason's resurrection, he abandons the vigilante life and tries to restart in a new city. one night, at an open mic, you see man who looks oddly like the one you used to love.
warnings: mentions of death, angst, smut, lmk if i missed anything!
i left my heart at a pub in hampstead ...
UNEDITED!!!!
a/n: writing this felt so personal and intimiate for me y'all. i'm honestly terrified posting this. also look at me writing smut wowie (maybe that's the nerve-wracking part LMAO)
⋆✶ ˚｡⋆ Demolition Lovers.
SUMMARY: Dean always thought the end of the world would come with exploding suns and the walking dead—not in the shape of his best friend suddenly flirting with him. 9.7k
WARNINGS: best friend!reader. friends to lovers. suggestive language. pining. fluff. humor. dean's self-deprecating shenanigans. masturbation. implied smut. dry humping. breeding kink if you squint really hard. this was very random but i ended up loving it. set somewhere mid s2.
Dean is scared. Like really, really fucking terrified.
He’s faced everything a person can be afraid of. Vampires, ghosts, weird one-of-a-kind monsters. He’s fought enough demons—both physical and metaphorical—to drive the strongest man crazy. He fucking had to build the pyre where his father’s body would eventually turn to ashes by himself, for God’s sake.
But nothing, nothing has scared the shit out of him more than you flirting with him.
The first time it happened, he didn’t even notice you were flirting. His mind was just so closed off to the possibility, the idea so far-fetched and insane that even now—weeks later, as he stares at the peeling painting on the wall, ruminating—it still blows his fucking mind.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
You and Sam had been talking non-stop the whole ride from Tennessee to a dingy motel in rural Virginia, completely engrossed in your brainy shit. Dean caught bits and pieces of it every so often, when the thin but comforting fog that a long drive provides to his brain dissipates enough for him to actually register your words.
But it’s not like it mattered if he paid attention, it’s all Greek to him anyway.
It was only once he stopped at a gas station, leaning against Baby’s side while he waited for the tank to fill, that he actually tried to follow your conversation.
He opened the driver’s door and rested his arms on Baby’s roof, pressing his forehead against the crook of his elbow and peaking down at his baby brother and his best friend, the cold leather of his jacket a relief in the southern summer heat.
Sammy was leaning against the front seat’s backrest so he could meet your eyes, long limbs all twisted and his face still exhausted with everything that’s happened in the past year. His eyes were glittery as he nodded along to whatever you were saying, shaggy hair flopping around his head, and once again Dean has to wonder just how the fuck Dad pretended for Dean to kill the kid.
The memory of John’s words always leave him wilted and venomous, Dean tries so hard not to think about them. He turned his eyes to you instead. You were draped across the backseat—long legs bare thanks to your tiny shorts, socked feet pressed against the left door, your back resting against the right one.
You always make sure to take off your shoes before propping them up on the bench, without Dean even having to ask. You just seem to instinctively sense how much he cares for Baby, working as hard as he does to keep her clean and pretty. Dean doesn’t dwell on it.
He also didn’t dwell on how good you looked then, with the afternoon sun flaring behind you and making your hair glow, all sprawled out in his car. He’d gotten over the fantasies of climbing on top of you and kissing you until the two of you melted into the Impala long ago, around the time he’d gotten over any hope of you ever wanting him back.
Still, seeing your smooth skin against the black, shiny vinyl sent a shudder down his spine. If only.
His life lately has become nothing but just a long, boring list of cobweb-covered If-Only’s.
He quickly drew his attention to the words leaving Sammy’s mouth and away from your chest in that thin, translucent tank top.
“Blue eyes are genetic mutations to adapt to the sun.” The kid sounded the exact same as he had in middle school. Dean wondered if the reason why he didn’t get bullied more often was because two rogue teenage boys staying in the town’s cheapest motel was always a scary enough tale that kept most ruffians away. “Just like dark skin.”
“Yes! That’s also why people who live near deserts have longer, thicker eyelashes. It’s a mutation to protect their eyes,” you chimed in with an eager little smile. Dean almost saw you pushing phantom reading glasses up the bridge of your nose. “And, actually, lighter skin would be the mutation, since humanity originated in Africa.”
Sammy nodded enthusiastically, just like he did whenever he was presented with new information. Dean remembered then why, when you were younger, he used to memorize random fun facts in the library and then report them back to you two after a bad hunt or a nightmarish evening.
That pair of bright, dorky, always-too-wide eyes staring at him with that exact same awe always did wonders to keep the venom in his blood from spilling.
“How did you even get there?” he asked, voice dripping with laughter. “The last thing I heard from you was Halle Berry.”
“Of course it was, horndog.” You rolled your eyes, a wide smile tugging at your lips. The teenage instinct to puff up with pride at the sight stirred, he stomped on it until it stopped moving. “We were talking X-Men. Genetic mutations just kind of fell into place.”
“Right, obviously.” He scoffed. “You’re gonna infest my car with your nerd-virus, geeks.”
“May I remind you of all the Marvel Comics hidden in the trunk, under all your porn ones?”
“No, you may not.”
You snorted, crossing your arms and turning back to Sammy, widening your eyes as if saying: Can you believe this guy?
“I thought you’d be interested in the topic, Dean. Since you seem to try and prove Darwinism in every motel mini-fridge you find.”
Dean glared at his brother, one hand leaving Baby’s roof so he could flip him off. It only made you laugh harder. If Dean preened then, it’s between him and the voices in his head.
“I’d think you Winchesters have a genetic mutation that calls for trouble. The Winchester gene.” You pulled your knees closer to your chest, leaving him with a perfect view of your ever-bruised knees. He wanted to kiss them away, he wanted to leave more. The heat was getting to him. “Call Professor X, I’ve found a new mutation. Gene-W, which stands for Worst Fucking Luck in the Whole World.”
You’re such a fucking idiot.
