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Return to Me || Part 2

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader

Summary: When you return to the small town of Salida, Colorado after 12 years, your reason brings you back to the ranch you couldn’t wait to leave, and to the boy you never wanted to see again. Well, Dean Winchester is a man now, and despite your best efforts, you aren’t immune to the pull of his charms, or the darker secrets of his world.

AN: Welcome back! Reader and Dean have a long (drunken) heart-to-heart in this one…and maybe a lot more than that. (Whoops. 🫣)

Tags & Warnings: 18+ | Modern Cowboy!AU, romance, childhood friends, exes to lovers, angst, jealousy, cheating, smut (nipple play, f. receiving oral, doggy style) | Reader and Dean aren’t perfect.

ᝰ.Word Count: 5.6k || Posted on Patreon: July 24, 2026

♬ Series Playlist: YouTube || Spotify

🌹Now Playing: “One Last Night” ⟢ Vaults (Chapter title from "Edge of the Earth" by The Beaches)

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Part 2: Too Close to the Heat

Even a funeral reception is a lively affair at the Winchester Ranch. Tonight, it’s held in a patch of mostly even land between the main house and the barn, facing Mt. Antero.

Aspens sway gently behind the picnic tables as laughter rings out into the night sky. You marvel at the clusters of stars dotted there like freckles, while you sip a cold beer down at the end of the table.

The ranch hands tell stories about Bobby that you’ve never heard, like the time he got tossed out of the corral by a two-year-old colt he was trying to break. Or the time he damn near burned off his thumb because the guys wanted to do some fireworks last year for the 4th of July. A sparkler almost hit the barn and his cabin.

For you, all this is more bitter than sweet. These men clearly knew your father better than you.

John's famous barbecue pit spins the mouthwatering smells of smoked meats. The tables are lined up and filled with buttery cornbread, potatoes done three different ways (mashed, roasted, and casseroled), salads, slaw, carrots and corn, wild rice, homemade dinner rolls and garlic bread, and no less than five different flavors of pie. You spy Dean tucking into his third slice of cherry. Evidently, it’s still his favorite. A piece of pastry crust flecks from his lower lip as he jumps in with an old story.

“So I’m maybe…twelve, thirteen. Bobby’s trying to show me how to fix this patch of barbed wire fence. Because I’m young and stupid, I get it in my head to jump over it while the wire’s slack,” Dean starts.

Sam and couple of the cowboys, Benny and Cas, are already smirking, chuckling a little, shaking their heads. They’ve definitely heard this one before, and this time, you have too. A smile curves your lips behind the rim of your glass of whiskey and Coke.

“I make it over, but my leg gets caught in the slack, and I just go down hard, eating the damn dirt,” Dean says. He mimes the impact of his body hitting the ground, complete with admittedly impressive sound effects. “But now the wire’s tight. Rips through my jeans, my ankle, blood soaking through. But, uh, Bobby calms me down, you know. He takes out his tool belt, and he says, ‘It’s all right, son. That’s why God made pliers, for idjits like you.’”

Laughter ripples across the table. Even John smiles, shaking his head.

“Well, he cleaned me up best he could and helped me back up on my horse,” Dean says. His grin is warm, and his gaze spans far beyond his beer. “Dad didn’t even have to lecture me. You remember what you said?”

John nods in amusement. “‘Your own body’s gonna do the punishing for me, son.’”

“Right. My ankle was busted for three weeks. Couldn’t ride, couldn’t do shit,” Dean says with a chuckle. “And it was summer too.”

At least he didn’t have to go to school, but for a boy like Dean, being cooped up in the house was three weeks of misery. All he could do was watch from his bedroom window while you and Sam ran off to ride your bikes in town or go swimming in the river.

He looks down toward the end of the table, wanting to see if you remember those days like he does. What he finds is your empty seat. His eyes run a search—and eventually catch you making your way over to the barn. His brows furrow in confusion, but as the conversation spins and Benny takes over the reminiscing, Dean gets up from the table, ignoring the little warning tug in his gut.

“Gonna get another beer,” he says.

But Sam’s perceptive gaze follows him. While you venture into the barn, Sam sees his brother’s projected path all too clearly.

The smell of horse makes you gag a little, but after you enter the barn and switch on the light, yet another wave of nostalgia blasts you in the face. You recognize that tack and tool shelf on the right-hand corner, and the rack of shotguns and rifles on the far left. You know these stalls, and you greet each of the horses like old friends, even though most of them are new ones.

You stop at one of the middle stalls on the right, clicking your tongue at an older horse. His coat is a deep coffee brown, dappled with white on his hindquarters.

“Dakota! Look at you, handsome.” You smile brightly. “Remember me?”

He blinks at you with those dark eyes, and he meanders a bit closer to the half door. You offer a loosely closed fist for him to inspect. When he does, you think it’s with some familiarity as he sniffs your hand all over. Or maybe he’s just smelling the apple pie glaze you licked off your finger earlier.

You laugh lightly and take a chance on petting the side of his neck. He lets you do it, a kind older statesman. Before you left, you had helped your dad break this horse in.

“He remembers you.”

You turn your head toward the door, flinching slightly in surprise. You didn’t even hear Dean come into the barn. His scuffed boots cross the distance leading him to you. Dark wash jeans and a black buttoned-down shirt are probably the extent of his cleaning up for the occasion, but the ensemble does suit him better than a proper suit would.

“It all looks the same,” you say quietly.

“That’s because it is,” Dean replies. His lips pull at a smirk as he points to the tool shed. “Like that dusty back room where we used to make out.”

You roll your eyes, but you can’t help the way your gaze draws to his calloused hands and long fingers. Your cheeks begin to prickle with warmth, but you refocus on his face, and unfortunately, that familiar grin. You’re sure that face has gotten him plenty of action since then.

“You do remember I have a fiancé,” you say.

Dean nods, holding up a placating hand. It slips into his pocket as he leans against a support beam. “Yeah, you never said where that guy was today.”

“Working,” you reply defensively. “We’re in the middle of a big project, and we can’t afford to drop the ball.”

“You two work together?”

“Yeah, for his father’s company.”

“Doing what?”

You hesitate. It seems like Sam hasn’t spoken to Dean yet about the offer either, but in this case, you’re grateful for it.

“Land development. His father is co-CEO and head of the Legal team. I help scope out properties and propose new projects,” you say.

Dean quirks a brow. “Land development, huh? Not what I would’ve imagined.”

His tone annoys you, making you slightly more tense, but you’ve already had this argument with Sam. You don’t have to explain yourself to this man.

“It’s not what I thought I’d end up in either, but if you think it’s hard to be a rancher, try being able to pay rent in California. We’re all just trying to survive, Dean,” you say.

At that, he actually nods more sincerely.

“Guess that’s fair. But it looks like you’re more than surviving now. You’ve got a friggin’ golf ball on your finger,” he says, gesturing at you, and more specifically your engagement ring.

You roll your eyes. “It’s not that big.”

The way he snorts earns a reluctant smile from you.

“How long you known the guy?” Dean asks.

You give him a shrewd look. He’s very curious about your personal life, but you can’t deny that you’ve been wondering what the past 12 years have made of him.

“About eight months,” you reply.

His brows raise almost as high as his hairline. “Eight months? When did he pop the question?”

“…A few weeks ago,” you say, albeit with some hesitation. “What?”

Dean shakes his head. “Nothing, I guess. Whirlwind romance.”

“And what about you?” you counter, fighting a blush. “No girlfriend?”

Dean chuckles. “Oh, I have plenty of friends. Just no time for the whirlwind.”

“I’m sure,” you say wryly. “Things really don’t change much around here.”

It’s a touch snider than you mean it to be. You don’t actually want to pick another fight. Frankly, you don’t have the emotional energy.

But even though Dean gives you a certain look, to your surprise, he doesn’t want to snipe anymore either. He just sighs.

“All right, come on. There’s some of Bobby’s stuff that you might want to look through,” he says, ushering you to follow him.

You do so reluctantly, over to the Foreman’s cabin.

The Foreman wrangles the other ranch hands, and he’s the Ranch Manager’s second-in-command. Bobby held that position for 23 years, starting from back when John was managing all operations himself. You used to live in this cabin with your mom and dad, back when they were together. 

Dean would later take your virginity when you turned 18—in the glorified closet that used to be your bedroom.

At least he doesn’t bring up that little anecdote as he leads you to the small, four-seater dining table. It has a few boxes stacked on top of it, probably what’s left of your father’s belongings. The rest has been cleared out except for a couch, an old wood coffee table, a TV on a stand, and some supplies in the kitchen. There are some signs of life here though, like a half-drunk beer on the coffee table, an empty box of pizza on the kitchen counter, and some crumpled napkins. Dean notices your observing gaze.

“I’ve been hanging out here the past few days. Cleaning the place up took a while, but uh, sometimes it’s nice to get away from the main house,” he says.

“I could see why. Thirty-two and still living with your daddy,” you teasingly remark.

Dean shoots you an amused brow raise, but he brings the first box to the living room coffee table and slides it toward you.

“Take whatever you want. He doesn’t have any other family, so I’m not sure what to do with the rest,” he says, rubbing a hand at the back of his neck.

Throwing it away feels wrong, or so his tone says. You nod in agreement and start looking through the box. The first thing you find is a large bottle of gold label scotch.

“Wow,” you say.

“That’s on brand,” Dean says, with a smirk. He eyes you. “We should probably crack it open, in Bobby’s honor, of course.”

Your lips tug at a smile. You hand it over, and Dean twists off the cap to take a swig. He offers it back to you, and you accept it dubiously after sitting beside him on the couch.

“You know we’re not teenagers anymore, right?” you say, but you still sip straight from the bottle just like he did, grimacing at the burn down your throat.

“We gotta lubricate this trip down memory lane somehow,” he replies. 

You snort in response and dig back into the box for something else.

Dean’s phone buzzes in his pocket. He checks and sees a text from Sam, asking if he’s with you.

Yeah, we’re going through Bobby’s stuff. I can come help. No need. It’s not that much. …Dude. What’re you doing? What? We’re good. Just catching up. All of a sudden you two are civil? I guess. It’s no big deal. We’ll be back in a few minutes. Ok. Just…be smart about this.

Dean frowns, resenting what his brother is insinuating. He glances up at you.

You haven’t noticed his silent conflict. You’re just looking through old baseball cards and faded trucker hats, rusty tools and piles of weathered flannel.

By the time you get to the third box, over an hour has passed, the bottle of scotch is almost empty, and you’re laughing harder and freer at the stories about Bobby that Dean’s pulling out easier than the next object. You haven’t even noticed that his knee rests against your thigh, or that you occasionally grab his forearm when something he says makes you particularly giggly.

It’s kind of cute that you still do that, but he keeps that thought locked in deep. His smile starts to hurt the corners of his cheeks, though.

Eventually, what you find at the bottom of the last box hits you so hard behind the ribs that it steals your breath. It’s a picture of you and your mom when you were around seven years old: your first year in this cabin, on this ranch.

To you it had seemed like a fun adventure, and so much cooler than your little boring apartment in Salida. Here, there were horses and cows and Sunday barbecues hosted by John Winchester himself.

It was on one of those Sundays that you met Dean, with all those freckles dotted across the bridge of his nose and cheeks, and the purest kind of happiness in his green eyes while he ate a slice of peach cobbler with a scoop of melting homemade ice cream. You remember him setting his own plate aside for a while though, just to comfort his six-year-old brother when his ice cream rolled off the side of his bowl into the dirt. Dean ended up slotting his own ice cream into Sammy’s bowl.

Bobby clocked what happened out of the corner of his eye. In the end, he was the one to slip you and Dean an extra scoop.

Your dad didn’t miss much, at least back then.

“I don’t get it, you know,” you say, somewhat shakily. “When we were kids, Dad was my safe place. Sure, he was gruff and curmudgeonly sometimes, but he was gentle too. He always looked out for me. I understand that shit didn’t work out between him and Mom, but I did try calling him. Years of five-minute conversations that never went anywhere, because he had to get back to the ranch.”

Your lips tremble and you try to blink past the sting, but the dam is already full to bursting, and your walls are failing all over again.

Dean watches you, and he actually listens as his heart grows heavier.

“I was a student. For a long time, I couldn’t afford to fly back to Salida,” you admit. “But he never once came out to visit. He didn’t even go to my college graduation. He showed up to Mom’s funeral. That’s it. I had to call the cemetery, the church, arrange the burial. I had to figure it all out by myself. And I get it, she left him. But he didn’t have to leave me too.”

You press your fingers over your mouth, as if that can stop the hurt from spilling out. You find sympathy in Dean’s eyes, but he doesn’t do what you expect. He rifles through the same collection of memories and pulls out a thin, white box.

Inside is a thin silver chain necklace with a small rose pendant. He lets the chain fall into your hand.

“He was going to give you this at your graduation,” Dean says. “I only know because he was hella fucking drunk one night, and he told me.” 

You laugh a little through unshed tears. You marvel at the necklace; it’s simple, dainty even, but beautiful. 

“Your mom told him not to go,” Dean says, earning your soft shock. “He hadn’t helped you pay for college, so in her mind, he didn’t have a right to see you. At least, that’s what he said happened.” 

“What?” you frown, rubbing the small pendant between your fingers. “I…can’t believe she said that.”

You had a partial scholarship and a work study job, but you wouldn’t have gotten through college without your mom. Living in San Diego hadn’t been easy at first, financially, and your mother was a nurse. You still don’t know how she managed it, but she always came through for you when it was time to pay for the next semester, and even for your textbooks.

You understood that even a Foreman didn’t make a hefty salary. It was part of the reason your mom gave you for leaving your dad. She didn’t come from a ranching family, and she had never wanted to spend her life on a ranch either, let alone one that your parents didn’t own.

In her words, “It’s hard to build a life on someone else’s land.”

She told you that she wanted more for you, and more for herself. Bobby hadn’t been willing to leave Winchester Ranch.

“He was dedicated to it. In some ways it was admirable, but in others…” she’d said, with an edge of bitterness.

You never really understood it. You realize now that you hadn’t tried hard enough. 

“I didn’t care about the fucking money or who paid for what. I just wanted him to be there,” you quietly confess. “But I know that’s a two-way street. I wasn’t there for him either.”

You look up at Dean, meeting his gaze.

“You were right,” you say, as emotion begins to choke you. “He had a goddamn heart attack, and I would’ve never known.”

Your shoulders shake as the first sob wracks through your body, but you soon find warmth and a familiar comfort in Dean’s arms.

“Okay, sweetheart. Come ‘ere,” he says, as he holds you close. There’s something different in his voice. Deep and a little coarse, but gentler. It’s the anchor you need right now, and you cling to it. You cling to him.

“It’s not your fault, okay? Seems like Bobby made his choices too,” Dean says. 

He tucks your head under his chin and briefly closes his eyes as he strokes your back. He feels every hiccup and unsteady breath in you, feels your tears dampening his shirt. His lips press to the crown of your head. Your fingers tangle in the green flannel at his back.

As you begin to relax after crying yourself out, your curled fingers smooth out into warm hands that release his shirt, but ultimately don’t move far, laid flat against his chest. He brushes frizzy strands of hair away from your face and behind your ear. You slowly look up to meet his eyes, with tears clinging to your lashes. Your lipstick is smudged, but you’re still a wonder to him.

It may just be the booze, but he remembers exactly how this used to feel. It cracks open something he’s been paving over, brick by brick. Year after year. He didn’t think this was what it would take to see you again.  

“Jesus,” he murmurs, brushing your cheek with his thumb. “You’re still so fucking beautiful. More, even.”

Your mouth parts with a hint of surprise, and a telling intake of breath. Your lashes lower as your gaze falls—to his lips.

What the hell is this?

You pull away from him, gently guiding his hand down.

He feels the sting of rejection, but also, his shame.

“’M sorry,” he says, looking away.

“…Yeah,” you say eloquently. You feel a prickle of guilt yourself as you wipe your cheeks.

You push yourself off the couch, but your body doesn’t cooperate well. Hard liquor hasn’t been your poison for a hot minute, whiskey least of all. Clearly, it’s remained a favorite of Dean’s.

But he’s far more than a memory you can shove to the back of your mind, especially when he gets up with you—to hold you and stop you from falling. He looks into your eyes, and the conflict in his makes you morbidly curious. What you would give to know what he’s thinking. 

“Just tell me one thing,” he says. “Does he treat you right?”

You frown. “Excuse me?”

His brows raise in challenge. “Come on. Work is work, but how’s he not gonna at least show up here for you?”

It probably makes him some kind of hypocrite, and he fights the voice inside that tells him he’s an idiot. An asshole.

But all you give him is the soft bite of your words.

“Not that it’s any of your business, but like I told you, our jobs are demanding,” you reply, crossing your arms. “He can be very considerate.”

Dean quirks a wry smile. He glances down at that ring, oval-shaped and vintage, putting it mildly. It would look real nice on his Great Aunt Matilda.

“Yeah, with this, huh?” he says, grasping your left hand. “Tell me this is some kind of kooky family heirloom.”

You slip your hand out of his. “He found it at an estate sale.”

“Oh, I believe you,” Dean chuckles. He taps the humble pendant that now has a place above your heart, after he helped you figure out how to put on the necklace it belongs to. “That’s more your speed.”

“How would you know?” you retort, batting his finger off. “It’s been all this time, and you think you still know me?”

You really do walk away from him now, beelining toward the door…

Well, you would have. You will. But his audacity truly is monumental, and after how he treated you this morning, this really is too much for you to wrap your head around. It derails what would’ve been a highly justified storm-out, and compels you back to face him in frustration.

“What’re you trying to do, Dean, spin my head around?” you snap. “You’re the one who broke my heart first. You don’t even know how much you messed me up.”

The confession escapes you before you can cram it back in, shocking you as well as him.

But it’s true.

Years. It had taken you years to get over him, your best friend. Your first real love.

Dean’s amusement faded the more you spoke.

“I know,” he says. And the admission costs him. Under the layers of bravado, bitterness and hurt, there’s the truth. “I was a stupid kid back then, who didn’t know how to let you go.”

You shake your head in denial. Your heart hurts, probably because it never healed right the first time.

“That’s bullshit,” you say. “You didn’t have to let me go. That was your choice.”

“Yeah, I did,” Dean says, with a newfound certainty that dims the light from his eyes. “You had a life ahead of you, sweetheart. Mine was always gonna be on this ranch.”

For a moment, you’re stunned where you stand.

Until reason and doubt start to compete for new ground in your mind.

He’s still making excuses, you think. He could’ve come with you to college. You told him that then, and even if his father tried to nail his boots to the ground, Dean never even called you once after you left. Where was this apology when it would’ve mattered?

“Jesus Christ, Dean…”

You rub your forehead at the headache you already feel coming on. You’re probably drunk, in fairness.

“Why are you telling me all this now?” you ask.

He sighs and rakes a hand through his hair, then rubs his eyes as well.

“Good question,” he chuckles slightly. He sobers when he meets your eyes again. “You told the truth today at the funeral. It’s only fair I give you the same courtesy.”

“Courtesy. Is that what this is?” you challenge.

“It’s an apology,” he says. “And uh, it’s goodbye, stranger, I guess.”

“Goodbye,” you echo. Though you’re unable to stop yourself from glancing down at his lips again. Then back to his eyes, despite the glassiness in yours. A hitch in your breath. “I guess it is.”

Dean sees it, another spark of your tears. He still hates it, both selfishly and unselfishly.

He can’t help but try to give you the stability you need. First, by his slow attempt to hold you, brushing his thumbs against your arms. Your mouth parts, but you don’t pull away.

He bows his head and follows the deep-seated need in his gut, urging him to press his lips to yours.

You breathe in sharply through your nose, but your fingers clench in his shirt again, near his collar. Your body melts willingly against his, like a muscle memory you thought you lost.

Then, the brush of his tongue short-circuits your brain. His hand moves down to the small of your back and presses you into him, eliciting tingles down your spine, and a blooming, pulsing heat between your legs.

You whimper into his mouth, and his hold tightens a fraction.

You pull back for a moment, panting for air. Your eyes meet his incredulously.

He steels himself, waiting for a slap, or at least a push.

You don’t have it in yourself to give him either one. Your heart clenches painfully, because despite the guilt and shame you already feel, something inside you, deeply vulnerable and frayed, needs this.

You tell yourself it’s just one more kiss.

He meets you halfway when you lean up to claim his lips. He claims you back, his hands once again molding to your waist, his arms caging you in, his hand sinking into your hair.

One more turns into him backing you up against the wall. You grab onto his shoulders for leverage, then his hair as his lips veer away from yours to blaze a hot, wet trail down your neck. Your moan is perfect in his ear, rattling down his spine and right to his cock.

You feel him heavy and thick through his jeans, pressing against you. His hand slips up your thigh, squeezing plush flesh as he goes. He bunches the skirt of your dress up to your hips.

“Unzip me,” you tell him, through hushed tones and heated breaths.

Dean nods, turning you around and brushing your hair out of the way so he can drag the zipper down in a slow, torturous tease. His eyes drink in every inch of your skin, but there’s nothing sexier to him than the way you brush down the sleeves and slip out of the dress the rest of the way. The fabric falls around your ankles, and you step out of them in your tall heels. Dean gets the full view of your lace panties, then the matching bra when you turn back around.

He catches your little intake of breath, like you’re guarding yourself before he sees you. He smiles and pulls you back in by your waist.

“Like I said, fucking beautiful,” he says, his gaze roaming your face.

Your lips tug at a smile as you meet his stare, but he finally renders you without a snappy word to say. He takes that win and revels in it as he kisses you.

You touch him more confidently than he remembers, dragging your nails down the back of his neck, sucking his tongue into your mouth, down to grabbing onto his belt and popping the buckle open. He follows your lead and helps you loosen his belt and jeans, but his boots and your heels are the first to form a haphazard pile on the way into the bigger bedroom, where his spare sheets and an old comforter line the bed.

He wasn’t lying to you when he said he’s been staying over here for the past few days. Not only so that he could clean up, but because he needed to clear his own head. Bobby’s death shook everyone, but it hit Dean in a way he hadn’t expected. He hasn’t told anyone this, but it was like losing a second father.

It reminded Dean of his regrets—his biggest one of all being you.

Despite how it looks, he knows it’s wrong to touch you. He knows it’s selfish to want you. But he hasn’t allowed himself to want anything in such a long time, and he thinks he might be able to right some old wrongs while he’s busy committing new ones.

After he lays you on the bed underneath him, Dean kisses his way along the column of your throat, down between your breasts. He slips a hand underneath you to unhook the pretty lace bra, and your back arches, giving him room. 

You really have grown up beautifully, even your boobs. Good for you, and good for him. Dean recommits them to memory as his tongue lavishes one of your nipples, while his right hand rolls the other between his thumb and forefinger. You sigh his name and slip your fingers through his hair, scratching his scalp with your nails. But your fingers hook on his flannel next.

“Take this off,” you breathe. “Want to see you too.”

Dean hesitates, but concedes to taking off his outer flannel. His undershirt stays on, even though you tug on it next. He aims to distract you by moving further down your body, laying open-mouthed kisses down your ribs and stomach, and over your mound, after he slips off your panties. He glances up between your legs and shoots you a mischievous grin.

“I used to love the way you tasted,” he says. “Those little sounds you made, the way you’d buck against my chin and scream my name… Let’s see if we can rock another sequel, huh, sweetheart?” 

“Dean,” you gasp, as his fingers slip between the folds of your pussy. They find slick arousal and heat.

“Jesus,” he murmurs. “You’re soaking wet.”

He bites his lower lip as his thumb searches, then finds your clit. Your hips start to writhe as you moan, grinding against his hand. He smirks in satisfaction before he lowers down. He moves your left thigh over his shoulder, and he feasts.

Your mouth falls open in a near silent cry, and your hips nearly come off the bed as you feel his tongue replace his fingers on your clit. Those long digits slip inside your hot channel. Hunger pools in your lower belly as your inner walls clench on him, desperately needing friction. Your breaths deepen as your free hand goes to your breast, toying with a hard nipple while you savor the sensations Dean’s giving you with his mouth and skilled fingers.

He curls his fingers and strokes you deeply, searching, exploring, until he finds that most sensitive place within your inner walls that has your body shuddering like an accordion. You grab a fistful of his hair as you buck hard against his mouth, a choked scream falling from your lips.

After withdrawing his fingers and wiping his mouth and nose, he presses a kiss into your inner thigh as you still tremble with the aftershocks of your orgasm.

He moves back up your body, and you take his face in your hands to kiss him deeply.

“What’s the verdict?” he teases afterward.

“You’ve gotten better,” you admit.

You sit up, intending to return the favor as your hands roam down his chest and underneath his shirt. He feels toned from long hours of hard labor and horse riding, but he stills your hands from grasping at the edge of his shirt. You’re confused, but he quickly guides you into turning over in the bed.

He kneels behind you as his steady hands continue to map every inch of your body. He caresses your sides, across your middle, and back up to your breasts while he kisses along your neck, then down your shoulder. There’s more calm confidence in his touch than he had at 20 years old, certainly more strength and more callouses, but it’s a delicious friction. And it’s a feeling that he absolutely has you enveloped in his arms, within his broad frame. You hang onto him on reflex.

Two of his fingers dip back into your pussy, circling your clit. You hang onto his arm as your body gives way to a moan. Arousal begins to pulse deep inside you again, but this time, you need his cock. You want to know if he’s improved there too. He seems to remember your body well enough.

“Dean…just fuck me,” you whisper coarsely. “Please…”

Before I lose my nerve.

“I gotcha, sweetheart,” he says, in a voice like old scotch and honey. Its depths make prickles of heat flash across your skin as fabric rustles. You assume he’s finally stripping off the rest of his clothes. You catch a glimpse over your shoulder of him tossing his shirt and boxers to the floor, but soon, the heat of his presence returns as he lines himself up at your entrance. His cock finally pushing inside you from behind makes your thighs tremble. Your nails dig into the mattress sheets.

“Dean,” you gasp. He stretches you so fucking good.

“You’ve got it, baby. Every damn inch, doing so good,” he says, breathing hard into your neck. His teeth graze your shoulder, making you shudder and push into him on reflex, sheathing him nice and snug inside. Already the walls of your cunt tremble around his cock.

Dean keeps his promise; it’s dewy skin against skin as holds you to him while he fucks you, slow, deep, and powerful, but never painful. Never too much.

He asks you what you want—faster or slower, rougher, or easier rhythm. You tell him you want him exactly how he is: fucking perfect.

And that night, it is fucking perfect.

Almost.

Both of you have left your cell phones on the kitchen table. They’ve buzzed almost half a dozen times, each with text messages and a handful of calls.

Your little black dress collects dust on the floor along with his jeans and flannel.

In the morning, long after he should, Dean wakes up nice and easy.

He just ends up waking alone.

AN: 🫣 Sorry loll. If you think those twists were fun, then get ready for a whole messy love triangle when Brady re-enters from Stage Left. 😬 (And are you curious about Dean and reader's past?)

Next Time:

What have I done?

Okay, you were drunk, but not that drunk.

You were in pain. Reckless. Selfish.

Shame invades your body and settles into your heart. All you can do is slowly, silently slip out of the bed without disturbing Dean. After reclaiming your clothes from the dusty floor and getting dressed, you hold back tears as you try to leave the tangle of desire and old memories, both beautiful and painful, behind you in that room. All you take with you is your phone and the silver necklace you already wear.

Although you wait to put on your heels until you get outside the cabin, that big stretch of hill up ahead to the main house is daunting.

“Mornin’.”

Your head turns sharply at the voice. You shouldn’t be surprised that someone’s already up this early, let alone one of the ranch hands. Benny. He’s tall and broad, like Dean, though with reddish brown hair and a thicker beard. He’s already dressed for the day in jeans and a long-sleeved shirt, drinking his coffee as he leans against the bunkhouse wall. You nod back at him with an awkward smile. 

“How you plan to get up the hill in those pumps?” he asks.

You sigh. “I don’t.”

You’re about to execute the worst walk of shame you’ve ever done, but at least it’s only for an audience of one. You slip off the heels and let the ankle straps dangle from your fingers as you walk barefoot on wet, dewy earth, all the way back up to the house. 

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[spnwoman]

Ohhh my my my this chapter!!! I absolutely loooved her “reconnecting” with Dean so to speak! 😅That was just pure steamy, hot and oh so friggin sexy 🥵🥵🥵 now this has happened I’m really excited to read more and see how this all goes and unfolds and what happens! Love the storyline! Great writing as always my friend… now I need a cold shower 😅😅😂

[zepskies]

RETURN TO ME || Part 1

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader

Summary: When you return to the small town of Salida, Colorado after 12 years, your reason brings you back to the ranch you couldn’t wait to leave, and to the boy you never wanted to see again. Well, Dean Winchester is a man now, and despite your best efforts, you aren’t immune to the pull of his charms, or the darker secrets of his world.

AN: Here we go! Finally, I’m very excited to bring you the first chapter of Return to Me—and another healthy serving of Cowboy!Dean. 🤠 This will be rooted in the romance of course, but there will be plenty of family drama (and secrets) in store. 😘

Tags & Warnings: Modern Cowboy!AU, romance, childhood friends, exes to lovers (eventually), angst, jealousy; background Sam x Jess

ᝰ.Word Count: 7k || Posted on Patreon: July 19, 2026

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Part 1: Sweet Home, Colorado

The Winchester Ranch spans over 100,000 acres of Colorado state land.

It’s firmly wedged between a 2,900 square-foot ski resort in Breckenridge and the overcrowded, skyrocketing cost of living in Colorado Springs. A few dusty roads from those cities wind into grasslands and veiny rivers—into national forests and mountains, with thinner air leading into the clouds. 

This is the flyover land that tourists and coastal city transplants almost never see. This is the land that investment companies and development firms rake with their greedy eyes and their clients’ venture capital, but don’t actually want to know what it takes to survive in it.

Jack Kline is going to learn that lesson soon.

At 19 years old, all he has is a high school diploma and his mother’s medical bills. He sits in what he thinks is the drawing room, on the edge of an old chair that’s lost its cushion. He teeters on its unsteady back leg, not knowing that the wood he sits on is 50 years old. And that’s 80 years shy of how old this two-story ranch house is—built by John Winchester’s grandfather and his family.

John’s eldest son and Ranch Manager, Dean, sits on the brown leather couch across from his candidate for a new ranch hand. He glosses over Jack’s résumé with a skeptical eye, rubbing his chin that audibly prickles with stubble.

“I know I don’t really have much experience with farming,” Jack says, scratching the back of his head nervously.

“Cattle ranching,” Dean corrects. “And no, looks like you don’t have any. A part-time shift at the local McD’s doesn’t exactly have transferrable skills for this job. Unless you count slinging McFlurries and shoveling horseshit as the same thing.”

He glances on the back of the résumé, but the page is blank. There’s not much to the front of it either.

“Can you ride, at least?” he asks.

Jack blinks. “Uh…ride what?”

Dean’s expression flattens. “On a fucking ranch, what do you think? A horse.”

“Oh! Um…I rode a pony for my birthday when I was five,” Jack says.

Dean’s eye nearly twitches.

“But I mean, I’ll learn fast! And I’ll work hard,” Jack promises, leaning forward in his seat. “You’ll see! I’ll do whatever you need me to do. I just…I need a steady job. Full-time.”

Dean hears the thread of desperation underneath the earnestness. He sees it in the kid’s eyes.

“I take it there’s a story there,” he says.

Jack nods, his gaze falling to his hands as they curl anxiously against his jean-clad thighs.

“My mom. She’s um, not doing well,” he says.

Dean’s brows furrow, just slightly. “She’s sick?”

“Multiple sclerosis. MS," Jack replies. "She’s had it my whole life, but it started getting worse a few months ago and…she can’t work anymore.”

Dean nods, heaving another sigh. His father told him to find a new ranch hand to replace Bobby—someone young and strong who doesn’t mind getting paid on the lean side.

Jack Kline is desperate enough, but what he has is a fresh face, soft hands, and no business being on a ranch. He’s no Bobby Singer, not by a fucking long shot. But it’s hard to turn down the kid with the sick mom. It’s been even harder to find someone willing to work these days. Dean has come up empty for a week.

“Well,” he drawls, bringing himself to his feet. Jack follows suit. “I can give you full-time and steady, but just know that what we do here isn’t easy or glamorous. It’s long hours and hard fucking work.”

Jack brightens. “Does that mean I got the job?”

“Yeah, you can start tomorrow.”

Dean offers the younger man his hand. Jack shakes it all too enthusiastically.

“Thank you. Thank you, Mr. Winchester—”

“Just call me Dean. When I introduce you to the guys tomorrow, it’s sir,” Dean says. “We start early, so there’s a spot for you in the bunkhouse. Bring what you can fit in a duffel, and make sure that includes a hat.”

Jack easily agrees, all too fucking excited to muck out stalls, fix fences, and live in a glorified cabin with six other men. Dean shakes his head in amusement to watch him go. His younger brother Sam enters the house just as Jack is leaving, and they briefly acknowledge each other on the pass.

Sam raises a brow at his brother as he shuts the door, then takes off his suit blazer. He works for a law firm in town—the only law firm in town.

“New cowboy?” he asks.

“Not really, but we’ll make him one,” Dean says, tossing the résumé on a nearby coffee table. “You’re home early.”

“I need to follow up on some things for the funeral,” Sam says. He follows his brother into the kitchen and watches him open the fridge, looking for the iced tea. “I called her, by the way. She’s coming tomorrow.”

Dean pauses. Head tilts. Slow nod.

He hadn’t taken it all that well when Sam mentioned that they should reach out to you, but in his brother’s words, it was only right. Even if you and Bobby had been estranged after your parents’ divorce, he was still your father. You deserved to know that he died.

“Well, at least she shows up for his fucking funeral,” Dean says, shaking his head. “Classy.”

Sam watches him reach for a beer instead of the iced tea.

“People leave town and make a life, Dean. Doesn’t make her a bad person,” Sam reasons. “Did Bobby try to stay in touch with her?”

Dean shrugs. “Couple times, I think. It’s hard to compete with shiny beaches, bullshit traffic, and oat milk lattes.”

Sam shakes his head in amusement. “It’s been a long time. She’s probably changed. So have you, you know. You think you can let go of the past and be an adult about this?”

Dean shoots him some side-eye as he cracks his beer open.

“Yeah, you’re right,” he says, taking a swig. “California probably ruined her.”

Sam’s lips press together. Bitch face: Activated.

“I went to California too, if you remember,” he says. He went to Stanford University on a full ride. You went to the University of San Diego, two years before him. In some ways, you gave him the courage to live the life he wanted too.

“But you came back,” Dean says, tipping his beer toward him. “And it didn’t take you twelve years to do it.” 

“There’s probably more than one good reason she didn’t,” Sam says, just as pointedly. 

Dean’s jaw clenches, but rather than dig deeper into the shades and shadows of the past, he just leaves his brother and heads out back toward the barn. Like their dad always says, the work never fucking fails on a ranch.

A loud thwack startles you into a flinch. You’ve already claimed the left side of the hotel bed, trying to unpack your suitcase. You frown and crane your neck over your shoulder.

“Babe, what’re you doing?”

“Another fucking spider,” Brady grouses from the bathroom. “This Holiday Inn lacks basic hygiene, let alone amenities.”

He comes out a bit overdressed for dinner in his pressed slacks and black buttoned-down shirt. His hair is well coiffed with a bit of mousse. You don’t have the heart to tell him that the most upscale restaurant around here serves previously frozen seafood and chili on spaghetti. Even your blouse and pants will stick out in a sea of flannel and cowboy hats.

This isn’t Denver, with its industrious hipster vibes, or Breckenridge with its luxurious ski resorts. This is Salida, a tiny town in the middle of south-central Colorado.   

“Welcome to the Mountain West,” you tease, then focus back on sorting through your toiletries to make sure you didn’t miss anything while packing.

Toothbrush, floss, birth control—remember to start the new pack tonight. Moisturizer, cleanser, makeup remover wipes…

“We should’ve stayed up at my dad’s spot in Breckenridge,” Brady says. He slips in behind you, settling his hands on your hips as he punctuates his point with a kiss along your neck.

You smile and lean back into him. His arms wind around your waist, and his hand wraps around yours, toying with the shining ring on your left hand. You usually prefer silver, but he’d talked you into gold, as well as the weight of that diamond.

You’d been properly breathless when he first gave it to you, last month, but you did try to tell him it was too much. He knows you didn’t grow up like he did, where the seven grand he spent could’ve helped your parents put a downpayment on a house—one that they could've owned, rather than an old cabin on someone else’s ranch.

But Brady can be very convincing, even on whether a 1.75 carat engagement ring belongs on your finger.

“Consider it my promise that I’ll always give you the world,” he’d said. “I’ll give you everything you never had.”

It’s hard to argue with that, especially as a girl from a dusty-ass mountain town like Salida, who never imagined a man like Brady Weiss would offer her any part of the world.