How was Dean supposed to spend almost every waking moment with you, and not love you? It was impossible. Dad had to know he couldn’t do it, even when he yelled at Dean to get his head out of “some random chick’s cunt and man up. Focus on what’s important.”
God had to know as well, even when He made Dean fundamentally unlovable. It has to be divine punishment, sending him the perfect girl and making her so holy that she was untouchable, especially when Dean’s hands are coated with sacrilege.
“That’s three W’s.” It was the only thing his brain could spit out that wasn’t pleasepleaseplease.
Just once, just one time.
I need you so bad, it’s killing me.
Please.
“I’ll call it the 3W-gene, then.” You shrugged, wiggling in your place until you were sitting with your feet on the car floor. You stared at him then, eyes scanning his face with a nebulosity that he’d never seen before. They burned on his skin, hotter than the sun and more intoxicating than the scent of gasoline. Finally, your lips twisted upwards. “Which I’d have to guess makes up ninety percent of your DNA. Though it looks like you were made for the desert as well.”
Dean frowned, blinked down at you, wondered if you were having a heat stroke.
“But I’m… white? I mean, I know I don’t really get sunburnt, and I tan easily, but—”
“No, I mean—” You gaped at him, like you were trying to figure out if he was intentionally playing dumb. Dean didn’t realize what he was missing, the truth so far removed from every stone-set belief in his head that it seemed ridiculous to even go there. You had to sense his genuine confusion, because the disbelief vanished and left behind only giggling. “I was talking about your eyelashes, dummy.”
Ouch. Dean tried to hide the pang that traveled down his ribs, his lips pressed together in what he will never admit was a pout. “What’s wrong with my eyelashes?”
“Jesus Christ.” You sounded exasperated as you huffed, but also fond. Dean felt adrift. “Forget it, Dean.”
“No, no. Wait!” But you were already sliding out of the car, walking across scalding concrete and spilled oil toward the restrooms, too far away for him to stop you. He bent down and tried to read some answers out of Sammy's face, but all he got was a mocking smile.
He searched for you again, but by then you were already walking into the gas station’s Dunkin Donuts. Still, he yelled after you.
“What’s wrong with my lashes?!”
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
He didn’t get it the second time either.
Actually, it took him until the third time you shamelessly flirted with him for Dean to catch up with the situation. But it was just so… unimaginable.
Dean spent every waking moment of his younger years trying to charm you. Well-trained grins and lingering hands, compliments spilling like honey from his lips and pick-up lines flying your way like perfectly-aimed bullets.
But Dean missed every time.
You used to laugh, hiding your smile behind your hand and shoving him back like he was just being silly. At first, he was. You were gorgeous, and Dean was nineteen and horny. He could tell there was something different about you, with the quick hammering of his heart and the fuzz that tingled his brain when you walked in the room, but he paid it no mind.
Being a hunter meant that knocking on love’s door would always be risky. Being a Winchester meant that door was closed and locked forever. Being Dean meant that there was no door at all.
Love wasn’t an option, but he could have sex. He took that small grace and ran with it.
He never expected more than a night with you, maybe a fortnight if he was lucky enough. Then you could leave, or stick around for a while and ditch them when you got tired of him, and Dean wouldn’t mop over it. He’d gotten what he wanted—or all he could afford to want—and you’d just be another speck of dust on his rearview mirror.
But then you’d turned every single one of his advances down, always with a teasing but sweet smile on your face, and you’d stayed.
Through his twenty-first birthday, through Sam’s escape to college, through Dad’s death. Dean has been rattled with grief a million times since then, breaking down into pieces and glueing himself back together with scotch tape and stale beer, and still you stay by his side.
Dean doesn’t get it, but once again, he takes the grace—miracle, he would call it—and does everything he can to keep it.
No more flirting, no more secret touches under tables, no more trying to sleep with you.
It soon became evident that having you in his life meant more than casual sex could ever mean, and so Dean buried all of his desire so deep down that he thinks it might’ve backfired and infused with his soul instead of disappearing. He pretends it did, though, never letting his sickness get in the way of your friendship.
He’s good at pretending. It’s all he’s ever done.
At some point in time, that desire began to transform, bubbling up and becoming syrupy—like tar. Dean keeps throwing dirt over it like a dog trying to hide the bones of his last meal, fangs still bloody. It’s barely enough.
All of this to say, you’ve had a million opportunities to make a move on him.
Back in that shack in Oregon when you were twenty, or ten months ago when Sam had just entered your lives again and Dean was getting sloppy, giving you sultry looks over diner menus, his bantering quickly taking on a seductive undertone whenever you went back and forth. He’d pulled himself together soon enough, but you had still brushed him off just as easily as you had back in ‘98.
Because that’s just how the universe works—Dean swallows it all down until something escapes him and then you turn it down. You don’t flirt, and you sure as fuck don’t call his eyelashes long and thick or his face pretty.
That time… yeah, Dean should’ve probably gotten it then.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
You were sitting in the bed of a rusty-red pickup truck, parked in the middle of nowhere Virginia, just a week after the first incident.
You were already a quarter down your way to North Carolina when Sam remembered the witch’s shadow book he’d forgotten back in the motel. You’d all considered just leaving it, but the risk of some poor maid coming across it and wandering down a dark and dangerous path was too big. So Sam had left you in some ghost town in the middle of the woods, taking off with Baby before Dean could regret offering her to him.
Dean had stolen a truck, driving you out of the road and between the trees until you’d found a small clearing near a lake, far away enough from town that no locals would give you trouble.
It was still hot as fuck, the air thick and humid, leaving your hair frizzy and Dean’s throat dry. The sky was clear, a million stars winking down at you, and so you settled on the bed of the truck, desperate for as much fresh air as you could get.
Sam at least had the decency to let you pull a few things out of the trunk before he sped away, including a big blanket that you spread over the dirty metal before climbing inside, Dean following close by.