“It wouldn’t make sense to stay up in Breckenridge when the ranch is only half an hour away from town,” you remind him.

Brady hums against your neck. You both stare out the window of your hotel room. Beyond the old Denny’s sign, there are miles and miles of grasslands that stretch ahead of the parallel roads. Your eyes trace over the violet shadows of mountain ranges in the distance. It’s familiar to you, an echo of memory that used to wrap around you like white noise. Like home. Now, you feel like the tourists your father used to make fun of.

“Salida,” Brady snorts. “You know that’s Spanish for exit, right?”

“Yeah. That’s why I couldn’t wait to get the hell out of here,” you say, with a sigh. “In some ways, being back here makes my skin crawl, but…it is quieter.”

“That’s called the death of civilization, honey.”

You snort in amusement. “It’s not that bad. Think of what this place could look like with just a little more infrastructure and a few coats of new paint.”

“I know,” he says, squeezing your hand. “That’s kind of why we’re here.”

“…Well, after the funeral tomorrow,” you say, as your amusement fades.

Anxiety and grief crawl from your stomach to your throat whenever you think about it. You’re grateful that Sam called you. You’re even looking forward to seeing him, but you also know what else is waiting for you at that godforsaken ranch.

“Yeah. The timing on that really is incredible,” Brady remarks. 

You stiffen in his arms. You turn to give him an incredulous look over your shoulder.

“You mean my dad’s death?” you say, extricating yourself from his arms. 

“Not like that,” he contritely replies. He follows you to the window, where you cross your arms at him. “I just mean…all right, I’m sorry. That came out wrong. I’m just saying, we’ll have an opportunity to speak to John Winchester face to face, tell him he has a new neighbor.”

Your frown deepens, for more than one reason.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea, Brady. It’s not the time—”

“It’s the perfect time. He won’t be as guarded,” he insists. “But we’ll be discreet about it, wait until the reception. I’ll just find a moment to pull him aside and float the offer. People around here appreciate the personal touch, don’t they?”

“Listen, I grew up around his family. I know him, okay?” you say. “He’s not going to appreciate having a new neighbor, and he’s not interested in any kind of offer from us, so we’ll have to play it very strategically.”

Brady quirks a grin. “Well, that’s my specialty, babe.”

You’re still not convinced. Before you can tell him that, his cell phone rings in his pocket. Seeing the caller ID, he quickly answers.

“Hello? Yes, sir, just got here a few hours ago.” Brady’s brows raise in surprise as he listens. “Oh really?”

You don’t have a good feeling about this.

“Okay, but we’re meant to be at the Winchester Ranch tomorrow—”

Brady pauses, cut off by the clipped voice on the line. You can’t hear very well, but you don’t have to. You heart begins to sink.

By the time Brady hangs up, looking at you with more sincere apology, you already know what’s coming.

“Dick arranged for some contractors to come out to the new development tomorrow,” he says. “I need to be there to oversee operations.”

“They can’t come out the day after tomorrow? Today’s Wednesday,” you say.

“The builder has other appointments on Friday,” Brady says. “Tomorrow’s all they have open, and we’re scoping out the entire plot of land.”

“Watch out for bears,” you say wryly. But the longer the sting of this settles inside you, the more hurt you feel. “So you’re really not coming with me to my father’s funeral?”

Brady steps in closer and grasps your arms, trying to placate you with comfort you’re too upset to accept.

“I’m sorry. You fucking know how Dick is, and my dad’s letting him test me with this job. This is the first time they’ve let me take point on a build. This needs to go well,” he reminds you, as if he hasn’t been telling you the same thing for the past few months. “And that means we need to move quickly on this if we’re going to break ground next month.”

“Fine,” you say, but you both know it’s anything but when you shrug out of his hold.

Brady stares after you with a sigh.

Jack Kline pulls his old pick-up truck to the ranch at 7:00 a.m. sharp the next morning. Dean’s already coming out of the barn after helping Cas and Benny feed and water the horses.

Dean sees Jack coming and directs him where to park, then shows him to the bunkhouse—a small building with faded white paint that’s chipping near the gutter, but the W brand is bolted to the east side facing the rising sun, the black wrought iron shining. The men make their way to on the gravel path that cuts through the grass.

“If the main house is up the hill, then who lives there?” Jack asks, pointing at the cabin just west of the approaching bunkhouse.

“The Foreman. He wrangles the men after I tell them what to wrangle,” Dean says. “Most of the guys are already out feeding the animals, but today’s, uh, a bit different. We have a funeral today out here on the ranch.”

Jack’s brows furrow. “Oh, I’m sorry. Who passed away?”

“The Foreman,” Dean replies.

He doesn’t give the kid any more information as he opens the door to the bunkhouse. He briefly points out the kitchen and shallow closet where the guys always keep the next case of beer handy, plus the living room area with a couch big enough for the narrow space, and a TV mounted on the wall. A six-seater round table separates the two rooms, but there’s also a small pool table in the far corner. Beyond that is the next room, where the bunks are.

Jack half expected literal bunk beds, but these are more like dorm room beds pushed against the wall, with space underneath and in between for storage. 

Only Walt and Kevin are still inside the bunkhouse, finishing up in the communal bathroom. The rest of the ranch hands have finished breakfast and are trying to get through the morning duties quickly, so they can clean up and help get things ready for all the guests coming to the ranch by 11:00 a.m.

When Dean introduces Jack, Kevin is the one who shakes the young man’s hand.

“All right, guys, you know what you need to do. Help Jack get situated too,” Dean says.

Walt gives him a nod. After the door swings shut behind Dean, Jack brings his duffel over to the bunks. He goes over to the closest one that looks free and sets his bag on it. After unzipping it, the first thing he takes out is his hat.

Walt grabs his Stetson off the wall and glances at the brown felt in Jack’s hands.

“What kinda fucking hat is that supposed to be?” Walt asks. He’s taller and broader than Jack, tanned and toned from long days under the sun.

Jack glances down at the flat, rounded hat his mom got him for his high school play in A Streetcar Named Desire.

“Um, it’s the only one I had,” he says.

Walt snorts. “Looks like a fucking fedora. Gonna give the cows a tap dance before you tickle their teats?”

He walks out of the bunkhouse, leaving Jack embarrassed and confused. 

“Are fedoras not allowed?” he asks Kevin.

Kevin grins in amusement. “Dude, anything would be better than that.”

Over in the main house, Sam has a year’s worth of data reports and financial documents splayed out across the head of the large dining table of polished rosewood. The spread lies between his father’s coffee mug and a small ashtray for the bud of last night’s cigar, but John has very little interest in what all those pages mean.

He sits leaning on one elbow, his hand half covering his salt and pepper beard as his younger son continues to prove his point.

“Just 30%,” Sam says. “After the rough winter we had last year, and the dry as hell summer we’re going through now, selling off 30% percent of the ranch will help make sure we actually survive next year, let alone make a profit.”

“We’ll find another way, son,” John says.

Stubborn.

“There is no other way. I’ve been telling you for three years,” Sam says. His frustration bleeds into not only his tone, but the curl of his fist on the table. “Back then, we actually had a good offer on the table. We could’ve leased out Pastures 3 and 4 to the Baileys. You do realize that property taxes have raised by 13%, not including the $55,000 tax exemption that expired two years ago.”

John doesn’t offer a rebuttal. He senses there’s more to this little tirade.

“That’s beside the fact that our operating costs have only increased. Dean’s cut as many corners as he can, but we’re barely breaking even, Dad,” Sam says.

“I’m sorry, son, I’m not selling,” John says. He glances out the window to the very land his father, grandfather, and grand uncles worked and cared for over damn near a century and half. “Your grandfather told me. Not an inch, son. Don’t let them take even an inch. Because once you start carving up the bird, everyone wants a piece of that bitch.”

Sam breathes a tense sigh. He’s heard that line his whole damn life.

“What other solutions do we have?” John asks.

Sam shakes his head as he runs through the spreadsheet on his laptop.

“Cutting a few ranch hands,” he says.

John frowns. “How many?”

Sam rubs his chin in thought, knowing Dean won’t like what he’s about to suggest. He can already hear the gravelly bitching.

The job’s fucking hard enough without being even more short-handed.

But something’s gotta give. Sam knows. He’s known for years. Being the ranch’s accountant as well as its lawyer isn’t for the weak, and neither his father nor his brother makes it any easier.

“Well, keep Jack. He’s young and his salary is cheap, but we may have to let go of Walt and Carter…maybe even Benny.” 

“No,” John says, shaking his head. “Those are seasoned guys. As it is, we’re up to our balls wading in the work.”

The older man taps his fingers on the table. To his credit, his days on the ranch are almost as long and hard as Dean’s are, even though John gave him the managerial reins a few years ago.

“You’re thinking like a businessman and a lawyer,” John says, “but you also need to understand this place as a rancher too.”

“I do understand. But it’s a good thing for you that I’m not a rancher, because I see the fact that we’re not adapting. We’re failing. Ranches and farms all over the country are failing,” Sam says. “Hell, Grandpa Samuel sold the Campbell Ranch and moved to North Carolina! Already the land developers are coming in. They’re putting up banners all around the land. It’s a build site now.”

“A fucking shame,” John says. His voice is laden with regret that he couldn’t afford to help his in-laws. “Your mother must be turning in her grave.”

The mention of Mary Winchester always strikes a solemn note in the room. Today is no exception.

After a moment, Sam considers the email in his inbox from just last night. There’s a voicemail waiting for him on his cell too.

“We got a similar offer,” Sam says. “From the developer, Roman & Weiss Group. Pastures 3 through 6 border their land on the west, by the river. If we sell even just that piece, they’re willing to pay double what it’s worth. If we sell the entire ranch, they’ll cover the closing costs.” 

John quirks a humorless smile and finally pushes away from the table. 

“I’m burying my old friend today,” he says. “So, you can tell that developer where they can stick their fucking offer.”

Every mile of hot asphalt and wheat grass that tears by is an increasing increment of nostalgia. Every mile away from Salida brings you closer to distant mountains, as well as the Winchester Ranch.

You drive yourself there in a rental car. Within a half hour, you’re pulling up under the shade of Gambel oaks and aspen trees on the paved driveway. Wide, gray stones form a path up to the front door, not easy to navigate in your heels. Once you make it to the porch, you take a steadying breath, adjust the skirt of your dress and your hair, and take off your sunglasses before you knock.

Sam answers the door. He smiles gently at you, giving you a hug that feels like home. You hug him back, fighting the sting of tears in your eyes. He looks good in a black suit and thin pinstripe tie.

“God, you’re not that skinny kid anymore,” you laugh as you blink past that sting. “And you’re almost as tall as the door! Jesus.”

Sam just laughs. “Yeah, well, you grew up too. You look great.”

You smile, though you bite your lip when he gestures at the ring on your left hand with a surprised, raised brow.

“Somehow you forgot to mention that,” he says, with a quirking grin. “Congratulations.”

“Thank you,” you reply. “It’s um…new. He asked me last month.”

“Good guy?” Sam asks, as he welcomes you inside the house.

You’re still shouldering some upset over last night, and the fact that your fiancé couldn’t be here to brace you through this day, in this place. Even so, you manage to smile at the question.

“I’ve never met anyone like him,” you admit.

But the thought dies as you take in the familiar walls of the Winchester family home. Wood panels meet tasteful crème and earthy, rustic accents. Your gaze follows the wind of the staircase, up to the second floor where you take in the sight of a new rod iron chandelier casting a warm glow down to the ground floor.

What draws your eye next is the family picture hanging in the living room. Mary was still alive there, beautiful and smiling with baby Sam in her arms. Dean was only four, standing beside her with John’s hand on his shoulder. If you remember right, the break-in happened just a few months after that picture was taken.

John’s voice almost startles you when he comes in from down the hall. You remember that his office is back there, across from the kitchen. He also wears a black suit with his scuffed cowboy boots, a little less refined than Sam, but bringing an undeniable presence into the room.

You tense on instinct, more guarded with the Winchester patriarch.

“It’s been a long time,” he says, giving you a nod.

“It has,” you agree, though the pleasantries end there.

Sam notices, with a slight raise of his brow.

“Thank you for doing all the arrangements for my father, even the cremation,” you say to both men, as you begin to take out your phone from where it’s lodged in your clutch purse. “What do I owe you?”

John waves a dismissive hand. “Don’t worry about that. We take care of our own.”

Your mouth opens, but it closes shortly after. You think he meant it to be kind, but you can’t help but think there’s something back-handed underneath.

The rough budge of a back door disrupts not only your thoughts, but remakes the tension in the room, like holding an inevitable breath. Heavy boots clomp into the living room and soon reveal a man in red flannel and jeans.

Well, formerly red flannel.

“What the hell happened to you?” Sam asks, his brows furrowed as he leans away from the rancid funk his brother just brought in.

Dean stops short when he notices you standing between his father and brother like the fox that got caught in the hen house. A fox who smells like French perfume and grew into her curves.

Meanwhile, Dean wipes at the mud on his cheek, inspects his fingers with a grimace, then wipes them on his already soiled jeans.

“A goddamn heifer kindly dragged me through her own shit for trying to untangle her from a fence,” he says.

You cover your nose with a look of disgust. “Definitely smells like it.”

Dean shoots you a wry glance, but he allows himself to take a longer look at you then—from your high heels, black dress, and that little purse under your arm, to your red lipstick, and lastly, the fat, shining ring on your finger. 

“Congratulations,” he says placidly, gesturing at your hand. 

You offer a curt nod. “Thank you.”

You want to take satisfaction in his reaction, but you can’t really tell what the hell he’s thinking. You’re struggling to reconcile the fact that this is really Dean Winchester. Last time you saw him, you were just 18 years old. He was barely 20, clean shaven and only slightly less wiry than his younger brother.

Of course, 12 years is a long time. He’s taller, broader, the cut of his jaw dusted with roguish stubble, his voice steeped in bourbon and molasses. His hair is a little darker too, but that could also be the…mud. 

Dean stabs a thumb toward the driveway. “That your man’s Mercedes out front?” 

“It’s a rental,” you say. Though you can’t help but add, “Brady drives a Lexus.” 

“Brady, huh?” Dean nods in amusement. “And what does Mr. Lexus do?” 

“He’s a lawyer,” you say, trying to rein in your annoyance. 

Dean snorts. “Fucking figures.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” you snip.

Even Sam gets slightly offended at that. He shoots his brother a warning look, one that Dean ignores.

“I just think it’s interesting that the guy’s not here with you at your dad’s funeral,” he remarks. Then he shrugs. “Then again, you wouldn’t even know about what happened to Bobby if it weren’t for Sam ringing you up. You know what, if it was up to me, I wouldn’t have interrupted your life. Clearly you’ve got more important things going on, since I doubt you’ve spoken to the man in…what, a few years? Ten? Stop me when I hit the number.”

“Dean,” Sam intervenes. 

John gives his eldest a firm look, especially as he sees you bubbling with outrage. But unlike Dean, you have some fucking decorum. You try to remind yourself that you’re a guest here, even if one of the residents is still a Grade A: Asshole.

“You know what, maybe I’d take that little zinger more seriously if you weren’t covered in literal shit, cowboy,” you retort. 

Dean smirks. “Yeah, well, at least this is all natural. You stink like L.A.” 

He actually savors that wide-eyed look of disbelief and anger on your face as he heads upstairs to his room, tracking mud and wet grass all the while. His first stop is the shower. 

Sam and John stare after him in disapproval.

“I’m sorry about that,” Sam says to you.

“On a day like today, he should know better,” John adds.

Your lips press into a hard line, otherwise you’re not sure what might escape. 

“You want something to drink before we head down to the field?” Sam asks. 

He’s the only man in his family who knows how to be a good host, it seems.

“A glass of wine would be good,” you say tightly. 

“Ah…” Sam pauses, sharing a look with his father.

“We’ve got beer and hard liquor, sweetheart. That’s about it,” John says.

You nearly roll your eyes. You anticipated this—the little digs, their silent judgement, maybe even their laughter. Because driving a nice car and asking for a glass of wine is so damn laughable around here.

“Water then, please,” you snap. “Sparkling if you have it, or a bottle. Not the tap water these cowboys wash their asses with.”

You can’t stand this house, or this town. You resolve to at least break free of this room. Your heels clack loudly all the way back to the front door.

Dean hears the slam all the way from his room upstairs.

Sam steels himself before he follows you outside. He finds you on the porch, with an agitated set to your frame as you pace back and forth with your hands on your hips. You pause when you notice him, but you don’t even know what to say to him. You’ve never smoked in your life, and yet, you suddenly crave a cigarette. You blame the whole seeing your ex bit.

“Somehow, that’s better than I saw it going,” Sam remarks.

“I knew I shouldn’t have come here,” you mutter.

“I’m glad you did,” Sam says. He hangs out with you against the porch railing, allowing the brief summer breeze to wash a little peace over him. It washes over you too, quelling some of your temper as you stare out to the ranch, the trees, the mountains beyond.

“It even smells the same,” you say, taking in a deeper breath. “Clear. Like earth and rain, even though it’s dry.”

The longer you stand still, the more than Dean’s acidic words corrode through the protective walls you erected in your mind in preparation for this day. Guilt seeps in through the cracks as you glance over at Sam.

“I am sorry we lost touch, you and me. It should’ve been easier when you got to Cali,” you say.

You’d grown up on this ranch since you were seven years old. There was a time that the only friends you knew were the Winchester boys. Until his older brother broke your heart.

A memory pierces through you, a reminder. Thunder rolling overhead, rain soaking through gray flannel as you shut the door in his face…

Maybe you broke his heart too. But you still don’t think you deserve whatever the hell that was in the house.

“I know how hard it was for you, after what happened back then,” Sam says, only half succeeding at pulling you back into the present.

“No,” you say, with a wry tug of your lips. “You really don’t know.” 

He hesitates, but he concedes that with a short nod.

“Well, regardless, it’s good see you, even if this isn’t the only reason you’re here,” he says, eying you knowingly.

Your mouth parts in surprise, but really, you shouldn’t be. You’d had a feeling Brady was working from his phone at dinner last night.

“I got an email from a Brady Weiss. His father’s company wants to buy a portion of our ranch,” Sam says. “I’m assuming that’s your fiancé. I also looked up your LinkedIn. You work for them too.” 

You bite the inside of your lip. Despite what Brady told you about what you should do to further the plan, you hadn’t wanted to bring this up here. However, this is just too perfect of an opportunity.

“Have you talked to John about the offer yet?” you ask.

“He’s never gonna go for it. You know that,” Sam replies, with a sigh of frustration. “No matter what I tell him, he’s stubborn. But he’d definitely never sell to a developer like Roman & Weiss.”

“All we’re aiming to do here is build more homes,” you say. “You know how overcrowded Denver and Colorado Springs are, even Boulder and Breckenridge. Not to mention, the home shortage here is only getting worse.” 

“Roman & Weiss hasn’t made its money in developing affordable housing,” Sam counters. “It’s just another land-grabbing machine. They probably want to turn my grandfather’s century-old farm into luxury condos and hotels—or maybe even another ski resort, if they can get a cut of the national park. I’m frankly surprised you’re part of it. You majored in Environmental Studies.”

“And Business,” you correct. The University of San Diego wasn’t Stanford, but that double major had put you through your paces, and it hadn’t been cheap.

“This is a big opportunity for me, Sam,” you continue, your voice edged with defensiveness. “I want to help build something that will last, but obviously I don’t want people to keep being priced out of their own neighborhoods. That’s why I proposed affordable housing for this build, and they heard me out! They actually respected my proposal, and I’ve worked hard for that respect—not through Brady, but from my own merit. So, I don’t appreciate you or your brother for judging me.”

You wish you could just storm off in a new direction, like back to your car, and back to the hotel. Hell, you’d like to get on a plane and go back to California, where your life and your decisions aren’t being picked apart from all angles.

Instead, you head back inside the house in search of whatever decent refreshment you can find in this place.

Within the hour, John drives you, Sam, and a freshly showered Dean in an ATV all the way to the funeral site. Sam provides the buffer by sitting in between you and Dean, but the ride is silent with tension.

Already there are several cars lined up on the other side of the fence that borders the west side of the ranch. A crowd is congregated among the rows of foldout chairs, near the river that cuts straight through the land. You know it well.

Your sunglasses are in back place, so you’re able to keep your head raised and ignore the stares of faces you recognize, faces you don’t know, and the ones who seem to know who you are, just by whatever gossip has probably been running the rumor mill already. Your parents’ divorce had been the talk of the town in the weeks before you left it. Even though people probably forgot about you while you were gone, they sure remember you now.

You pause when you reach a small plastic table with a framed picture of your father beside his urn.

Robert Singer

Husband, Father & Friend

You linger there for a moment, even when you sense Dean pass behind you. Out of the corner of your eye, you watch him choose to sit on the edge of the aisle next to his father. You eventually take a seat on the opposite end of the row, next to Sam and the beautiful blonde he introduces to you as his girlfriend, Jess. She offers you a comforting squeeze of your shoulder as well as her condolences.

“You probably don’t remember me, but I was in Sam’s class back in high school,” she says.

That’s when it hits you—a bolt of recognition that makes you smile.

“Jessica Moore! I do remember,” you say, giving her a hug. “We’ll have to catch up later.”

She agrees, then takes her seat on Sam’s other side. You lean toward him and flash a discreet thumbs up.

“Good for you, Sammy,” you tease in a whisper. “I guess the nerd sometimes does get the cheerleader in real life.”

He glances at you wryly. “It’s Sam.”

You smirk. Payback is fun. “Dude, I saw you run naked into that river on a dare when you were nine. You’ll always be Sammy to me.”

He rolls his eyes, but it ends on a smile.

However, you’re reminded of the gravity of this moment when John stands and moves to the front of the crowd, asking everyone to be seated. He doesn’t need a microphone. His voice travels across the field, somber and deep like the base of Mount Antero framing him from behind.

“I’ve been to more funerals than I have weddings or christenings,” John says. He glances at the urn, and at the framed picture beside him. “Never did I think I’d be here, speaking at yours.”

He looks out toward the crowd. “I count these faces, and I know them all. Just like the man we’re here to speak on was known to all of us. To some of you, he was just the town drunk. To many of you, he was the man who’d tow your truck or put on your spare, even while he was chastising you for getting yourself in the ditch to begin with.”

Laughter bubbles in the crowd. You had frowned at the town drunk part, but some people laughed at that too, like it was the truth. You don’t have any memory of your dad being drunk—not in the house, and not when he and the other guys in the bunkhouse went out to the bar. Maybe that part hadn’t started until after you and your mom left Salida.

You’ve never felt like more of an outsider than you do right now.

“To me, he was a friend,” John continues. “A man I could trust. A man I counted on to help me work this land and care for the animals, so we could feed this town and other ones like it. He helped me raise horses, birth breach calves, and do cattle runs across state lines. Bobby Singer was a work horse who did what he did until the day he died, and that kind of end is all that men like us can hope for. We don’t often get the Hallmark ending or the Hollywood blaze of glory. This is what cowboying is today, and what most of America never sees.”

He sighs. “That said, I think he’d appreciate his daughter saying a few words.”

You raise your head at that, surprised and a bit alarmed. You didn’t know you’d be asked to speak. You haven’t prepared anything.

But you know you can’t say no when a hundred pairs of eyes are staring at you and watching your reaction, even Sam. He gives you an encouraging nod and a gentle hand on your back. Your insides tremble with nerves, but you force yourself to stand. Slowly you make your way to the front, where John waits for you. It’s difficult in your heels as they tend to sink into the earth with every step, but he gives you a nod before he reclaims his seat beside Dean.

You clear your throat, trying to find your words. You stare out at all these dusty cowboys, John’s ranch hands, and people from town. You could try to get through this with something brief and a goodbye, Dad, but you have a feeling they'll see right through you.

What's more, you don't really know how you feel until you start talking.

“Many of you know I haven’t been back here in a while,” you say. “My parents divorced when I was eighteen, right before I left for college. My mom…she died four years ago after a long battle with breast cancer. That was the last time I spoke to my dad.”

Tears collect in your eyes, blurring your vision. Your hand comes up to cover your trembling lips, but it can’t stop the overflow. Despite your best efforts, what escapes is the truth.

“I resented him, probably for things that weren’t all his fault. I let that dig a little too deep, I think. He may not have been a perfect man, but he was a good man,” you say, sniffling. Your gaze falls to your folded hands in front of you. “I mean, you all know that, or else all of you wouldn’t be here. But standing here now, there are things I regret. I regret that I didn’t get to say goodbye. I regret the time we wasted in between, even though it’s too late to change that. Nothing I say can ever change that, but…I hope he can forgive me.”

When you allow yourself to look up, the only face you see is Dean’s. His gaze locks with yours, and he nods, as if in support.

You don’t know if that's really what it means, but somehow, you’re able to move the rest of your body again. You break from that intense, unknowable forest within his irises, and you try to make it back to your seat. Your hands shake with so much more than nerves.

Your heel wobbles in a patch of wet grass, but someone steadies a hand on your back and grabs your arm before you fall over. A gasp falls from your lips at Dean’s proximity, and the gentle strength of his hold.

His gaze meets yours again. In that brief pause, there’s an entire world suspended. The sun spins its rays through his hair and lashes, and you find flecks of gold in the green of his eyes, along with a gentler look on his face.

You nod at him in a silent thank you.

He and Sam help you sit down.

Later, after others finish speaking, Dean included, John gives you the honor of sprinkling Bobby’s ashes into the river. It’s the same one that you, Sam, and Dean used to play in when you were kids.

“Dad taught us how to swim here,” you say softly. It earns both Sam and Dean’s attention.

“You almost drowned me here,” Dean remarks.

You glance over at him, finding another hint of his smile. It’s teasing, not mocking.

You relax a bit and manage to find a smile too.

“You lived.”

AN: Aaand we're off! I'm sorry that Bobby's been killed off at the start here, but already the pieces are in play with our three childhood friends, reader, Sam, and Dean. You can expect quite a few flashbacks in the future. 😉❤️

What did you think about the setup of our main conflicts here—Brady's engagement to reader, and his little sales offer for John? We've got a fair bit of drama and a big twist coming soon in Part 2...

Next Time:

You didn’t even hear Dean come into the barn. His scuffed boots cross the distance leading him to you. Dark wash jeans and a black buttoned-down shirt are probably the extent of his cleaning up for the occasion, but the ensemble does suit him better than a proper suit would.

“It all looks the same,” you say quietly.

“That’s because it is,” Dean replies. His lips pull at a smirk as he points to the tool shed. “Like that dusty back room where we used to make out.”

You roll your eyes, but you can’t help the way your gaze draws to his calloused hands and long fingers. Your cheeks begin to prickle with warmth, but you refocus on his face, and unfortunately, that familiar grin. You’re sure that face has gotten him plenty of action since then.

“You do remember I have a fiancé,” you say.

Dean nods, holding up a placating hand. It slips into his pocket as he leans against a support beam. “Yeah, you never said where that guy was today.”

“Working,” you reply defensively. “We’re in the middle of a big project, and we can’t afford to drop the ball.”

“You two work together?”

“Yeah, for his father’s company.”

“Doing what?”

You hesitate. It seems like Sam hasn’t spoken to Dean yet about the offer either, but in this case, you’re grateful for it.

🌹 Read Part 2 now on Patreon!

ᯓ✍🏽 Coming to Tumblr: August 9

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@luci-in-trenchcoats @waynes-multiverse @lamentationsofalonelypotato @chevroletdean @deans-spinster-witch

@jollyhunter @bettystonewell @supernotnatural2005 @roseblue373 @rizlowwritessortof

@wvffles @lyarr24 @ladysparkles78 @spnfamily-j2 @pieandmonsters

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@mimaria420 @megara0224 @globetrotter28 @illicithallways @castielscaplan

[spnwoman]

Oh wow!! I absolutely loved this! I must say I had some major feels when she spoke about bobby and her regret not to come back sooner 😢

Brady oh boy…. I just get a feeling this is gonna be real interesting with the company they work for wanting to buy up some of the Winchester land!😬🤦🏼‍♀️

And Sam how u write him is exactly how he is! I loooove it! Sam tries to be on both sides and talks to both sides, trys to keep the cool he’s a good seed that one! 👌🏻

I’m so excited to see how this series goes! Loving it my friend!!! 👌🏻😄😄 great work as always!!!❤️

[zepskies]

RETURN TO ME || Series Masterlist

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader

Summary: Just outside the small town of Salida, Colorado, the Winchester Ranch spans from the forests and mountains of Antero to the frosty edges of Breckenridge. John Winchester isn’t about to concede his family legacy to anyone who comes to take it, but he’s sure trained his sons to protect it—with their own sets of skills.

When you return to Salida after 12 years, your reason brings you back to the ranch you couldn’t wait to leave, and to the boy you never wanted to see again. Well, Dean Winchester is a man now, and despite your best efforts, you aren’t immune to the pull of his charms, or the darker secrets of his world.

AN: Ready for some more Cowboy!Dean? 🤠❤️ Imagine Yellowstone meets Sweet Home Alabama, set in the Colorado mountains!

Supporting Cast: Sam Winchester, John Winchester, Jessica Moore (Jess), Castiel (Cas), Benny Lafitte, Brady (Weiss), Jack Kline, Kevin Tran, Dick Roman, and more character cameos as well as new OCs along the way

Series Tags & Warnings: 18+ || Modern Cowboy!AU, romance, exes to lovers, smut, angst and messy drama (reader and Dean aren't perfect), jealousy, violence and death, family secrets, and more chapter-specific tags || background Sam x Jess and other pairings

🎬 Series Playlist Poster

♬ YouTube Playlist | Spotify Playlist

"How far will you go? You should know, you'll be on my mind..."

℧🌹 Chapters:

1: Sweet Home, Colorado ℧ Read now on Patreon! || Tumblr: August 2

2: Too Close to the Heat 🌹 Read now on Patreon! || Tumblr: August 9

3: Nature, Nurture, Heaven & Home ℧ Read now on Patreon! || Tumblr: August 16

4: My Diamond is Too Rough 🌹 Read on Patreon: August 7 || Tumblr: August 23

5: Time Bent Like an Hourglass

6: Word Gets Out When You Get Around

7: Every Moment's a Crime

8: What We Said and What We Meant

9: Hear Your Heart Beat Next to Mine

10: Wait for the River to Roll

11: Pay No Mind to the Battles You've Won

12: It'll Take a Lot More Than Words & Guns

13: It's a High Price, Paid in Blood

l4: The Roots Through Southern Ground

15: Brave the Forests, Brave the Stone

16: Sunshine on the Water

ᯓ✍🏽 Series coming soon in August!

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Dean Winchester Series List

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Dean Winchester Tag List (Part 1):

@luci-in-trenchcoats @waynes-multiverse @lamentationsofalonelypotato @chevroletdean @deans-spinster-witch

@jollyhunter @bettystonewell @supernotnatural2005 @roseblue373 @rizlowwritessortof

@wvffles @lyarr24 @ladysparkles78 @spnfamily-j2 @pieandmonsters

@hobby27 @kazsrm67 @foxyjwls007 @mostlymarvelgirl @jensensswthrt

@winchestergirl2 @spnbabe67 @stoneyggirl2 @my-stories-vault @this-is-me19

@tofics @artemys-ackles @mrsjenniferwinchester @charmed-asylum @flawlesslyspellbound

@k-slla @jackles010378 @deanbrainrotwritings @alwaystiredandconfused @rachiem4-blog

@leigh70 @aylacavebear @midnightmadwoman @twinkleinadiamondsky @kmc1989

@siampie @masked-lost-girl @suckitands33 @cheynovak @spnaquakindgdom

@mimaria420 @megara0224 @globetrotter28 @illicithallways @castielscaplan

[zepskies]

Get ready, Sam and Dean are riding in soon in Part 1! 😘🤠

⟢ And Parts 1-3 are now available to read ahead on Patreon!

[spnwoman]

This series is soooooo good everyone!! Have already read a few chapters on her Patreon and I’m already hooked!! 🤠🤠

[luci-in-trenchcoats]

Imagine...Life After Hunting

Pairing: Daddy!Dean x reader

Keep reading

[spnwoman]

Awwww this was so sweet!! Loved reading some family life for them! So cute!!❤️❤️

[luci-in-trenchcoats]

The Reaper (Part 1)

Summary: Covered in blood and sat in mob boss Dean Winchester's office was not how the reader planned on spending her Saturday night. But things are not as they appear...

Pairing: Mafia boss!Dean x reader

Word Count: 2,100ish

Warnings: language, mentions of blood/murder/kidnapping/dismemberment, implied child abuse, threats of violence, all the usual mafia things

A/N: Trying a little something new out. I might continue this if there's interest. Please enjoy!...

You smoothed out your bloody skirt out of habit. Why your brain was worried about wrinkles when the fabric was ruined was beyond you. Just one of those nervous ticks your mother would sigh at you about your entire childhood. 

Stop fidgeting. Sit up straight. Cross your ankles. For heaven’s sake, at least pretend to smile.

If only she could see you now. 

Your whole body flinched when the door of the ornate wood office you sat in opened. You didn’t bother to stand. Civility was out the door tonight. The blood staining your hands was proof enough of that.

The door thudded shut behind you, your eyes locked on the roaring fireplace before you. Flames danced in the dim space before a light flickered on from somewhere behind you, most likely the one on the large mahogany desk in the center of the room. 

Your back was ramrod straight at the very least. Maybe your mother was looking down at you with a smile for that.

Hell, who were you kidding. She was looking up. Knowing her, she’d made friends with the demons and was working on charming the devil himself.

Your body was perched on the edge of the cognac brown leather couch, barely sitting on the cushion, poised for…something. To flee? To fight? To accept death?

Why was your neck suddenly itchy? 

Oh, right. The dried blood. 

You absently scratched at it, heart stopping when footsteps echoed off the hardwoods, making the way from the grand rug over in your direction. You breathed slowly, feeling the man’s gaze on your back. The footsteps fell away, the distinctive sound of a record catching behind you. 

Rita Hayworth’s voice filled the air, breath catching. 

Put the blame on mame, boy.

Your visitor said nothing, just let the sound play through. Once. Twice. Three times. 

What the fuck was this person getting at? Put the blame on…but you did it. There was nothing else to…

Footsteps sounded again, heart in your throat as they continued closer this time. Hands rested on the back of your shoulders, not gripping them but simply…resting there.

“It’s almost insulting really. You, not having a clue what you were doing, slitting Harrison Blackburn’s throat like it’s your fuckin’ day job. You put my boys to shame. They tell me they ain’t never seen something so ruthless out of someone so…innocent. I should put you on the payroll.”

Ah. That explains why two burly men picked you up, blood still wet and sticky, shoving you in the back of a car and driving you straight to a massive estate in River Forest. This guy was in the mob too and if he was happy about Harrison’s death then that meant one thing.

Winchester.

“Is that why I’m here? To join the crew?” The man didn’t laugh at the bad joke, simply removed his hands from behind you. He stalked around the right side, into your field of vision. You swallowed thickly at the man in the suit before you.

Harrison had been handsome, your fatal flaw for ever getting involved with him right there, but this man? 

Oh, this man could turn a saint into a sinner with nothing more than a flirty smile.

“Dean Winchester.” Oldest son. He walked over to a matching leather chair off to the side, taking a seat, a glass of dark amber liquid in his hand. He held it out to you, an offer, and you gracefully took it, Dean not seeming to care that your blood stained hand touched his.

You sipped down the burning drink, unsure if it was a whiskey, a scotch or whatever the hell it was. All you knew was if you were about to be killed by Dean Winchester, you wanted to be drunk for it. You threw back the rest of the glass, Dean’s eyes flaring wide for a split second.

“That’s a sipping whiskey, sweetheart. Burns even the hardiest of men. You’re full of surprises.”

“It’s been a day,” you said, handing him back the glass. He hummed as he took it, setting it aside on a end table.

“That it has. So. To what atrocity did your beloved commit to be met with a grisly fate at your delicate hands? Surely you knew who Harrison was.”

“Not until it was too late. You don’t exactly get to break up with a mobster’s son. You just hope they get bored of you.” Dean licked his lips, narrowing his eyes.

“And yet…seems you were the one to end the relationship after all. What changed? Cheat one too many times? Force himself on you? Beat you so badly you had to hide inside for weeks?” Dean leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “What made you snap?”

“He was making plans to kidnap a child. One of the rival families. Was going to send the boy back in pieces. He was proud of himself, proud of how happy his father was with his planned brutality.” Dean watched you cautiously, sitting up straight. “Only the truly evil hurt children.”

“So you slayed the demon,” said Dean, looking you up and down. “It was my cousin.”

“What?” Dean nodded. 

“My cousin, Jack. He’s about four, cute as a button. We found out and I was planning on making Harrison pay deeply. You want to fuck with the grown ups, with the men, fine. But you leave the women and kids out of it. End of story. Blackburn crossed a line. The only thing I didn’t know was Senior was all for it. That’s an injustice that still needs to be corrected.”