You laid on your back with a flashlight in one hand and a book propped up over your face in the other, bathing in the moonlight as your eyes hungrily absorbed every word in those pages. Dean lit up a cigarette and watched the smoke travel with the breeze, listening to the familiar buzz of the forest and fidgeting with his M1911.
His back was pressed against the bedside, leaving him with the perfect view of the tree line. And you.
You looked like an angel. Definitely divine punishment.
At some point your legs ended up tangled, blissfully-bare skin against stubborn denim. You knocked your knee with his but kept your eyes on the book, Dean watched you. The way you held the flashlight between your teeth when you needed to flip the page, the light that reflected on the paper and highlighted the curve of your throat, the scar on your cheek from when you jumped between Dean and a knife the witch had thrown at him.
“Watcha reading?” He couldn’t keep the words down, they swirl in the air along with the smoke. This time you spare him a glance.
“Gothic horror. Very Americana, fits the vibe perfectly.” With your hand still holding your book open, you gestured to your surroundings. Dean chuckled. “You’d like it, if you could read.”
“Hey!” He kicked you softly in the shin. “I know how to read, thank you very much!”
“You do? Woah, news to me.”
“I’d be the worst hunting partner if I didn’t. Research would take us ages.” Your eyes went back to the book. It was unbearable. “At least have the decency to look at me when you insult me, you little dweeb.”
You dropped the novel next to your head, getting up on one elbow so you could finally meet Dean’s gaze. The flashlight kept pointing up, enveloping everything in faint yellow light. Dean’s hair stuck to the back of his neck with sweat, his white ratty t-shirt suddenly too tight.
“Sam and I always do the research anyway.” You flexed your leg, your knee now hooked over his as you laid on your side. Dean was an adult, he could handle this.
“So what’s my job then, attack dog?”
A small frown crossed your face, it was quickly replaced by a teasing smirk. “Nah. Your job is to sit there and look pretty.”
The overwhelming quiet of the wilderness and the haziness of the tacky night made it all feel like a dream. Dean had to be hallucinating the slight tilt of your face, the warm glint in your irises, your teeth grazing your lip.
“What?”
“Every team needs The Pretty One. Makes it easier to be approachable, you know how a shining smile can do wonders.” Dean almost wanted to clear his ears with his fingers. What the fuck was happening? “Though you just had to be pretty and good at fighting, you could fill all the team’s positions if you wanted. I blame it on the 3W-gene.”
A lot was going on, Dean’s brain would start leaking out of his nose if you didn’t stop.
“You think I’m pretty?”
Not his smoothest moment. He’s not proud.
You scoffed, and if Dean was a little more certain of anything at this point, he’d thought you blushed. “Please, Dean, everyone thinks you’re pretty.”
No they don’t. They think he’s hot, or handsome, or badass. He’s heard beautiful a few times. Pretty… he doesn’t hear that one often. For some reason, it sent lightning down his spine.
“You have never said it, though,” he whispered, mellower than intended. He took one last drag of his cig and stubbed it out against the bedside. He quickly grabbed another one, if anything, just to keep his hands busy.
There was a slow, terrifying moment of silence before you spoke again, and Dean held his breath until the smoke burned in his lungs.
“Doesn’t mean I don’t see it.” Something haunted flashed on your eyes, Dean felt the need to float closer until he charred within it. “That I don’t know it.”
His world started to crumble, the ground under him shaking. You finding Dean attractive—pretty, even… it was life-ruining.
All of his defenses started to crack.
“You’ve seen me covered in enough fluids to make the toughest surgeon vomit.”
You giggled, the sound breaking through the still air like a bullet. Dean’s grip on his gun loosened, his whole body melting.
“It’s that freakin’ Winchester gene, I’m telling you. Good looks, bad luck, weird ass charm.”
“So you think Sammy’s pretty too?”
He wished his voice hadn’t been that bitter. You rolled your eyes before picking up your book, flopping back down on your back as your eyes left him. Dean shivered even though the air was stuffy, musk and salty heat filling his nose.
“You’re the prettiest, De. You should know that.”
Well, he knows now.
He smoked half his pack of reds and you got through another third of your novel before you decided to get some shut-eye. Dean agreed to lie down next to you after you plead with him, even if he knew he would stay up all night regardless. Your pouty expression was too much for him to resist, he’s only human.
You didn’t have any pillows, but Dean was stubborn and he took his jacket everywhere, even when it was a thousand degrees. He bundled it up and offered it for you to use. “It’s not the comfiest, but it’s something.”
This time, Dean was sure he saw your cheeks reddening.
He kept on watching the clouds and listening in for any dangers as you got ready to sleep, throwing a thin sheet over the two of you and curling into yourself at his side. He put out his last cigarette against the sole of his biker boots, refusing to take them off even after you nagged at him for it.
He’d learned long ago to always be ready to escape. Old habits die hard.
“I wish you’d put them out on me.”
The words barely reached him, getting lost in the whistling of the wind. He quickly turned his head toward you, eyes wide and breath ragged, but you had already fallen asleep by then.
Your face was hidden against his jacket. It stayed there all the way until morning.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
The few days after that had been torture. Even now, Dean still isn’t sure that last part was even real, the words too good to be true.
If only you could be as sick as him, if only under your skin lived a beast as rabid as his, if only the immensity of his desire and obsession could be reciprocated instead of abhorred. If only.
But by the third incident, Dean had enough evidence to believe he heard right and he didn't need to get hooked on antipsychotics. And oh, what a thought that is.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Dean was working on Baby, two weeks or so after Virginia.
You’d driven to South Dakota a few days ago after ganking a vampire nest in northern Iowa, still waiting for Ash to get back to you with any demonic omens. Bobby had welcomed you with open arms and a cooler full of beer, and God knows Dean needed the break.
He didn’t know how long he could keep handling being locked in the Impala with you, your clothes getting skimpier and the days getting longer. Your head stuck out the window, your hair floating in the wind, your voice echoing in his head.
“You’re the prettiest, De.”
Even motel rooms didn’t serve as a relief. You’d still walk out of the shower with your skin flushed and bare, filling the boy-stinking room with your sugary smell and girlish sweat. It was hell, it was paradise. Dean had to rush into a cold shower every time.
He thought that being at Bobby’s would stop the avalanche of prohibited thoughts. That once there was a bit more space between you—other people around and open windows and air conditioner—he could go back to pretending that your strange confessions in the past few days hadn’t shattered all of his careful guards.
But it only took you flashing a smile across the dining table or your shape lounging by the bay window for all his pent-up frustration to claw at his throat. He was restless, fingers twitchy and temper irritable, his whiskey glass almost cracking under his hand when you strode down the stairs in a tiny skirt and a tight top, clearly not wearing a bra.
Before his head could explode, he grabbed a cold beer and dashed out the door and into the salvage yard, Baby’s keys in one hand and his crumbling sanity in the other.
He’d been at it for hours, tinkering here and there with the Impala’s undercarriage, the old car creeper he’d stolen from Bobby’s garage stiff and bumpy under him. He welcomed the distraction.
There was nothing to fix, really. Baby wasn’t up for an inspection for quite a while, and Dean knew exactly when she needed work done. She was golden.
Still, he fidgeted with the exhaust and turned a few screws uselessly, stalling. The sun beat down on him, his shirt was stained with oil and sweat, his vision was getting splotchy. The smell of metal and dirt was comforting, familiar, manly. No soft vanilla or flowery shampoo. Just Dean and his life on the road, no space for anything else.
But being trapped under an engine only made the heat even worse, his throat closing up and his eyes stinging. He finally decided to slide out and into the fresh air, sitting up with a gasp as he reached for his beer, the condensation dripping from the bottle a small heaven.
He chugged the drink down and threw the bottle on the ground, wiping his forehead with the hem of his dirty shirt before dropping back down on the creeper, his eyes scanning his arid surroundings. Big mistake.
Because there, stepping out of the house to his right, were you. The stupid skirt left him as breathless as it did the first time, the little perk of your nipples under the soft fabric of your top still filling his mouth with saliva. There were two beers in your hands, your skin glistening as you stepped in the sunlight, Dean’s grip on the wrench tightened.
“Brought you some libation, so you don’t pass out under that thing.”
“Hey! Put some respect on her name.” Dean petted the underside of Baby, your laugh washing over him like a waterfall.
You reached his side and handed him one of the beers, the caps already off. He took a long swig of it, mostly to keep that syrupy tar from spilling. He was still lying on his back, with you towering over him. Dean focused on the sharp dig of metal against his spine and not the way he could almost, almost peep under your flowy skirt.
“What are you working on, anyway?”
He didn’t have a real answer, so he spit out some bullshit excuse full of technical words that he knew you wouldn’t really understand, hoping it was enough to keep you from asking more questions.
“Uhm—right…” You nodded, like you’d understood anything Dean had just said. It made him smile, how you always tried to pay attention even when the topic couldn’t bore you any more.
The two of you stayed there for a few more moments, sipping on your beers and letting the seconds trickle by. You swayed to a phantom tune in your head, Dean could nearly hear it. It was nice to know you could still have moments like this, when your minds swirled into one and you didn’t need words to communicate, like tuning into the same radio station.
If Dean was a little cheesier, he’d say you’re soulmates.
Because he’s Dean, he says you’re just trauma-bonded.
A small but glorious breeze glided between you, making your skirt and hair twirl and lifting Dean’s shirt halfway up his chest, his torn-up jeans laying low on his hips like a good mechanic.
Dean watched as your eyes caught the movement, drinking in the sight of golden skin and scar tissue. You ogled shamelessly, from the ridges of his ribs down to the V of his hipbones, licking your lips as you followed the trail of faint hair that disappeared down the waistband of his boxers, the elastic peaking out of his jeans slightly.
Too much, it was too much. Your teasing had made him reckless, this was his last straw.
“Take a picture, darlin’. It’ll last you longer.”
Instead of snapping back into yourself and running back into the house, you just hummed mindlessly, gaze slowly moving up to Dean’s face. Your cheeks were pink, it could be just the incandescence. The darkness of your eyes differed.
“Left my phone inside. Such a shame.” He wasn’t expecting that. He laughed hoarsely, trying to pass it off as a weird joke. Friends could joke like that, it wasn't that crazy. Your expression remained consuming. “You shouldn’t stay out here for too long, De. You’re gonna roast under all that metal.”
Dean thought you sounded hungry, he finished his beer in one go.
“Hey, it’s a good way to go.” He gave you one of those relaxed, I’m-not-freaking-out-you-are smirks. “I’ve always wanted to die under a hot girl or a cool car.”
Okay, he walked right into that one. He was trying, okay?
This time, you laughed. It was velvety, stickier than summer and more addictive than any adrenaline rush. Dean became a junkie after just one hit.
“Great philosophy, really.” You chugged half of your beer, stepped a little closer, stood with your legs parted. Dean kept his eyes firmly on your face. “Well, you can choose now. Which one will it be?”
For a second, Dean wondered if he’d drink more than he remembered. Only when he was really, really hammered did he daydreamed this vividly. But he’d barely had three beers today and half a glass of whiskey, he was nowhere near wasted.
His breath hitched, he gaped up at you. His brain racked for excuses, for another explanation to this that wasn’t your best friend who you’re inescapably in love with is making a move on you.
There wasn’t any. There’s only so much you can lie to yourself before the truth becomes imminent.
“I’m just a hardworking mechanic, ma’am. I’m trying to do my job here.” It was so easy, to just fall back into the playfulness that’s been dying to crawl out of his mouth and wrap all over you for years.
“Mhm.” You grinned foxily—which was new—and then stepped even closer, a foot on each side of his extended leg—which was even newer. You were still too far away for him to actually see anything, but the scene was still too familiar, from grainy videos in Sam’s laptop and raunchy magazines. Oh god. “I think I have a problem for you to check out, Mister Mechanic. Don’t worry, I can pay you well.”