You stared at him, Dean running a hand over his mouth, slumping back into his chair. 

“I didn’t want him to die that quickly.”

“I stabbed his dick too if that makes you feel better.” Dean smirked, tilting his head.

“It does to a degree. But now I have a conundrum.” You made fists with your hands, Dean spotting the movement. “You did me a favor, not for any personal gain but simply to protect a kid. I respect that. Greatly.”

“But.” He smiled, almost sad like.

“But as far as anyone knows, my men killed Harrison in retaliation for the planned kidnapping and murder. You, you are just Harrison Blackburn’s girl that we grabbed.”

“So un-grab me.” Dean cocked his head, shaking it. “Why not?”

“Because daddy Blackburn sees you as part of the family. The daughter he never had. You and Harrison were engaged. No, no. I hold a valuable card with you, sweetheart.”

You swallowed, closing your eyes. “You’re saying…you’re saying I did you a massive fucking favor and my reward is to be kidnapped by you?”

“Kidnapped is such a mean word,” said Dean, shaking his head. “Think of it as an involuntary stay at a sprawling estate where your every want and desire will be fulfilled until such time as the Blackburn family empire has come crumbling down. I’ll give you more than enough money where you never have to work or depend on a man again once it’s through. I’ll leven relocate you to a place of your choosing.”

“The Blackburns have been in the mob since 1893,” you growled.

“So only some fifty odd years. Bound to fall apart sometime soon,” said Dean, standing up with a smile. You finally stood, Dean eyeing you up and down. Blood spatter on your face. Jacket and blouse soaked. Blue skirt stained almost black and tar like. “I can treat you like a princess or a prisoner. Your choice.”

“Senior doesn’t give two shits about me and we both know it.” You lifted your chin, narrowing your eyes. “So what the fuck do you really want with me?”

“Such a nasty mouth on such a proper appearing lady,” Dean snickered. “One might think you were raised in the gutter. Tell me, why would I, leader of the Winchester family, want you? If not for ransom or leverage, then what?”

“I’m done with this.” You stalked around the coffee table, Dean easily shifting and walking around the chair, nonchalantly blocking your path to the office doors. “You saw what happened to the last guy that fucked with me. Move.”

“Baby, there’s nothing more that I’d love than to…fuck,” he let the word linger, eyes raking up and down your body, “With you. But you killed a boss’ son. I let you go, Blackburn will find you and torture you and this place will seem like heaven compared to the twisted games he’d play with you. If he was so willing to let a child suffer, imagine what he’d do to you?”

“I’ll leave Chicago.” Dean shook his head. “Yes, I-”

“The Winchesters are indebted to you.” Dean stepped once, twice, closer until he was in your space, staring you down with a smirk. “We repay our debts. You will be protected until it is safe. No exceptions.”

“Why do you even care?” He reached up a hand, stroking over your jaw, catching your chin between this thumb and forefinger. 

“Someone will come escort you to your new quarters so you can wash. Feel free to roam the house and grounds.” He dropped his hand and walked past you to his desk, refilling his glass with more liquor. “You’re dismissed. Wait.”

You peered over your shoulder, Dean’s green eyes dark, predator like. It made you shiver, his subtle warmth from before gone.

“It does make a man think…what are the odds that Harrison meets his demise by another the same night I was planning to end his life?” Dean carried his glass over, swinging it back in full like you had, gritting his teeth through the pain. “Not even a tremble during the act. Just…brutally efficient.”

You swallowed and faced forward, Dean pressing up behind you, leaning in, ghost of his breath caressing your ear.

“Almost like…it wasn’t the first time. Reaper.”

Your stomach dropped, body rigid as stone. Dean chuckled softly behind you. 

“Unfortunate for you I have a source inside Blackburn’s organization. He’s always known his son was psychotic which is why he hired you, to keep an eye on the schmuck. Senior was outraged at the thought of his son going after a child. Senior ordered the hit on Harrison. How am I doing so far, sweetheart?”

You kept your mouth shut, Dean humming.

“And all the while, he gets to blame it on a mugging gone wrong, a rival family taking out his second born. Doesn’t matter. Senior took care of a problem and you just…float on away back into the shadows like you do. Until she’s called upon again by some criminal socialite to do the dirty work of the mob or the police or a scorned ex-wife. You’re a dangerous woman, Y/N Y/L/N. You were so close to getting away with it, with me believing your little story. Problem is, Senior knows the rules. He’s a bastard but a respectable one. No women. No kids. That man would never be proud of his son for going outside the bounds.”

You stared dead ahead, forcing your body to stay steady. “So you caught Reaper. I’m done with the foreplay. Kill me already, Mr. Winchester.”

“You’ve done nothing to me. Why would I kill you? Your reputation precedes you. Vixen of death. Reaper of souls. The smile that sends evil to hell. Quite impressive for a murderess to have such a strong moral code. Never the innocent, only the cruel.” Dean walked around you, tilting his head with that dark smile again. “I can’t just let someone like you with your…skills…walk away. Now that you’ve moved on from New York and LA to make Chicago your new hunting ground, I can’t let you wander about. Not until we can trust one another and trust takes time.”

You shook your head. “You’re afraid someone will hire me to kill you. Or kill some corrupt player that’s important to your organization.” Dean hummed. You licked your lips, tasting the hint of iron, flashing Dean a dark smile of your own. “You’d be better off killing me. Letting me wander about, keeping me caged…never know what kind of secrets I might find out about you, Mr. Winchester. Because that hit? Oh, I’ll do that one for free.”

“So that’s a no on the working for me thing.” You feigned a pout, quickly narrowing your eyes. Dean laughed quietly, eyeing you up and down. “You’ll change your mind eventually.”

“Careful there, Icarus. You don’t want to play with this fire.” Dean gave you a look that said he very much did. You rolled your eyes, bumping into him hard as you went for the office door.

“Breakfast is served at eight,” he said and you could just hear the smile in his voice. “Goodnight, Reaper.”

“You’re going to regret this, Winchester.”

A/N: So, what did you think? Would you like to see more? 👀

[spnwoman]

Ohhhhhh oh my yes! More more more pretty please!! I’m very intrigued and definitely wanted to read more!! Loving the storyline idea!

[justjensenanddean]

Jensen Ackles as Soldier Boy | The Boys Season 5 Promotional Photos

[zepskies]

One Good Try

Pairing: Mark Meachum x Reader

Summary: You’ve opened the door. Mark has to decide if it’s worth walking through. But your father, his boss and division captain, isn’t making it any easier to date you.

AN: Thank you so much to everyone who shared lovely reblogs/comments on 30 Days or Less! This takes place directly after Pedal Down, so you might want to give that one a quick reread (it’s short lol) 😉

Posted on Patreon: June 5, 2026 || Word Count: 10.5K

Tags & Warnings: 18+ | Smut (male and female receiving oral, penetrative sex, doggy style, etc.), Mark being a Distinguished Expert of many talents lol, early relationship feels and uncertainty, family dynamics, some angst, jealousy, fluff, and more

🎵 Series Playlist: YouTube || Spotify

▶️ Now Playing: “Get it Right the First Time” by Billy Joel

⊹ Series Masterlist

You had a shadow trailing you as you stepped through the heavy doors of your apartment building that night.

He followed you right into the elevator. Your breathing hitched, just slightly, when his hands became a warm weight along the curve of your waist. Your mouth tugged at a smile though. You pressed the #3 button, ensuring that the doors closed the two of you in before you allowed yourself to lean back into his embrace.

“Third floor, huh? I like that,” Mark said.

His beard rasped along your neck as he pressed a kiss there. He smelled like dulce de leche churros from the Mexican restaurant he took you to—like caramel, cinnamon sugar, and Patrón. You would never admit to melting a little more, your head tilting with a sigh as you braced yourself against the elevator wall.

You needed the stability.

“Why’s that?” you asked.

“Safer than the ground floor,” he said, humming in pleasure as he inhaled your perfume. “That’s nice. What’s that, Burberry?”

“Yves Saint Laurent,” you replied, smiling harder, trying not to. 

“Fancy,” he murmured against your skin. 

“It was a birthday gift.”

He wondered if your ex, Sergeant Perfect, was the one to get it for you. But he realized that it didn’t matter. Mark had a hold of you now, and he didn’t feel inclined to let go.

His presence still burned at your back when you stopped to unlock the door of unit 315. You led him inside, where he took in the small, but breathable surroundings of your apartment. It opened up right into the living room, with the dining room and kitchen to the far right, and a narrow hall straight ahead.

“Hmm, nice place,” he remarked, but he was soon distracted by your grasping hands guiding him down to you by his jacket, with you leaning up to catch him in a heated kiss. He fell into the pull of you all too willingly. He held you flush against him, letting his hands wander down your back. He squeezed the plush of your ass and groaned at the give. 

Meanwhile, your fingers were running through his hair, but they clenched tight on reflex when he bent down to grab you up by your thighs. A squeal escaped you, accompanied by a rare giggle once you realized what he was doing. His answering grin was cocky and familiar, but you just grabbed his face and plundered his mouth—a sensuous duet of lips and tongue, but fraught with a thrilling heat.

You helped him shrug out of his jacket first, then yours. They created their own pile on your living room floor before he walked you through your apartment. 

“Which way?” he asked. He didn’t give a fuck if you said bedroom, closet, or bathroom tub. He’d make it work. 

“First left,” you panted. 

He held onto you impressively with one arm to open the door, finding the one and only bedroom. Of course he had plans of his own when he plopped you down on the edge of the bed, but as you discovered, it put you at the perfect level to unbuckle his belt. He stripped off his shirt from the back of his collar, a sleeve almost catching on his watch in his haste.

He helped you with your silky little blouse next. His eyes darkened at the sight of your black lace bra holding up your perfect tits. He could already tell they’d give him a nice handful each.

He had to marvel at the way you popped open the button on his jeans and worked them down so readily. He supposed he shouldn’t have had any doubts about your intentions after your behavior in the car, with that little two-finger tap dance across his inner thigh that almost made him crash into a Yield sign.

But there was teasing, and then there was taking his hard cock in your mouth, where you were warm and wet and salivating like you couldn’t wait to choke on it.

His body almost buckled. “Jesus…”

His hand flew to your shoulder, then into your hair, tangling tight around the strands as you worked him into deep and smooth strokes. Already you were doing your goddamn best.

His jeans and boxers were barely halfway down his legs, coiled somewhere around his knees. You pushed them down a little more, so your free hand had more room to slide even further back, gently cupping and massaging his balls. A shuttered groan was knocked out of him at the sensation. But it was a steely resolve that kept his hips to a minimal rocking to try and match your rhythm, instead of bucking hard into your mouth and choking you for real. His fingers did tighten in your hair though, making you wince.

Your lips tightened on his shaft as you slowly pulled back, with purpose, sucking the pearling precum out of the head of his dick. His stomach muscles clenched as half a shudder went through him. His heart pattered like a steel drum in his chest.

“Fuck, sweetheart, have a little mercy,” he chuckled roughly.

Your smile was cheeky at best, devious at worst.

“What? Don’t tell me you’re flagging already,” you said.

Mark raised a brow. He would be remiss if he didn’t take you up on that little challenge. With a hmph, as he helped you back up to your feet, just so he could lure you into a devouring kiss. It was pure heat as he held you flush against him, your pretty lace bra scraping against his chest. But it was also distraction, allowing him to maneuver you where he wanted you on the bed: breathless on your back.

He kicked off his remaining clothes, though he prided himself on remembering a condom you gave him from his wallet, soon discarded again with his jeans. He shook the little foil packet at you in amusement before he fitted himself with its contents.

But he had to stop short once he helped you peel off your jeans. A slow smirk took control of his face when he fingered the familiar hem of your panties, silky and violet.

“These look even sexier now than the day we met,” he teased. “Nice of you to model ‘em for me.”

“I thought you might appreciate that,” you said, rubbing his arms as he climbed back up your body to kiss you. His arms were a cage you didn’t want to escape; you arched against his chest so he could successfully fiddle with your bra, yanking the clasps open with a practiced hand. You tried not to think of exactly how much practice, or let your brain fall back into overthinking, like wondering if he was serious about more than just wanting you.

You couldn’t deny that you wanted him too. Maybe tonight, that was enough.

The way he was kissing and sucking your tits was certainly good enough. His teeth grazed the firm peaks, making you moan and grab onto his hair tightly, your thighs wrapping around his hips. The rigid length of him pressed against your clothed pussy with blinding friction. It had him painfully, distractingly hard, but the way your knees squeezed his hips reminded him that he had work to do.

He kissed his way from your breasts down past your navel, where your legs spread wider, enough to accommodate his broad shoulders. His hand smoothly traveled up your thigh and squeezed soft flesh. Your breathing deepened just in anticipation as his lips blazed a trail along the inside of your knee, your thigh, nipping with teeth just shy of your pussy.

“Mark,” you gasped, laughing a little. “Jesus…”

“Oh, don’t flinch now, baby. We’re just getting started,” he said. And thumbed at the darkened wet spot through your panties.

His smile was incorrigible, but worse was the way he slowly dragged your panties down your thighs. Once they reached as far as they would go without him moving out of the way, he yanked the flimsy silk, making your mouth drop open in shock and your heart stutter. The fabric burned and your pussy throbbed with another flood of arousal.

He pacified you with his fingers slipping through the slick mess of your folds and quickly finding your clit. Your hips raised somewhat off the bed as you breathed into the delicious pleasure. Your hand came up over your head to grab onto your pillow, your other hand fisting the sheets.

“Good angle?” he teased.

“You’re gonna buy me new panties,” you uttered, but your sultry moan only stroked his ego.

“Hell, I’ll buy you a whole matching set,” he said, “long as I get a live preview.”

He grabbed another pillow to wedge underneath your hips, as if preparing you on a platter for his next meal.

Then he dove in, finally making better use of his mouth by tongue-stroking your clit. His fingers worked themselves inside your aching channel, then curling those long digits inside your inner walls. He hummed low in pleasure at the taste of you, making you blush and tangle your fingers back into his silky hair instead of the sheets. You felt the deep vibration of his voice against your clit, and it had you seeing brittle stars.

Mark was nothing if not a puzzle-solver, a true analyst, trying to figure out which angle you responded to more, which side of your clit was more sensitive, what kind of pressure would have only his name on your lips as you fell apart.

He knew he found it when your nails raked across his scalp, your body shuddering against him as you uttered a broken cry. “Mark.”

“That’s right, baby, come all fucking over me,” he muttered. But his fingers slipped out of you, so that he could grab your thighs and rip the pillow from underneath you. Just like the fucking panties, it was now in his goddamn way.

His cock sunk into you while you were still tinging from your first orgasm. Hell, it still felt like you were coming. Or it could’ve been just the feeling of him stretching your inner walls as they fluttered around him, welcoming him inside.

“Jesus Christ,” you breathed, grasping onto his shoulders desperately.

He didn’t give you any time to recover. He started moving, a steady roll of his hips that stole your breath and had you clinging to his neck with biting nails and a dirty kiss. His breathing was labored too, but not because he was anywhere near done with you.

He grabbed onto the headboard and curled an arm around you, kissing you back hard enough to still taste cinnamon sugar and tequila.

“Harder,” you said against his lips, yanking on the longer strands of his hair for good measure.

A deep and guttural moan came from his throat. You really were his kind of woman.

But he still asked, “Fuck, you sure?”

You nodded, panting as you slipped your fingers through his hair.

“Yeah, make it fucking count,” you said.

He met your gaze, and for a moment, he didn’t even know what he saw in your eyes.

After another steamy kiss that knocked all coherent thought out of his head, and yours, he pulled out of you just to turn you over, guiding you onto your hands and knees. He realigned himself flush against your ass, giving both cheeks a firm squeeze as he sunk back inside you to the hilt. Your heady moan, and the way you squeezed on him on reentry, nearly undid him right there. Jesus fuck…

He slowly regained his rhythm and the leverage he had with a white-knuckle grip on the headboard. He held you to him too, heeding your guiding hand to squeeze one of your tits, rolling the sensitive bud of your nipple between his fingers. Your mouth fell open as your breaths fell out in time with his thrusts. Not hard enough to hurt, but enough to feel his power.

Your arms were shaking, even with his support. He let you sink forward and rest your forehead on your arms, with a needy whimper as it deepened the angle.

His cock pulsed a warning inside you. It was getting harder to wait for you to come with him, but he could feel your legs quaking, your inner walls tightening around his cock, sucking him in as you finally mounted the crest of a new wave.

“You almost there, baby?” he said, nodding to himself when all you could answer was a high moan. His hand tightened on your hip. “Yeah, I fucking feel it…”

He reached around and guided your hand down between your legs. “Play with yourself. Stroke that clit the same way I did with my fucking tongue.”

You nodded, rubbing your swollen clit with trembling fingers. Combined with the feeling of his cock hitting that most sensitive place inside, it was almost too much. But it was also just fucking right. Your vision flashed, a cry forcing itself from your lungs.

Grabbing a fist full of your hair for his own stability, Mark finally allowed himself to let go along with you. His ragged shout echoed sharply in the room as he spent himself into the condom. You shuddered against him, heaving for breath as you clawed back up the headboard. His fingers freed themselves from your hair to smooth it down instead. He held you to him without collapsing on you, leaning heavily on the bedframe instead. His arm shook.

He chuckled as he tried to regain his breath. “You okay?”

“Uh-huh,” you replied airily, squeezing his arm as your head rested on his shoulder. “Good job.”

Another laugh huffed out of him.

“That’s my line, sweetheart,” he said, pressing his lips to your neck.

You were nearly boneless as he lowered you back down to the bed. You felt the loss of his cock keenly when he withdrew. Jesus, he’s fucking big.

You slowly managed to turn on your side so you could see his face. You smiled, and you leaned in to kiss him. 

It was gentler than he expected, but it was nice.

You laid your head in the crook of his shoulder. His pointer and middle finger stroked your arm back and forth while you both just breathed and existed there. The low hum of the AC kicked on just in time. The ceiling fan occasionally clicked as it spun. Distant sirens. Quiet slipped into the spaces where heartbeats fell. Warm lamplight and stillness.

After a while, you turned your head and scooted back a little, so you could meet his eyes, see the dewy sheen across his forehead.

“Was I worth the wait?” you asked cheekily. 

Amusement curved his lips. “For that, I would’ve waited a goddamn year.” 

You burst out laughing. “You’re so full of shit.”

He smirked. But your mirth faded the longer you considered him. 

He clocked the shift. It was hard not to, when you were laid out right in front of him, your body bare, and a few more layers stripped back too.