You winked at him, and Dean’s breath grew ragged. The line of just-friends had started to blur long ago, but this was definitely stepping over it. He wanted it so badly, that was always a sign that it shouldn’t happen.
He tried to convince himself you were just joking around, making fun of his cliche porn indulgences, calling him out for being a little freak.
“You can’t just come into my workshop and demand to be served, ma’am. That’s no way to treat a humble, blue-collar man.”
Another one of those laughs, Dean relished in the ecstasy of it. “I think I know how this blue-collar man likes to be treated after all these years.”
His mouth was full of spit and tar, he swallowed it all down. It still spilled.
"You’re gonna let me take a look, then?”
Surely, this is where you drew the line. It was all fun and games up to here, just a little healthy flirting between best friends with a broken silent understandment—nothing unfixable.
This, this is where everything could go up in flames. Dean was delirious, frothing at the mouth and begging to be put down. To be woken up from this dream, to go back to when everything ached but was familiar, to have you snap his neck in mercy.
Instead, you drenched everything in kerosene.
With a wicked smirk that screamed danger, you crept higher up his body. Your foot resting between his legs moved and installed itself next to his shoulder, until you were completely straddling his frame, right over his head.
Shadows covered his face, the ruffles of your skirt fluttered, that musky smell of vanilla and salty skin enveloped him. Dean panicked.
There was no coming back from this. He wasn’t ready to ruin the best thing that had ever happened to him. He wasn’t sure this was even happening in the first place.
He shoved himself back under Baby, a yelp logged in the back of his throat, his eyes still shut closed even when all he could sense around him was rusty metal and motor oil.
That laugh again, vivid and electric, now muffled by the car shielding Dean from the demon that's taken the shape of his best friend.
“I thought I—I heard a rattle.” He’s not sure his words even reached you with how scattered they were. You sighed in delight.
“Of course, Mister Mechanic. I’ll stop bothering you.” You softly kicked his boot in goodbye, even that made Dean’s breath stutter. “Don’t stay here too long, or you’re actually going to faint.”
“Sure.” He sounded wrecked. Goddamnit he can be pathetic.
You giggled, this time tender and almost… enamored. Dean seriously needed to go see a shrink.
He listened closely as you walked away, waiting until the back door of Bobby’s house clicked shut before rushing out from under Baby. He got on his feet so fast that his head spinned, his vision blurring as he made his way between the maze of broken-down cars and hills of old tires.
He found a sun-bleached school bus that looked like it had been there for ages, big enough to conceal his form as he leaned against its side, fumbling at his belt with shaky hands.
He came a few minutes later, with his back against scalding, yellow-painted steel and his dick fisted furiously in his hand. He kicked dirt over his cum on the ground, still trying to catch his breath and process what the hell just happened.
His cock twitched at the memory of you climbing over him, he pulled his jeans back up and darted into the house, locking himself in his room until he was able to function again.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Dean had been able to bury the cum well-enough that day, but you’ve done irreparable damage to his desire’s grave. No matter how hard he scratches at the earth and tries to cover the bones, you’ve resuscitated something invincible.
He’s doomed, even more than before.
Because it’s not just desire anymore. Now it’s also a sunrise on the beach, quiet mornings in a suburban kitchen, soft kisses that promise more than just a good time. Now Dean wants more, he wants everything.
Oh, what have you done?
It was hard, moving on from that day. After a lot of self-reflection and many, many jerk-off sessions, he’d gotten to the conclusion that you were, indeed, flirting.
He knows, he knows. Give him a Nobel prize.
The knowledge is almost impossible to live with. He wants to put his head through the wall, he wants to scream until his lungs give in, he wants to kneel at your feet and ask you why.
Why now, why not before, why not never. Why when he was finally getting the hang of it, why when he had just gotten used to the ache of longing, why when he’d ultimately made his peace with never having you.
He didn’t know how to act after that, not when he was holding his guts inside his body with trembling hands and he didn’t know exactly what you needed. Because that’s the scariest part of all.
Just to what extent do you want him?
At first, he assumed you wanted the same he did at nineteen—to fool around.
Maybe you’re lonely. Dean hasn’t seen you leave the bar with anyone in months, hasn’t caught you sneaking out of your motel rooms, hasn’t heard you talking about that college boy you became friends with during your Hook Man case in Iowa.
Maybe you’re wired, and needy, and Dean is a safe choice. No awkward introductions or dangerous meetings. Just the pleasure of skin against skin and the haven of being with someone you know like the back of your hand.
Dean isn’t sure if he could handle casual, after all these years, after you’ve wiped away his dumbest tears and patched up his ugliest wounds. For once, Dean might not be able to muzzle the beast under his skin.
So he panicked, and tried to put some distance between the two of you. But his line of work doesn’t accept mental health leaves, and you were back in the Impala just a few days after. You didn’t mention Mister Mechanic again and Dean didn’t quite look you in the eye, but everything went virtually swimmingly, aside from Sammy’s occasional side-eyes.
Still, the taste of worry lingered on his tongue and the beast wailed with every glimpse of you in the rearview mirror. More if-only’s made it to the list.
If only he was a better man, maybe you’d want all of him.
If only the yellow-eyed demon had never existed—that one wasn’t new, but it always stung like it was.
If only you could love him, the way he loves you.
That one was the most terrifying of them all. It made Dean want to throw up all of his innards and flush them down the toilet. He wondered if he’d even be able to focus on the case with your face hovering over him flashing behind his eyelids every time he blinked.
But then, incident four happened.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Dean was struggling with his necktie.
He fucking hated dressing up as FBI. Even the priest costume had been more comfortable than this cheap rental suit and too-small dress shoes. It was still way too hot for a suit jacket, and the white shirt buttoned all the way up made him feel like he was choking. The stupid tie wasn’t helping.