“Now what’re you thinking?” he asked. “I can see your gears turning.”

You took a deep breath before you answered, reaching out to stroke his cheek. His beard prickled your fingertips.

“Wondering if you’re going to be the guy who dips out before goodnight, or at least stays for the morning sex,” you said. And actually calls me after…

He got to smiling again. “So far I like the sound of the overnight package.” 

You bit your lip against another laugh, shaking your head. Your hand fell to his chest, hesitating there.

Against all prior evidence, Mark defied your expectations by settling into your bed, into this. He kissed you slowly. 

You breathed into it and allowed it to settle inside you, even after he pulled back.

“I’m looking forward to waking you up in the morning,” he said.

Your small, pleased smile told him he made the right choice. 

The sun had climbed halfway up the sky by the time Mark kept his word and woke you. A slow Saturday morning of warm skin on skin, his mouth mapping every inch his hands had the night before. Your upstairs neighbor was going to remember Mark’s name, layered on the walls in lusty sighs and sharp gasps. 

But after a shared shower and a ham and egg scramble with some particularly delectable homemade sourdough, he started to get his things together to head home. A thought occurred to him as he grabbed his wallet from under your bed, along with his keys.

This was the longest he’d spent with a woman in over a year.

No more UC for a while.

Even before then, Mark knew his track record. But he wasn’t exactly itching to leave this time. Maybe it really had been too long since he had a night that fucking good.

Or maybe the prospect of going home to an empty apartment, with little else besides a case of beer and more case files, was losing its luster.

Regardless, Mark pushed past the reluctance in his steps as his keys jangled in his hand. 

You followed him to the door in your loose pajamas and wild, sexy bedhead. It had him contemplating another serving of you for the road, but he limited himself to a slow kiss goodbye.

“See you soon,” he said with smile. 

You gave him one back. “Be careful out there.”

He shot you a wink. “Always.”

You snorted. “Somehow I doubt that.”

After you spent an extra few seconds watching him head down the hall, you shut the door and locked it behind him. Your fingers went to your lips as you contemplated the night’s decisions, as well as the morning’s surprises—mainly his mouth, and the fact that he’d stayed even longer than sharing a cup of coffee with you.

You cooked him breakfast. You two talked and laughed and relived yesterday’s moment that Officer “Tight Ass” Vance pulled Mark over in the middle of the desert. Mark later used your lavender soap in the shower, teasing the bar down your spine before he fucked you against the tile wall. 

If you were honest, you were a little disappointed that he didn’t mention even the obligatory “let’s do this again sometime.” But you also knew better than to try and lock this man into anything. You gave him a chance to be more than what you expected, so now, you’d just have to wait and see if he’d take it.

You were just settling down on the couch with a book when your phone buzzed with a call. You smiled, and you answered. 

“Forget something?” you asked.

“Actually yeah,” Mark said on the line. “What’re you doing on Monday after work? I’ve already got an idea on where to take you on date number 2.” 

You were glad he couldn’t see how embarrassingly girlish your smile was. You’d probably have to smother his satisfied smirk—with any means necessary. 

“6:00 p.m. works for me,” you said.

You and Mark spent your Sundays very differently. You had brunch with Sarah and tidied up your apartment (as if you hadn’t done that overhaul the night before Mark came over). Afterward, you filled out a few more job applications while you were still waiting to hear back from the District Attorney’s office.

Meanwhile, Mark did his usual workout routine in the morning, followed by a protein bar breakfast and a nosedive back into his open cases from his work laptop. That was later accompanied by a frozen pizza and a couple of beers he un-crusted from the back of his fridge, before he passed out that night.

On Monday morning, he went in for work by 7:30 a.m. as usual. Already people were trickling into the bullpen of the Homicide division, and the Captain had his office door open. It was like he was waiting to hear Mark’s boots cross the threshold, because his gaze slid up and zeroed in on the detective.

“Meachum,” Dan called out.

Mark inhaled deeply. Here we fucking go.

 He dumped his work bag on his desk and made his way to the Captain’s office.

“Shut the door,” Dan said.

Mark obliged him, then followed the other man’s gesturing hand to sit in one of the free chairs in front of the desk.

“Something’s been brought to my attention, but I prefer to hear it from the horse’s mouth,” Dan began, folding his hands in front of him. “Now, man to man. Did you go against my direct order to stay away from my daughter?”

Mark quirked his head. “Well, news does get to you quick. Guess I gotta send Vance an Edible Arrangement or something.”

“Answer my question,” Dan said. He was calm, deceptively so.

Mark knew he was taking his ass into his hands, but he wasn’t lying to you when he said he respected your father. He wouldn’t lie now, especially because that wouldn’t help him with you in the long run.

“I don’t think I have to tell you that she has a mind of her own, sir,” he pointed out.

Dan snorted in response. Then, he took in a deep breath of contemplation. 

“You in particular have amassed a reputation in this office, both professionally and…socially. While you know damn well that I’ve gone to bat for you on the former, I usually don’t have the time or the patience to make another man’s personal business my business,” he said. “However, in this case, you better tread very carefully. She’s been burned before, and she doesn’t deserve it from you.”

Mark took in that last tidbit with a nod. “I understand, sir.”

When Dan was certain, at least for the moment, that Mark really did understand, he grabbed a few manilla folders off his desk. They were case files—thick ones.

“Hanson broke his damn foot playing pickleball with his kids over the weekend, but I trust you to pick up the slack on his cases,” Dan said, with a hint of satisfaction as he handed Mark the files. “Even if that means working overtime, maybe even a few double shifts over the next few weeks.”

A wry smile tugged at Mark’s lips. At least he’d be getting paid for it.  

“No problem, Cap.”

You loved to cook. You had a weakness for Top Chef and The Great British Bake-Off. You even had a secret dream of visiting all the Hells Kitchens in the world—even better if you got to see Gordon Ramsay lose his shit over a half-cooked rack of lamb.

But tonight, you and Sarah ordered in from your favorite Korean fried chicken spot in Oakland, getting (sugar) high on their strawberry lemonade and watching old episodes of Motel Hell. She updated you on her boyfriend’s new job while you finished making love to your last chicken wing. The honey garlic sauce was particularly fire tonight.

“It sounds like IT is a better fit for him than Sales,” you said.

“Yeah, comes with a bit of a pay cut, but it’s less soul sucking,” she said. “I just want him to be happy, but it probably means we have to downsize or rent out the second room.”

“Nooo, not my guest room,” you playfully complained. “Where am I gonna escape when Rachel tries to invade my apartment every time she has a fight with our parents.”

Sarah shook her head in amusement. “You’d think she just band up with Lauren or Yesenia and split an apartment.”

“That would mean paying the rest of her bills herself. But actually, you’ve got a good point. That would be good for her,” you said, slurping down the rest of your lemonade. You’d thrown a couple shots of tequila in for razzle dazzle. “She told me she’s dating a production assistant from that firefighter show, California Fires or something.”

“Hmm, that doesn’t sound right.”

“Oh shit, wait. It’s coming to me… Yeah! Fire Country. That’s the one.”

Sarah looked both impressed and approving. “I do like me a sexy firefighter.”

“A man in uniform. My fucking weakness,” you shook your head, chomping on another fry.

She slid you an amused look. “Right. First a sergeant, now a detective.”

Your lips unconsciously tugged upward. “Mark was a sergeant too. An Army Ranger.”

Sarah huffed a laugh.

“Girl, you got it bad, bad. I can smell it in your pheromones. He must’ve turned you the hell out that night,” she said, stealing a couple of your fries. You were tempted to throw one at her.

“Please, we just started seeing each other. Haven’t even gone on our second date yet,” you said. But when your phone buzzed on the table, both your gaze and Sarah’s narrowed in on Mark’s name on your caller ID.

Her smirk spoke volumes.

“Shut up,” you said, trying to beat down your smile as you answered the call. “Hey.”

“Hey, sweetheart. How’re you doin’?”

“I’m good, just having dinner with my friend Sarah. Too bad we couldn’t make it work tonight,” you replied.

“Yeah, you know I’m sorry about that too.”

He’d called you around lunch time to apologize, telling you that he’d been given a few extra cases since his coworker called out unexpectedly. You took the news in stride, even though you had to wonder if he was telling the truth just to let you down easy. He’d made up for it by making new plans with you.

“Does tomorrow at 7 still work?” you asked.

“Actually,” he said with a sigh, “this week might be a wash. It’s looking like I’m gonna need to pull a double shift tomorrow. But I’ll tell you what, let me take you out this weekend. I promise, on Melinda’s life.”

Disappointment made your shoulders sink a little, but you still tried to play it cool.

Melinda? Sarah mouthed questioningly.

His car, you replied, smiling a little.

Then you hummed. “Well, if you’re willing to stake the Bronco as collateral, then I guess I can trust you.”

“That’s right. You know I wouldn’t play with her life that.”

You heard the smile in his voice, and it was infectious.

“That’s fair. She does have a nice rack,” you said with a smirk.

His laughter echoed through the phone, making you more than a little proud of yourself.

“Well, that’s something you two have in common,” he said. The rumble of his voice was doing things to you, but you were reminded that your best friend was sat directly across from you at your small kitchen table, smirking at you.

 “SLUT,” she whispered teasingly. You did throw a fry at her this time.

“Flatterer,” you accused, both at her and Mark. “But okay, what destination you have in mind?”

“Plan to be surprised, sweetheart.”

Well, he got his wish.

“You really must be allergic to traditional dates,” you said, just before you pulled the trigger.

Click. You hit the faceless man’s right shoulder. 

“Dinner and a movie.”

Click. 

“A nice walk in the park.”

Click. 

“Brunch at the green market.”

Click-click-click.

Amused, Mark took his hearing protection off as he nodded at your aim. You managed to get all of your shots on the board at least: one in the corner, two on the right shoulder, one in the gut, one to the chest, one to the head. He wouldn’t want to run up at you in a dark alley. Not without a vest.

“I’m not exactly a brunch and mimosas guy,” he said. But he stepped in from behind to correct your grip slightly. He spoke near your ear, where you could feel his warm breath. “Good form, though I can’t help the feeling you’re imagining me on that target.”

A blush bloomed in your cheeks.

“Well, that’s what you get for taking me to a shooting range,” you said. “I’m a visual person.”

But you turned to look at him over your shoulder with a growing smile. Was this really one of his moves, the “let me fix your aim” cliché bullshit?

…And why was it kind of working on you?

“Is this your way of making sure I know how to protect myself? Because I’ve been taking self-defense lessons since I was ten years old too. My dad made sure of it,” you said, putting the safety on the gun and setting it down on the ledge. 

Mark smirked and pressed the button to wind in the target for you. 

“I’m glad to hear that. I’d be interested in a demonstration one day,” he said, patting you on the ass. You shook your head in amusement. 

He switched out the target for a new one, letting you keep yours if you wanted it. 

“Is your little sister as well-rounded as you?” he asked. 

You snorted. “Rachel has her own talents, but the gun range has never been one of them. She was more interested in theater and guys, and parties with guys.” 

“What, you weren’t interested in guys?” Mark asked.

“Sure. I just tried not to let them make me an idiot.”

He grinned. “Well, we tend to be good at that, generally speaking.”

You watched him load his gun with practiced ease. He told you it was a 9x19mm Smith & Wesson, the model used by the LAPD. It sounded impressive, and he let you feel how heavy it was compared to your little .22 pistol that you always kept in your nightstand. As a woman living alone in a dangerous city, your father hadn’t had to convince you too hard to get one.

“All right, show off your skills, Army Ranger,” you said, gesturing at the target. It was twice as far back as he set yours.

“Distinguished Expert,” he said, and intentionally cleared his throat before he fired off a few rounds. They were quick and precise as they formed a cluster around the target’s heart.

You squinted, as if you couldn’t believe what your eyes were telling you.

“Jesus,” you muttered. “That guy would not be having a good day.”

He snorted. “Nah, he wouldn’t feel a thing.”

It was a little disturbing when you remembered that this man certainly had practice on the real thing—living and breathing targets. Not only as a policeman, but as a soldier. Your father had served in the military as well. He didn’t tell you many stories though, and that alone told you all you needed to know about what he’d seen, and what he’d had to do. Your mom told you once when you were a kid that your dad worked so hard because it was easier than sleeping. That thought had stayed with you all your life.

You wondered if Mark had a little too much in common with your dad.

“Distinguished Expert, huh? I’m assuming that’s for marksmanship,” you said instead.

Mark tossed you a grin as he reloaded. “Happens to be the highest ranking. Just saying.”

You smiled faintly. “Is that why you got recruited for a federal task force?”

Mark inclined his head at you. “Partly. I’ve done my fair share of undercover work.”

“What did you have to do?” you asked.

“Honestly I shouldn’t give you the details,” he said, but seeing your genuine curiosity, he decided to give you the main tidbit. “I had to infiltrate a white supremacy group. It was a year in goddamn Nazi hell.”

“God, the fact that fucking Nazis are still a thing…” you shook your head. “Were you successful?”

Mark nodded, his lips quirking with a note of pride. But it wasn’t arrogance, you thought, just pride in his work.

“The top dogs are going away for 25 to life for the shit they’ve tried to cover up over the years. Weapons deals, hate crimes, indoctrination, especially of kids, even kidnapping.” 

You frowned, but you slipped your fingers down the line of his jacket, and over his hand. That calloused hand that was clearly capable of many things. A hand that had strength, but also gentle moments too, when he touched you.

“Then, thank you for your service, Sergeant,” you said.

He smiled and held your hand a little warmer in return.

“All right, you wanna get out of here?” he asked. “I’ll take you somewhere with a little more ambiance if you want.”

You perked up at that. “Ooh, I have an idea. Not sure if you’re gonna like it though…”

“Try me,” he said.

Pacific Park was a wild place to go to on a Saturday, even in the middle of winter. It lied on the Santa Monica pier, and it was home to overpriced street vendors and carnival rides, including a Ferris wheel. Mark didn’t have any chance of getting you on that rickety death trap, but it was nice to get some burgers for lunch, followed by ice cream on the pier.

The gentle tumble and crash of the sea competed with the sounds of kids laughing and distantly screaming on rides. There were a couple of teenage boys throwing a football nearby, but mostly there were couples and families and friends out on the pier. Billy Joel’s “Uptown Girl” played on some overhead speakers.

A seagull almost stole your ice cream, but you zealously defended your cone and shoed the opportunistic bird away from you. It had Mark chuckling, then wrapping an arm around your waist to guide you away from the wind whipping your hair into his face.

He already finished his cup of mint chocolate chip. It freed up his hand to tilt your chin up, so he could steal a taste of caramel off your lips. His second kiss lingered, then deepened, drawing a small sigh from you, and your fingers curling into his jacket.

“Bro, heads up!”

Mark’s spine tingled with awareness and his reflexes kicked in, allowing him to break away from you quick enough to stop a projectile from hitting you on the head. It was a football, and one of the teens who threw a wide right trying to get some spin on the ball.

“Hey, watch out!” Mark said, sharp and stern. He half a mind to confiscate it, but he tossed the football back. “Take it down to the beach, and put a little more wrist on it.”

“Sorry,” each of them said, though one was a little more sincere than the other.

Mark shook his head. “Kids.”

You laughed and playfully tugged on his jacket to reclaim his attention.

“Relax, officer. You’re off duty, remember?”

His annoyance faded into amusement.

“Hey, I just saved your life. A little gratitude might be in order,” he teased.

You nodded. “You know what, you’re right. My bad.”

Smirking, you used his jacket as leverage to lean up for another kiss. He pressed you against the pier railing and accepted every part of that little thank you.

Moments of near decapitation and making out aside, you two spent the afternoon mainly talking as you walked from the pier down the boardwalk of the beach. After everything you’d told him about your family and childhood, you wanted to know more about his.

“So you’re an only child?” you asked. After he confirmed it with a nod, you hummed in thought, trying to imagine what he was like in his teen years. “You gave your mom hell, didn’t you?”

He chuckled. “Guilty as charged on that one. But she did her best.”

“And your dad?” you asked.

His lips quirked. “Well, he tended to favor the belt. When that didn’t work, he tried other ways to knock some sense into me.” 

Your amusement faded. “Did he hit you?”

He clocked that look of concern on your face, but only then did he realize he said more than he meant to. 

“Never hard enough for anyone to care,” he said. “But uh, around seventeen, I got big enough and mouthy enough that Dad kinda gave up for a while. Like I said, the military was his last-ditch effort to straighten me out.”

By the way you were still looking at him—like you wish you could spin the clock back 30 years and call Child Protective Services—he could tell this kind of thing was foreign to you. 

“You probably still do Sunday dinners with your family, huh?” he said. 

“Tuesdays,” you supplied. “We alternate on days when my dad and I don’t have lunch together… He was a hard-ass, but he never raised a hand to me or my sister. He’s a gentle giant, really.”

Mark huffed. “He was going to let you two stay the night in jail with the street walkers.”

You had to concede that fact, nodding. “Well, he’s not an easy man to please, but he had a point that Valwell might hear about that night at the club. It’s not a good look for any job candidate, let alone someone who might work for the DA’s office.”

“Don’t worry about it. The club dropped the charges,” Mark said. 

You bit your lip in worry. “Would it still come up in a background check?” 

“Doubtful. You didn’t even get processed. But even if this guy asks you about it, and he doesn’t like your explanation, then it’s not worth working there to begin with,” Mark said. “I’ve got some experience with that.” 

“Yeah? When?” you asked. Because of course you wanted to know.

“You’re insatiable, you know that?” he said, pausing on the boardwalk to tuck a flyaway strand of hair behind your ear. He smirked. “And not just for stories.”

“Oh, look who’s talking,” you snipped. “This from the man who hounded me for an entire month—”

Mark saw no other recourse of stopping your mouth, than with his own. 

He tugged you in by your waist and kissed you to the tune of an ocean breeze, Billy Joel, and kids’ laughter. Whether he realized it or not, something inside him started to untighten at the possibilities here.

Goddamn it, Harmon.

He’d left Mark with case notes that were brief at best, and a shorthand that clearly only made sense to the officer in question. The other departments must have a cipher, because otherwise, Mark didn’t know how the Lieutenant let this fucking fly.

On top of his normal caseload, he had Harmon’s chicken scratch to contend with on no less than five open homicides. Mark’s head-scratching, research, and follow-up calls on leads bled into overtime in the late afternoon.

Eventually, he was almost the last one standing in the office. Even the Captain casted a glance over at Mark’s desk on his way out. Mark met his gaze, but neither man had anything to say that wasn’t being communicated in silence.

After the glass doors glided shut behind Dan, Vanessa came up on Mark’s left as she finished closing up her jacket, adjusting the purse on her shoulder. She smiled at him. He gave her a brief nod as he kept Harmon’s notes in focus on his desk.

“You’ve been working hard this past week,” she remarked.

“Crime never sleeps, so I guess I’m not allowed to either,” he said wryly.

“Well, as long as you’re not sleeping,” she said, propping her hip against his desk.

It caught his attention enough for him to pause in what he was doing. He almost sighed; he had a hunch on where this was going.

“Want to grab a drink with me?” she offered. Her smile curved, and he recognized the flirtatious glint. “Or…maybe we skip to the part where I help you relax.”

Mark quirked his head. Why did his gut always have to be right?

Speaking of said gut, it made itself known with a grumble, reminding him that he’d been surviving on protein bars and shit coffee since this morning.

“Jesus,” he said, more to himself than Vanessa as his hand went to his stomach on reflex. “What I need is some fuel.”

“How about we make it dinner then,” she suggested. “There’s a great Chinese place around the corner from my apartment.”

Mark hesitated, rubbing a hand over his beard out of habit.

“Uh, you know what, I’ve still got a lot of work to do here. Plus, I um, got stuff to make back home,” he replied.

What he had was a fridge full of beer, DiGiorno’s pizzas, and a couple of Hungry Man frozen dinners.

Vanessa seemed to get the hint though. Her face fell with disappointment, but she hid it behind a half smile.

“Okay. Don’t work too hard,” she said.

He gave her a half-salute as she walked away. He went back to it, typing away on his computer as he worked on pulling a potential suspect’s LUDS. His phone vibrated on his desk, lighting up with your name. Again, he paused to unlock the screen.

He found himself smiling as he answered you.

Two weeks later, your L-shaped couch was seeing more action than your usual post-work state of vegetation.

Journey bled into a Prince ballad on the nearby Bluetooth speaker, providing a smoother soundtrack for the way Mark’s fingers slipped under the hem of your shirt, flirted up the curve of your spine, then back down to quell the little goosebumps he raised while your lips danced with his in a slow-burning heat.

He brought over the chocolate mousse cake he now tasted on your tongue. You’d stuffed him full of your homemade mashed potatoes, asparagus, and a pan-fried salmon. He hadn’t enjoyed a meal like that in a while. And his bones were settling into this couch, even if he’d like to be taking advantage of the way your hips were grinding against his. 

He groaned low in his throat, feeling delicious friction down below. Your nails scraped gently against his scalp as you ran your fingers through his hair. He had to reward you with a squeeze of your ass through this breezy skirt you had on, and a teasing graze of his teeth down your neck that had you moaning in his ear.  

But even with a throw pillow wedged under him, the alignment of his neck against the arm of the couch was starting to shoot some pain down his spine. All the extra hours at his desk had made his back and shoulders tight. He shifted underneath you with a grunt. 

“You okay?” you asked quietly. You kissed his cheek while you waited for an answer, then along his jaw—a sensuous path back to his lips. He hummed in response.

He did have to stifle a yawn though, his chest expanding with a deeper breath. He mentally cursed when he felt you pause, then literally slow your roll. You parted from him softly and quirked your kiss-swollen lips. He blinked his eyes open.

“You’re tired, aren’t you?” you asked.

He gave a wordless denial, even though your fingers running more gently through his hair was like scratching a dog precisely in the right place. He cleared his throat and moved his hands down to your thighs. 

“I’m good,” he said.

“You’re falling asleep,” you accused, though a smile played at your lips. “You’re not getting bored of me already, are you?”

He smirked lazily, but he let his hands wander higher up your skirt and squeezed there, with purpose.

“Definitely not,” he said. “But to be honest, this couch isn’t doing my back any favors.”

“Hmm, I think there’s an easy fix for that,” you teased. And you pushed off his chest to sit up and slide off his lap. You helped him stand, smirking a little at his tired groan. But you didn’t let go of his hand. “Come on, old man.”

“Hey, don’t pin that old shit on me yet. I’m not even 40,” he said, smacking your ass in recompense.

You jumped with a gasp, but you laughed as you led him into your room. He was willing to push through the exhaustion pulling at his mind and body when you reached for the hem of his shirt and helped him pull it off. Then you kissed him into submission while you unbuckled his belt, getting him out of his jeans. He thought he had an idea of where the night was going next, until you guided him to lay down first, on his stomach.

“What’s happening?” he asked in amusement.

He didn’t expect you to climb on top of him, after you pulled something out of your nightstand.

“Just relax,” you said, squirting a bit of rose oil into your palm. “I’m going to give you a little massage.”

His head tilted. “Really?”

You heard the grin creeping into his voice, and you suspected what was about to follow.

“We talking happy endings included?” he asked.

Yep. You snorted. Predictable. 

“Oh, I’m thinking you’ll want to give me a big thank you at the end,” you said, beginning to rub your slick palms over the broad, tense line of his shoulders. “Maybe even a standing ovation.”

Already he was groaning into your pillow, his arms crossing underneath. You dug deep into the knots near his neck, then smoothed out down his shoulders.

“Jeeesus Christ,” he muttered. “It’s like you knew where to go.”

You tried and failed to stifle a giggle.

“I get neck pain like this a lot too,” you said. “Sarah’s an aesthetician, but she’s also a really good masseuse. She’s been teaching me some things.”

“It fucking shows, sweetheart,” Mark uttered, half on a groan when you moved down between his shoulder blades. He’d never had a woman offer to do something like this for him, not even as a precursor to sex. But it was quickly climbing up the ladder on the list of his favorite things, certainly about you.

Meanwhile, you were having fun with your canvas—working your hands over planes of male muscle and a dusting of freckles. You were starting to count the tiny clusters while his breathing grew deeper, his body relaxing more fully under your touch.

Eventually, you worked your way down his legs, massaging thighs and calves, even his feet. You weren’t even sure he was still alive by that point, until he flinched at your nails playfully grazing the arches of his feet. He grumbled a half-hearted warning. You smirked.

But after you toweled off the oil from his skin, you let him relax while you changed into something more comfortable to sleep in, even if you didn’t think you’d be wearing it all that long.

Biting your lip against a smile, you slipped into bed with Mark and laid a hand on his arm. He was still lying on his stomach with his arms pillowed under his bowed forehead.

“Hey, you okay?” you asked.

A light snore was your response.

You covered your mouth to quiet your laugh. But you leaned in, just to press a kiss to his shoulder.

“Goodnight then,” you whispered in amusement. Guess I’ll have to cash in that happy ending in the morning.

The problem was that he was still on top of the covers. Instead of waking him, you went and grabbed an extra blanket from your closet to gently throw on top of him. When you came back to your side of the bed though, Mark finally shifted more onto his side, facing you with a sleepy, crooked smile. He uncurled an arm and slid it around your waist, pulling you in closer.

It was a shame Rachel couldn’t make it to the next family dinner. It meant her torrid affair with the P.A. couldn’t distract your parents (your mother) from being nosey with your personal life.

Normally you wouldn’t mind, but you’d been careful not to mention Mark around your dad. You two still hadn’t spoken much for the past month, since the clubbing incident, but you had a feeling he already knew. You didn’t trust Officer Vance to keep that tidbit of information to himself.

“You still haven’t heard back from the DA’s office?” Dan asked you.

“No. They told me the process could take a while. Apparently Valwell interviewed a lot of people. The HR rep told me he’s really particular about his assistants, wants to find the right person,” you replied. At this point though, you weren’t holding out a lot of hope. You’d already had another interview that you felt good about in the meantime.

“That’s the city for you. Moves at a glacier’s pace,” Dan remarked, as he carved into his chicken. Lisette made a mean carbonara.

“You’re always talking about work,” she said, lightly shoving your arm. “What else have you been up to? It’s been weeks since we’ve seen you.”

A sprinkle of Mom Guilt always made the truth spill quicker, but you hesitated. She noticed that too.

“Ooh,” she said, with a growing smile. “You’re seeing someone, aren’t you?”

Your lips twitched upward. It was hard to lie to your mom. She was sweet as pie, but she rarely missed a thing.

“Well, actually, yeah,” you said, silently steeling yourself. You glanced up at Dan, who stopped chewing altogether. He was taciturn at best.

“His name is Mark,” you said. Well, here we go. “Mark Meachum. He’s a homicide detective in Dad’s division.”

Forks stopped scraping ceramic. Clinking ice stilled in their cups of peach tea. Lisette looked between your braced expression, and her husband’s worsening mood.

“Something tells me you already knew,” you said to him, while sipping your tea. “Is that a problem?”

“Listen, I know him. And I’ve known him longer than you,” Dan pointed out. “He’s not a Peter, put it that way.”

You frowned. Peter may have been good at his job, but that didn’t mean he did well with your heart. Of course, your dad only saw Peter’s photogenic, commendation-winning side.

“You must at least trust Mark to do his job well, because I know you won’t tolerate anything else,” you said. “And you’ve probably been approving all the overtime and double shifts he’s had to pull over the past few weeks. I wonder who loaded him up with all that?”

“That’s not the issue here,” Dan said, quick and with a sharp measure of annoyance. “The man has a reputation, namely with the women of the office—hell, the goddamn county district.”

“I’m aware,” you said wryly.

“Are you?”

“Yeah, but you know what, he’s only ever treated me with respect,” you said. “So please, stop penalizing Mark. It’s not going to stop me from seeing him.”

Lisette once again glanced between your firm-held ground, and Dan’s silent, stubborn obstinance. She held back her smile of amusement. It was like watching two moose at a standoff.

But eventually, Dan let out a deep breath and went back to eating before his food got cold.

He didn’t concede in words, but in his silence, you considered the matter settled.

For the first time in over a month, you stepped through the heavy glass doors of the Homicide Division during your lunch hour. As usual, you were greeted by the sound and smell of cheap coffee percolating in the break room, printers whirring, phone chatter, and the drone of typing.

You crossed paths with Vanessa on your way in, but your greeting was somewhat strained when you remembered what Anette from Billing told you about the office manager and your…almost boyfriend.

“Hey girl, been a while,” Vanessa said, with a friendly hand on your arm as her eyes lit up. “Ooh, you smell good. Yves Saint Laurent?”

“Yep, good guess,” you nodded and glanced over at Mark’s desk. He was already grinning at you in surprise.

“Ey, love that for you,” Vanessa said, gesturing at the Captain’s office. “Your dad’s still in a meeting, but he should be out in a few minutes.”

“Okay, thanks,” you said. That gave you time to swing by your…Mark’s desk.

You unknowingly had a pair of eyes on you when you went over to him.

“Hey, sweetheart. You didn’t tell me you were coming in,” he said.

He pushed away from his desk to get up and greet you with a kiss.

“Well, I’ve got some good news,” you said. Though you noticed your dad had just gotten back from his meeting, and he nodded at you from the doorway of his office. You acknowledged him back.

“Let me just check in with him first, see if he’s ready for lunch. Maybe we could all go together…” Your gaze cut back to Mark, slightly hesitating. “If you’re not busy.”

Mark rose a brow. “You told him about us?”

You bit your lip. “I did. He’s still not all that happy about it, but he’ll get over it.”

He chuckled, but he did rub the back of his neck uncertainly. 

“Uh…all right. Lunch is fine,” he said.

“Yeah?” you checked. Even after a month, you weren’t totally sure how he felt about this relationship—or about you.

But he assured you with a nod. “I can make some time.”

“Okay, thanks,” you said, discreetly squeezing his hand.

Your little smile of excitement amused him as he watched you go over to the Captain’s office.

Fuckin’ cute. It wasn’t a thought Mark had often, let alone about you, but it was there. You had some high defenses, but once someone managed to make their way through, you had a softer center, as it turned out.

He settled back at his desk, running a hand over his chin as he tried to refocus on his computer screen, but there was something unsettled and churning in his gut. He knew what he just agreed to, and it was more than just a burger at the In-and-Out across the street.

Mark could admit, he wanted to keep seeing you. The risk to his job had always been there, but this was a different kind of warning label—one that actually made him a bit uncomfortable to consider. It meant lunch with your father today, and probably a Tuesday dinner with your mother the next. There was a part of him that hadn’t totally disagreed with Vance’s little assessment of him.

This ain’t the guy you wanna take home.

Mark had tried it once. Bella Hastings, a fucking pistol and a good cop, one of the only partners he’d been assigned who’d never slowed him down.

She ended it after four months, just before he took the federal assignment.

How had she put it? Oh, yeah.

“You’re the guy I want beside me in a firefight, no question. We can keep fucking it out after, sure, but you’ve got no follow through, Meachum,” she said. “You don’t even want to meet my parents on my birthday. Do you even know what it means to be a partner? Build a home? Are you really gonna be the guy to shave my legs when I’m too pregnant to see my fucking toes?”

His lack of an answer spoke for itself, and they both knew it.

She shook her head. “No. I think not.”

He hadn’t put up a fight, because not so deep down, he knew she was right. When he got back from UC, he was glad to hear that she’d transferred over to Organized Crime. She’d do good work there, and it was probably better for both of them.

Now, where did that leave him with you?

“So that’s what’s had you busy,” came a wry voice.

Mark’s head perked up, his brows raised to find Vanessa standing there in front of his desk. She didn’t even have a batch of paperwork on her arm as a pretense this time. Her gaze flicked over to where you were talking to your father within the glass walls of his office. Half of them were grayed out, but the top half were transparent. Your conversation with him looked strained, but no projectiles were being thrown just yet.

“That’s insane, even for you,” Vanessa said.

Mark’s lips quirked. “You know me. I thrive on a little insanity.”

She huffed. “I do know you.”

She rounded the corner of his desk, letting her fingertips skim the laminate surface.

“The question is, does she know. About you and me?” she asked, raising a challenging brow. “And half the women in this office, for that matter.”

“She does,” Mark said curtly.

Vanessa’s head tilted, her eyes calculating.

“So it’s casual then,” she said.

Mark took in a breath, leveling her with a firmer look.

“I think that’s our business, Vanessa,” he said.

Her mouth evened out into a line.

Her lips pursed, until she noticed you leaving the Captain’s office when the man himself remained on the phone. You were already heading back over to Mark’s desk, looking irritated as you shook your head.

Maybe Dan wasn’t ready to break bread just yet. He wasn’t convinced about your choices, and Mark couldn’t exactly blame him. 

Vanessa shrugged, adopting a smile. 

“Okay,” she said. Then she bent down to whisper near his ear. “Good luck with that.”

Before she left, she allowed her hand to trail up his arm and over his shoulder. Mark frowned at her in annoyance, especially because you stopped short in front of the bullpen. Shit.

Your stare cut from Vanessa’s retreating back, to Mark’s face. He read it all flicker in your eyes, confusion crossing with disappointment, and a bit of anger too.

With a hard sigh through your nose, you turned to walk out. Mark got up to follow you, grunting in irritation. He called your name, but you didn’t stop—not until you were pushing through the doors with your shoes clacking swiftly down the hall.

Mark called after you, more insistently. His longer legs still caught up with you as he reached for your arm and got you to slow down. You reluctantly turned around, but you were already done with the way men were deciding to test your patience today.

“Hey, that wasn’t what it looked like,” he said.

He could say that, with his voice sounding like three glasses of whiskey deep and his eyes staring straight into yours, but you forced yourself to remember that this man was a professional liar when he needed to be.

“And what do you think it looked like?” you challenged. “Like she just propositioned you for a quickie in the storage room?”

“It wasn’t.”

“It looked like you’re still sleeping with her.”

“I’m not,” he said, more firmly. 

You crossed your arms, not yet convinced. 

“I told you how I feel about bullshit. That definitely qualifies,” you said. 

“Relax, okay. Frankly, I haven’t had the fucking energy between you and my job to keep up something on the side, even if I wanted to,” he snapped. 

You paused, because that hurt you. Your face flashed with it, making an inevitable guilt coil in Mark’s chest. His mouth firmed with it.

“If I’m such a distraction, maybe we shouldn’t be doing this,” you said.

Mark sighed, but he hesitated a bit too long. Frowning, you began to turn away from him and head toward the elevator. His quick reach and grab for your hand stopped you.

“All right, I’m sorry. That’s not what I meant,” he said. With a gentler tug, he winded you back in. He held you by your arms and brushed his thumbs there. He thought through it first before he said anything else he’d regret. But he also knew it was now or never.

“You’re not a distraction. These past few weeks, you’ve been…” He could almost taste the words on his tongue as he found them, one by one. “You’re the beat I should be taking. The one good breath in my day.” 

You blinked in surprise. Part of you softened, more willing to hear him and actually listen. 

His lips tugged at a crooked smile. “I’m gonna be honest. The last half-decent relationship I had barely lasted a few months. She probably had every right to give up on me. I’m not exactly cut out for Sunday brunches and family dinners, but uh…you make me want to try.”

God fucking help me, he thought.

You warmed with a slow smile. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah,” he said. It surprised him too.

His lips tugged at a grin.

You hesitated, but then, you nodded in acceptance.

“Okay,” you said. “You know that makes you my boyfriend, right?”

He huffed in amusement. “If that’s what you want, sweetheart. Gotta warn you though, you might regret it.”

“We’ll see,” you quipped.

His hands glided down your arms, and you eventually held his hands in return. He had to pull you to the side of the hall though, when Finau walked by with his partner, Caplan. They didn’t say anything, but their brief glances taking perceptive notes made Mark wish you two were having this conversation somewhere else.

Too late. He had to reenact The Notebook with you right outside the fucking office full of eagle-eyed law enforcement.

“Um, so I did have some good news,” you said. “I got a call from the DA’s office this morning. I got the job as Valwell’s Executive Assistant. I’m giving my two weeks’ notice at work later today.” 

Mark smiled. “Hey, congrats. I’m guessing you told your dad, or uh, was that little argument about this?”

He squeezed your hands to punctuate his point. Your expression turned wry. 

“He’s been questioning my decisions a lot lately, but that’s his problem. Despite what he’d like to believe, I’m a grown ass woman and I know what I want,” you said, meeting his eyes as you smiled a bit softer. But it faded slightly. “He’s been the one piling all that extra work on you on purpose, isn’t he? You have a right to complain, you know.”

Mark just shook his head as he collected you in his arms, his hands molding to the curve of your waist.

“Don’t worry about it. Been through a lot worse than a few late nights and double shifts,” he said, smirking. “Long as you come through with some more of those full-body massages, I’m good.”

Your smile grew. You raised up on your toes and twined your arms around his neck, guiding him back down to your level. Other cops and staff were occasionally passing by in the hall, but at this point, you didn’t care. 