He stood in front of the mirror, clammy fingers tugging at the fabric fruitlessly. Dean had known how to tie a necktie since he was six, when Dad was too drunk or hungover to do it himself. By the time he’d gotten old enough to start wearing the disguises himself, he’d been pretty fucking good at it.
But his hands hadn’t stopped shaking since that day in the salvage yard, and he really, really didn’t want to go deal with useless small town sheriffs and sobbing widows. Especially not when you’d be staying behind, deciding to take over research while Sam and Dean collected as much information as they could on the five married men who’d shot themselves within the past week.
Sammy was out getting all of you some coffee, everyone exhausted after the drive all the way down to Berthoud, Colorado. So when the door creaked open, Dean scoffed without turning away from the closet mirror.
“I can’t tie this stupid thing, Sammy. C’mere and help me.”
He was expecting the ribbing chuckle that followed his words, but he didn’t expect it to be so high-pitched and lovely.
He spun around on his heels as the door closed, messy knot making the collar of his shirt pop around his neck, eyes wide as he took you in.
“Hello there, Agent Dracula.” You were leaning back on the wooden door, hands behind your back and a little smile on your face. You hadn’t been alone in the same room since Sioux Falls, Dean secretly started to pray to any deity that would listen.
“Hey.” He hoped he didn’t sound as sulky as he thought he did. “How did you get in?”
You stared at him for a few seconds, long lashes fluttering—and Dean wished he could turn back time and tell you that no, you were made for the desert. But once again, he was too late.
You chuckled, seemingly incredibly amused by a silent joke that Dean missed, and knocked your knuckles twice on the door behind you before walking toward him.
“Sammy gave me the second key, just in case.” Dean stayed frozen in place as you approached him, wondering if this is how deer felt when they heard the snap of the trigger. Your fingers latched onto his collar, and you grinned at him as you started to fix his tie.
“The little fucker told me nothin’.” Your fingers were swift and delicate as you twisted the navy blue fabric around them. Dean swallowed harshly, your thumb brushed against his Adam’s apple. “You should knock, y’know. I could’ve been changing.”
You hummed, your smile widening. Dean wanted to lick behind your teeth, he wanted to rip all of his out. “And we wouldn’t want me seeing that, would we?”
He didn’t dignify that with an answer. Whatever game you were playing, Dean knew he’d lose. He might as well give up now.
Of course, you couldn’t even give him that.
You finished with his necktie, adjusting it against the base of his throat before fixing his collar. You tugged on the fabric, hard, until his chest was almost pressed to yours and your faces were just inches apart.
“There you go, agent. Handsome and ready to go dazzle all those poor mourning widows.” You ran your hands across his shoulders and down his biceps, smoothing out the wrinkles of his button-up. Dean bit the inside of his cheek until he tasted blood.
“What better pillow talk than all the gory details of your past husband’s suicide, am I right?” At least he could still joke. That was a relief. “You might wanna give that key back, so you don’t walk into one of my private investigation sessions.”
He wasn’t sure what he was looking for with that. He hadn’t brought back a girl in years, always keeping his encounters in dark alleyways or the chick’s home. Encounters which, he’d never admit, were starting to happen less and less.
It was hard, keeping your name off his tongue when all he could think about was you, even when he was balls-deep inside someone else. It had gotten him kicked out a few times, he never took it personal. It was all a distraction, one that was barely working now.
You frowned, your fingers around his arms twitching. Your eyes stayed fixated on his tie for a long moment before they flickered up to his, swirling with something that made the tar start to boil.
“You don’t need to do all that. You’re smart, you’ll find another way to make them talk.”
Your voice was too solemn for the comment to be brushed off as a joke. Sweat started to bead up on his hairline, he’d have to turn on the ceiling fan as soon as you left.
If you left. Dean wasn’t sure if he wanted you to.
“I thought I didn’t know how to read?”
You giggled, leaning closer until your bodies were flattened against each other and Dean could feel the warmth of your skin through your clothes.
“You can be an idiot sometimes. You can also be a genius when you want to.” Your breath brushed against his lips with every word, his lips parted on instinct. Another beat passed by, your hands slid up to cup the back of his neck. “Don’t fuck any widows, Winchester.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t want you to.”
The words were barely audible, Dean tried to close the distance between you, hands wrapping around your waist. His lips just grazed yours before you tilted your head back, shaking it almost imperceptibly. He had to bite down the urge to whine.
He whispered your name, pained.
“Not now,” you whispered back. Outside the room, Baby’s engine roared before shutting down. You pulled him closer again, turning your face until your lips were pressed against his cheek, leaving a feathery kiss against his just-shaven skin. It was still sensitive, Dean exhaled harshly. “Just—come back to me tonight, mh?”
Before he could say anything, the door opened and you took a step back. His arms awkwardly stayed in the air long after you’d made your way to the door, still holding the shape of you. Sammy walked in after you beelined out of the room, giving him a suspicious look.
Dean was just as lost.
But one thing was for sure, whatever this was, it wasn’t casual. You were right, Dean could be smart when he wanted to, and he knew damn well you couldn’t fake that look in your eyes.
He came back that night, alone, as soon as interviews were over. Sammy was left behind getting copies of the mortuary reports and at least two ladies ended up alone and kindly rejected in their homes—all for you.
He knocked on your motel door, your pretty head popped up after a second. You quietly gave him an up and down look, eyes glistening under the streetlights as a satisfied beam made its way into your mouth.
“Good.” You nodded before winking at him, already retreating back inside your room. “Good night, De.”
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
And so that leaves him here, the morning after, lying shirtless on scratchy motel sheets and staring at the water-stained ceiling in search for answers. Sammy is deep asleep in the bed next to him, the kid’s soft, familiar snores doing nothing to keep Dean anchored in time.
He feels like a teenager, he feels a million years old. He wants to barge into your room and childishly demand an explanation, he wants to retire to a monk monastery and find divine wisdom. He wants to tear his own heart out and for you to keep it in a glass vial forever.
If-only’s start to spiral into maybe’s. Fears turn to hopes and hopes to fears. He tosses against the pillows and the cheap mattress springs dig into his back.
With an agonizing groan, he leaps out of bed.
His boots are still on his feet, of course, so it’s easy to pull on his dirty jeans and dart out of the motel room. The early morning sun welcomes him with a wave of warm air and a brief second of blindness, his skin already growing damp as he sits on the curb of the lonely parking lot.
He’s already reaching for a smoke before his vision even gets used to the sunlight, the torrid pavement burning his skin through thick denim. He blinks back white spots as he takes a long drag, letting the taste of tobacco erase the traces of angst clinging to the corners of his mouth.
The parking lot is almost empty, barely any cars waiting for their owners to be done with whatever they were doing on a Wednesday at eight in the morning inside a pay-by-the-hour motel. So when footsteps start to slowly get closer, light and measured, he knows exactly who it is. His eyes stay glued to a far away billboard with a generic anti-smoking slogan printed in the center.
The first thing he sees is your boots, stepping down the curb right next to him. Then your bare calves, miles of smooth skin, the muffled sound of fabric dropping. Purple-peppered knees bend as you lower yourself on his right side, that soft smell of sugar and sun-kissed skin mixing with marlboro and mildew. And then, when his eyes flicker just a little closer but not quite land on your shape, he sees white cotton and lacy edges.
He chokes on the smoke gliding up his throat.
“Jesus Christ.” He coughs, finally turning his head to take you in completely. A tiny cup of coffee held in your hands, thin white tank top hugging your bare chest, soft cotton panties, boots. Nothing else. “What the hell?”
“It’s hot as fuck.” You shrug, gazing toward the same billboard. You’d dropped one of the motel towels over the spot you’re sitting on, the fabric frayed but thick enough to keep your skin from burning in the concrete. “You’re naked too, you know?”
“I’m more modest than you, that’s for sure.”
With languid movements, you set the porcelain cup down between the two of you and reach for his cigarette, your fingers stroking over his as you steal it and press it against your mouth. Your eyes meet his as your lips wrap around the filter, just where Dean’s were a second ago.
“I was using that, you know?” Maybe one day he’ll be able to talk to you again without his voice failing him. You chuckle. “I could’ve just handed you a new one.”
“But where’s the fun in that?”
“Give it back.” You smile lazily, tilting your head and taking a long drag, goading. “Fucking—whatever.”
His hand fishes into his front pocket for the pack smokes. You lean closer, again, just enough for Dean to feel your skin reflecting the warmth of the sun. Your hand wraps around his thigh, making him halt. Delicate fingers pull the cig away from your perfect mouth, and suddenly your parted lips are brushing his.
“Stop being a baby. Open up if you want it so badly.”
“Why are you doing this to me?”
His answer comes in smoke being blown into his mouth. He breathes it in, starving for the slightest taste of you between all the earthy bitterness.
“Why do you think?”
He’s way too dizzy to process the words, and it isn’t until you’ve pulled away enough for Dean to see your whole face that his brain starts to work again.
“Because you want me dead?”
You laugh, so fucking sweet and heavenly. Dean allows himself to revel in it this time.
“I love you, Dean. But you already knew that, didn’t you?” The way you’re looking at him makes him feel even more naked than he is. Dean stutters.
In concept, yes, he knows you love him. As a friend, as a partner, as family. In the lives you lead, there’s only so many people you can trust, and when you finally find them—yes, it’s easy to love them. Especially when the rest of the world is either too ignorant to feel real or too cruel to keep close.
“I know.” He gulps, the words stinging on his tongue. “I—I love you too.”
He’s said so very few times in his lifetime. Kneeling by your hospital bed after a rugaru left you bloody and with a raging concussion, on the phone the night Sammy left for Stanford and he got hammered by the seaside, the day Dad died. It was always secretive—with the shadow of sorrow hiding the severity of the words, protecting him from their consequences.
But here, when he’s shirtless under the brightest, hottest sun of the year, there’s nowhere to hide.
You drop the cigarette to the ground, cupping his cheek in your palm instead. Dean leans into the touch like a stray puppy, heart pounding against his ribcage.
“How do you love me?”
He murmurs your name dejectedly. “Don’t make me say it.”
“Please, Dean. I—” You take in a trembling breath, and for the first time, the confident mask you’ve been wearing since this whole thing started falters. “I need you to say it.”
“I love you more than anything. I love you like a best friend, I love you like family, I love you like a piece of myself. You’re part of me, darling. The better, lovelier part of me, the part I would go insane without. I love you like I dream of spending my last days on earth with you. I love you like I have never loved anyone before, and it scares the crap out of me. But fuck, I don’t care, because I fucking love you.”
Tears glint in the corner of your eyes. Before Dean can blow his brains out for making you cry, you lunge yourself into his lap, knees hitting the pavement on each side of his hips hard enough to scrape skin.
“Fuck, fuck.” You sound crazed as you cradle his face in your hands. Dean can barely follow what’s happening. “I love you too. I love you so fucking much, Dean. Goddamnit.”
Dean’s hands have barely landed on your thighs when you’re already engulfing his mouth with yours. It’s desperate, feral, long-awaited. Teeth clashing and hands groping, years and years of longing spilling from the seams and sealing the two of you together.
“What the fuck—” His words are licked away, he bites down on your tongue in retaliation. It only makes your hips grind down onto his. Instant karma. “—is happening?”
Your laughter this time is low and fevered. Dean’s hands can’t stop mapping all the exposed skin offered to him—calloused fingers wrapping around barely-clothed hipbones and slipping under flimsy fabric and drawing shapes against silky forearms. Your flesh dips under his fingertips, he finds scars he didn’t know of before, his mouth waters.
“I’m in love with you, Winchester. So in love I’m fucking dumb with it. That’s what’s happening.”
Dean drags you closer and drapes himself around you, arms encircling your middle and face buried in your hair, taking the moment in. Just a second to breathe, and make sure he isn’t dreaming.
“What changed your mind?”
You chew on his question, your hands doing some exploring of their own. His back pricks with the scorch of the sun and your adoring touch, your bodies stick together with sweat and Dean’s tar, now flowing freely from his chest and coating all of him.
“I’ve always loved you. I think I was born loving you.” Your nails trace every dip of his muscles. Dean flexes for you, you smack his shoulder with a giggle. He nuzzles his nose against the line of your jaw. “But when you used to flirt with me—well, you know your reputation, De.”
He does, he spent decades crafting it. He leaves a kiss on your cheek before pulling away enough to look into your eyes.
“It wasn’t like that, not with you. Maybe at first, but now… I wouldn’t know what to do without you.”
“I know,” you whisper, your lips pressing against his in a chaste peck. “I know now.”
“How?”
It’s hard to focus on talking when you’re sitting on his lap in nothing but sheer undergarments, but his curiosity is slightly stronger than his craving.
“Do you remember that time Sam got cursed? The truth spell you tried to convince me was a contagious diarrhea curse?”
Dean remembers, unfortunately. Sammy couldn’t stop spitting out every thought that crossed his head, and Dean knew that if the kid was in the same room as you for even a second, his meticulously-concealed love would be bared before you quicker than Dean could knock his brother out.
So he’d made up a lame excuse as to why you shouldn’t go back to the motel until Dean had a cure, and prayed that taking Sam’s phone and locking him in their room would be enough to keep everything from falling apart.
Until a second ago, he was sure it had been.
“You’re a good liar, Winchester, but you can’t lie to me. I knew something was up.” Your hands find their way to his hair, Dean represses a grunt when you tug on it softly. “So I picked the lock to your motel door and had a very… insightful conversation with your brother.”
“You really took advantage of the poor kid, baby?”
The endearment brings a beautiful flush to your cheeks, he’s rewarded with another smoky kiss.
“He looked quite eager to share, actually. Told me all about you keeping a picture of me in your wallet and calling other girls my name.”
Dean plops his forehead down on your shoulder, groaning. “I’m gonna gut him.”
“No, you’re not.” You thumb at his sideburn. Dean grumbles unintelligibly against your skin, teeth grazing the spot right beside the strap of your top. “Because without him, we wouldn’t be here.”
He hums in the back of his throat, getting lost in the enchanting sensation of having you all around him. “What was all the torture about, then?”
“Well, I had to test you first. Make sure you actually feel the same way.” You drag him back by the hair, until your noses are brushing and Dean can count every mole in your face. “Because I love you so much it kills me, Dean. Does it kill you, too?”
Dean takes a slow breath, his arms tightening around you. “Not anymore.”
You kiss him again, this time slow and deep. No more rushing, no more fear. There’s nowhere to be, nothing to escape. For as long as you’re with him, sitting on his lap and holding his bleeding heart in your hands, never letting go—you’ll be okay.
“You know,” He sucks your lower lip into his mouth, you whine lowly. Dean should really get you off the dirty curb and into your room. “I demand a redo in the whole Mister Mechanic thing. That wasn’t fair.”
You giggle breathlessly, your clothed crotch rubbing against his lower stomach. Dean grips the back of your thighs hard enough to bruise. “I still can’t believe you freaked out so bad.”
“I can.” He leaves featherlike kisses down your neck, already obsessed with the way you squirm in his arms. “Look at you, of course I freaked out. Still, I’m ready for it now.”
“Calm down, cowboy. Patience is a virtue, and we have plenty of time for that.”
“Do we?” He reaches the hollow of your throat, lips sliding lower over your tanktop, the fabric now translucent and sticking to your skin with perspiration. “Because I might have a list of things I want to try.”
“Of course you do, horndog.” Your mouth hovers over his ear, making his eyes flutter shut. “We can try whatever you want. I’m yours, De. I’ve been yours for a while.”
“That’s a dangerous offer, baby girl.” His hands find your ass, fondling the tender flesh before he squeezes, making your pretty cunt grind against his torso again. “You’d really let me do anything I want to you?”
“It’s—A-ahh. It’s that 3W-gene. You could charm me into anything.”
Dean chuckles, low and husky, still guiding your hips down on his.
“You’re really obsessed with that.”
Your lips brush the shell of his ear, gnawing on his lobe before you whisper. “What can I say, I want my kids to have it. Though it’d be good to dial back on the bad luck.”
Dean’s brain stopped working after kids. Your kids, with his genes, because they’d be both your kids. You, carrying his baby. Him, putting a baby in you.
“That’s it.”
With a guttural growl, Dean jumps to his feet, taking you with him. You shriek when he throws you over his shoulder, nails clawing at his sides and feet flailing in the air. He smacks your ass once, a warning to stay still. You bite down on his lower back in revenge.
Thankfully, you’d left your room’s door open. Dean kicks it shut behind him and makes sure to lock it before he throws you onto the bed, crawling over your giggling form and shutting you up with his tongue.
Baby’s keys get thrown somewhere on the floor when he kicks off his jeans, Dean doesn’t bother picking them up. He doesn’t plan on leaving this room any time soon.
Suicidal husbands can wait, Dean’s been waiting for too damn long.
Now, when you whisper filthy words in his ear that make his cock weep, he doesn’t feel scared anymore.
The door he thought didn’t exist at all swings wide open, and Dean will never be terrified again for as long as you hold the key to it.
NOTES: this literally originated from me and my cousin talking about genetic mutations to adapt to different environments. you can tell why i'm a virgin loser. I MISS THIS FICTIONAL MAN SO BAD.
my classes have been cancelled because we're snowed in, so I had time to finish and edit this quicker than I expected. YAY!
anyway, thank you sm for reading, and I love you all!!! mwah<3
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OH MY GODDD I AM IN LOVE
THIS IS SO AMAZING!!!