“You’re willing to deal with all that for me?” you asked.

“You’re worth the trouble,” he teased, “and I’m a stubborn bastard. You know I don’t quit easy.” 

That, you certainly did know. 

“Yeah, well, neither do I,” you said.

He gave into that compelling pull of you, bowing his head for a kiss. It was slow as he breathed into it. Your fingers played with the smaller hairs at the back of his neck, your nails grazing his scalp until a small shudder ran down his spine. He kissed you again, this time laced with an undercurrent of heat. Probably too much. 

He eventually pulled back with a sigh, but not too far from your enticing lips. 

“All right, fuck it,” he said. “Let’s go to lunch. I’m fucking starving.”

You laughed, nodding in agreement. “How about that burger place across the street?” 

“Sweetheart, you read my mind.”

AN: There's just something about these two that I keep coming back to lol. 😘

How'd you like their first time, and navigating those "what are we" feels? Would you want to see more of their early days? Let me know in the reblogs/comments! ❤️

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@spnbabe67 @deanbrainrotwritings @alwaystiredandconfused @supernotnatural2005 @globetrotter28

@cookiechipdough @winchesterwild78 @samanddeaninatrenchcoat @mrsjenniferwinchester @fromcaintodean

@kiddieclaws @gabavaldman @wvffles @charmed-asylum @castielscaplan

[spnwoman]

Ahhhhhh this was incredible my friend!! Oh man I missed reading about mark and these two! I am absolutely 1000% down to definitely read more of these early days with them!

But girl that scene for their first time 😅😅😅😰😰😋wooozaa that was incredibly sexy and oh so hot! I needed a cold shower! 😅😅

I loved how even in there busy lives they are still trying to see each other especially with her dad with that work load on mark (on purpose) lol

So cute he dozed off after his nice massage, guy is exhausted, and the talk with Vanessa oh man, glad he told her it’s their business not hers! I’m so glad he went after her and didn’t just let it linger and simmer,

This part

“You’re not a distraction. These past few weeks, you’ve been…” He could almost taste the words on his tongue as he found them, one by one. “You’re the beat I should be taking. The one good breath in my day.”

Awwww 🥰🥰🥰😘all the feels!! Uhhh I loved loved loved this!!! Great writing as always my dear friend!! 🤗❤️

[zepskies]

THE ASSISTANT || Series Masterlist

Pairing: CEO!Dean Winchester x Assistant!Reader

Summary: Behind every powerful man is a resourceful woman. He doesn’t realize how much he relies on you, until he realizes how much he wants you.

AN: Thanks to the resounding feedback on Pratt Fall, here's a mini series for CEO!Dean and his Executive Assistant. 😉❤️

Series Tags & Warnings: 18+ | Office politics, power imbalance (but not really), single mom!reader, deadbeat dad, angst, drama, mutual pining, smut (v. fingering, oral, p-in-v, office smut, etc.) | inspired by Two Weeks’ Notice (2002)

Chapters:

Listed in written order instead of chronological order -

➤ Pratt Fall

➤ Mutual Engagement ⤷ Patreon: June 19 || Tumblr: June 28

➤ Nothing by Halves ⤷ Patreon: June 26 || Tumblr: July 5

Series coming soon!

Tag List Form || Fic Library Blog -> (follow + turn on notifications)

Join My Patreon ⟡ Get early access to new stories, bonus content, and first looks at upcoming stories. Top-tier patrons can even send me requests!

Dean Winchester Series List

Dean Winchester Masterlist

Main Masterlist

Dean Winchester Tag List (Part 1):

@luci-in-trenchcoats @waynes-multiverse @lamentationsofalonelypotato @chevroletdean @deans-spinster-witch

@jollyhunter @bettystonewell @supernotnatural2005 @roseblue373 @rizlowwritessortof

@wvffles @lyarr24 @ladysparkles78 @spnfamily-j2 @pieandmonsters

@hobby27 @kazsrm67 @foxyjwls007 @mostlymarvelgirl @jensensswthrt

@winchestergirl2 @spnbabe67 @stoneyggirl2 @my-stories-vault @this-is-me19

@tofics @artemys-ackles @mrsjenniferwinchester @charmed-asylum @flawlesslyspellbound

@k-slla @jackles010378 @deanbrainrotwritings @alwaystiredandconfused @rachiem4-blog

@leigh70 @aylacavebear @midnightmadwoman @twinkleinadiamondsky @kmc1989

@siampie @masked-lost-girl @suckitands33 @cheynovak @spnaquakindgdom

@mimaria420 @megara0224 @globetrotter28 @illicithallways @castielscaplan

[spnwoman]

Oh Yes!!! I’m looking forward to this my friend!! Yay!!!😄😄😄🎉🎉🎉🎉🎉❤️

[luci-in-trenchcoats]

He's My Man: Devil's Backbone Timestamp

Summary: Russell gets a call asking for Colter's help on a case. Their father's case. That's not unusual for the duo as the reader's come to realize. But this time is different. This time Russell's hurt and he's scared and a single phone call leaves reader spinning about what the hell her husband has gotten himself into and what kind of deal with the devil he's just made to keep them all alive...

Masterlist

Pairing: Russell Shaw x reader

Word Count: 4,300ish

Warnings: S3 Tracker spoilers, language, injury, mentions of violence/threats/killing, implied smut

A/N: Just scratching the itch with this after the end of S3 of Tracker! 😉

A heavy rain drizzled down, the sky dark while you sat with your computer on the covered back deck, flames dancing in the outdoor fireplace. Russell was off helping Colter on some case involving their father. You knew enough about their relationship that their decades long avoidance had to do with his death. 

Russ hid it well behind jokes and that smile of his but you knew it still hurt him deep down that his little brother thought he could have killed their dad. That his own mother let Colter believe it and nearly destroyed that relationship for good. The black sheep of the family that was never actually a black sheep.

So instead of joining them on their case, you let them get in their bonding time, Russell texting you yesterday asking if you’d double check payroll for him this week. The brewery was up and running and had been a success so far. They weren’t open to the public quite yet. Russell wanted to focus on the products first. Currently they were working with local restaurants and grocery stores and the operation was slowly expanding. 

Much to Russell’s chagrin, owning a brewery was a lot more hands off than he’d expected. The brewmaster was seasoned and a good worker. The operations manager was a former corporate lawyer who doubled as your head of distribution. Your marketing manager and lawyer dealt with a lot of the paperwork and expansion deals and the finance guy worked in Seattle and took care of any of the rare messes there ever were. Russell had built a solid team and it showed.

Your phone buzzed from the coffee table where it lay, Russell’s name popping up.

“Hey, babe,” you answered, sliding down on the outdoor couch, closing your laptop. 

“Hey, quark.” You frowned at how breathy it sounded, pursing your lips. “Don’t make that face. I’m f-fine.”

“Russell.” You sat upright, legs tucked up under you as a thread of worry coiled in your gut. “You sound hurt. What’s wrong?”

“I’m fine,” he hissed, your eyes narrowing. 

“Did you get shot? Because I recall distinctly telling you not to get shot when you left.”

“Yeah but you were joking. This is like calling your bluff,” he laughed dryly, wincing into the phone. “I’m only a little bit shot.”

“Oh, only a little. Right, I remember in med school when we covered the whole ‘little bit shot’ section.” 

“God, it’s so hot you went to med school.” You growled, Russell chuckling again but you could hear the whimper under it. 

“Where is Colter? If you’re bad and don’t get your ass to a hospital-”

“It’s fine. Colter gave me a patch job. I…some guy might have…dug his fingers into it-”

You shot up to your feet, eyes wild. “Someone tortured you? What the fuck-”

“First off, it wasn’t torture. This was too quick and dirty for that-”

“Did you almost die today Russell Shaw? I want the damn truth.” The line was quiet, quieter than it needed to be. You slowly sank back down to the couch, Russell sighing. “But…you’re you. T-That sort of thing doesn’t happen to someone like you.”

“It can when the bastard on the other side is someone like me. Colter saved my hide. I’m okay. I swear. Just going to hurt for a bit.”

“Well make him give you a ride home. I can patch you up better-”

“I swear on your life quark, I have been thoroughly patched and bandaged and even got a little bottle of antibiotics. I’ll live.” 

“Colter’s good but he’s not that good, Russell. Something else is going on.” His heavy sigh tickled your ear, Russell wincing quietly. “Russ. Talk to me.”

“Colter and I figured out why my dad was killed. I can’t talk about it right now but long story short, we poked at something we shouldn’t have. I found the man responsible. I was going to kill him, otherwise there’d be a target on our backs, including yours eventually.”

“But.” You just knew deep down that wasn’t the end of it. If it was Russell would be telling you this story in person.

“I can’t tell you for your safety. Trust me.”

“Always.” His breath hitched, your hand squeezing your thigh. “Russell? What did you do?”

“I found out something…and made a deal. One job and Colter and I are off the hook. No looking over our shoulders. No you looking over yours. I promise you are safe, quark. I promise. But I have to do this job before I can come home.”

Your gut clenched, heart racing as the words settled in.

“You’re not talking about your private contractor jobs, are you.”

“No.”

“Black ops. You’re doing black ops again. The thing that you said nearly destroyed you.”

“...S’okay. My wife knows how to fix broken things.” Your eyes closed, one hand going to the top of your head, gripping your hair tight. 

“R-Russell…they’ll let you go after this job?”

“They will. The man in charge is a bastard but I know how to play the game and he respects that. I know secrets they’d rather stay buried and they’re smart enough to know I’ve got fail safes out there. It’s one job and then we’re all safe and I will be home. That’s it.”

“What do you have to-”

“Y/N.” He cut you off. “The less you know-”

“The better,” you mumbled, releasing your hair, taking a deep breath. “W-When will you be back? A few days?” All you heard on the other end was silence followed by a sharp inhale of pained air. “A week?”

“...A while.”

“How long is-”

“I don’t know. But if it’s…you don’t have to wait for me.” 

“What the hell does-”

“I’ll be in touch when it’s safe, quark. Don’t say anything about this to Colter. Love you, sweetheart.”

“Russ-”

“J-Just say it back. Please. Ah, god dammit,” he breathed out, cursing to himself, voice laced with pain and worry. “Please, Y/N.”

“Are you scared?” you whispered. His answering pained whimper brought tears to your eyes. “Russell, you’re not okay. Tell me where you are, I’ll come-”

“I’ll come home,” he forced out. “I promise. Now just…just say it to me. Don’t make me beg, sweetheart.”

You closed your eyes, chest tight with a panic that was growing faster by the second. “I love you, Russell.”

“I love you. I’ll call you when I can.”

The phone beeped in your ear, the call gone when you pulled the phone back. You stared at it, nothing there except for a picture of a sleepy Russell burrowed in the blankets of your bed, a cheeky smile on his face.

“Russell, what the fuck did you do?”

One Month Later

You waited a day. Then another. Then it was a week and then another. Nothing. No word from your husband. You hadn’t gone this long without speaking to him…ever. You had no idea how badly hurt he’d been or if he was getting the proper care to heal. You doubted they prioritized those sorts of things when you were forced to join a black ops team. 

You weren’t stupid. You knew Russell was only doing this to protect you and Colter. But another black ops mission…hell, you’d never known that version of Russell. Sure, the contract jobs you’d seen a bit of but those were quick, didn’t seem as harsh on his soul. His time in the military though…that was why he had nightmares. Why every so often he’d look at you with sorrow on his face and ask why you loved him. He’d barely told you much about those scars that marked his soul but you knew they ran deep. Kill because he was ordered to and don’t ask questions. It was easy when it was a bad guy with a gun against him he’d said.

Most of the time though, it wasn’t so cut and dry and Russell had admitted to killing people in more than questionable circumstances in the name of national security. It’s what led him and his squad to quit in the first place. You never asked for details. The haunted look in his eye was enough to know he thought he was going to hell for it.

“Sometimes I wonder what I would have done if my dad hadn’t moved us to Echo Ridge,” Russell mused from your lap in the living room one winter evening, the fireplace roaring as you both warmed in front of it.

“Do you think you would have tried college instead?” you asked. You ran your fingers through his hair, humming to yourself. “I could see you doing a trade too. Like a general contractor.”

“I wonder if I still would have wound up a killer.” Your head turned down in a flash, Russell eyeing the dark window where snow pelted down outside. “I’m sure you think about what you would have done different if your life hadn’t gone sideways too.”

“No, no.” You wrapped your legs around his waist, pinning his arms to his chest, Russell chuckling beneath you.

“What are you doing, crazy lady?”

“Being mean to Russell means you’re in bad thought jail.”

“Yes, I’m so helpless,” he deadpanned, flapping his hands in your hold for dramatic effect. “Maybe a hot chick will rescue me?”

“The hot chick is your jailer.”

“Oh, a dark captivity romance.” He spun in your hold, resting his chin on your stomach and glancing up at you. “Please tell me more about what you plan on doing with your prisoner. Or better yet, let’s demonstrate.”

“I’m not kidding, Russell,” you grumbled.

“Neither am I. I know what kind of filthy smut you read.”

“You read it too,” you scoffed.

“I rest my case,” he said, blinking up at you. “So. Should I be on my knees for this-”

You yanked his hair, Russell leaning up into it. “I’m serious.”

“Alright, alright,” he said, your grip easing. He burrowed back down, angling his face slightly away from you. “I’m just…I’m really good at that sort of thing. Covert missions. Doing the impossible jobs. Most of the people I’ve killed weren’t good but some of them…it’s like there’s something wrong with me that I could blindly follow orders and just kill.”

“You don’t focus on the ones you killed, Russ. You focus on the ones you saved. As long as that outweighs the bad and we both know it does, then you just carry the burden and know in the long run, you’re making a difference in the right ways. But what do I know about it. Not like I was forced to work for the mob and had a psychotic boyfriend you saved me from.”

He tilted his head up, pursing his lips, his features carrying a bit less weight than they had a moment prior. “You’re alright.”

“Is that anyway to speak to your captor?” you teased, his brows raising before he was turning in your lap, biting his lip. “What are-Russell!”

He sat up, roughly kissed you, and was off the couch in a flash, darting towards the kitchen. He flashed you a wink and a cheeky grin as you spun in your seat, Russell shrugging. “I can’t fail my prison break if you don’t chase after me.”

“You really want to do this, Shaw?” you asked, standing slowly, stretching yourself out. “Because you know what happens when I do catch you.”

“Why do you think I let you catch me?” he shot back, stretching out his legs behind the kitchen island. You simply took off your shirt, revealing your semi-sheer maroon bra, Russell’s brain breaking in real time as he just blinked and blinked.

“You let me catch you?” You shimmied out of your sweatpants, kicking them up on the couch, Russell’s eyes drifting down to your matching cheeky bikinis. “You like the new set? Early Christmas present to myself. From that french boutique the blue strappy one came from.”

You spun around in a circle, Russell groaning when he saw the fully sheer back. “Your affinity for fancy lingerie is cruel, you know?”

“Is it?” you asked, stalking over to him with a smile, cupping your breasts to run your finger over the soft material. “I think I’m worth it.”

“Of course you’re worth…” He froze when you rushed him, your hand catching his wrist, Russell grunting. “Every damn time I fall for it!”

“Come along now,” you said, tugging him after you. He pulled back after a few feet, your eyes narrowing. “You want to do this the hard way?”

“Absolutely,” he teased, retching his arm out of your grasp and taking off for the stairs, dashing up them. You shook your head, hearing a thud above you after a beat. “I’m good!”

“You sure? Cause last time you said you were and then your knee swelled up like a grapefruit,” you called. 

“Just get that perky ass up here and come catch me!”

“What do I get in return?”

“Page 379.” You blinked, staring up at the ceiling. “We have a deal?”

“...You better hide well, Shaw. By the time I’m through, you’ll wish you’d never been caught.”

“Fuck it.” You got up from your spot on the couch, swiping your phone off the table and heading to pack.

You swore on your life you’d never seen Colter Shaw more confused than when you showed up at his house unannounced. It was late, Colter sat under a patio in front of a firepit, nursing a beer. You hopped out of your truck, Colter just staring at you with wide eyes as you trounced over and took a beer from his cooler, sitting down in the open adirondack chair beside him.

“When were you planning on telling me Russell got shot, Colter?” You didn’t look at him but oh lord, could you feel the nerves radiating off him. Colter was always so cool and controlled. The mellow to Russell’s energy. The guy was spinning out over the fact you knew he had an actual home address.

“Shaw, do not make me ask again.” He swallowed beside you, shifting out of the corner of your eye. 

“Reenie said Russell told her he had to disappear for awhile. I didn’t want to worry you. He told Reenie he’d talked to you already.”

“Telling me he was hurt and going off on a secret mission is one thing. You knowing the whole time is another. Real classy of you to ignore all my texts. If it weren’t for Reenie and Randy, I’d think you were dead.”

“I’m sor-”

“Shut your mouth before I remind you I used to work for the mob.” Colter was still, not lifting his head when you finally stared over at him. “You’re supposed to be my best friend.”

“And you’re my sister now.” There was guilt in his eyes when he looked at you but no regret. 

“I don’t need protection-”

“Well you’re getting it whether you want it or not,” he shot back. You glared at one another, your fists clenching the arm rests. “Whatever deal my brother made is so bad he didn’t even tell me himself. So no, I’m not running off looking for him and neither are you. We both know what happens if Russell doesn’t finish the job.”

You got up and headed back for your truck, a strong hand catching your arm before you could make it off the cement patio. “You’ve got about five seconds before I break your wrist in a way it never heals right.”

Colter’s chest pressed against your back, his grip tightening even further.  “Then go ahead and do it.” 

You ignored him, trying to shrug him off once, twice, finally spinning around and attempting to shove at him but it was fruitless. He stared down while you looked right back up. The only way he’d let go was if you hurt him in the process.

Images of Colter beaten and nearly dying of hypothermia flashed through your mind, your eyes squeezing shut while your head jammed itself in his chest.

“You would have died if I hadn’t looked for you,” you breathed out shakily. “What if he needs me? What if he’s already…” You couldn’t say it, couldn’t even think it. Russell was out there somewhere. He had to be.

Colter pulled you into a rare hug, holding you tight as you fought back the urge to cry and failed. You let the tears you’d been keeping in for the past month finally fall, let the fear that Russell wasn’t coming back wash over you like a dark wave you couldn’t escape. What were they making him do? Was he safe? Had he rested from his injuries? Was he injured now? Why wasn’t he home yet? And if he came back, what kind of man would he come back as?

“It’s alright, baby brother.” Your whole body turned in Colter’s hold at that voice. Spinning around, you saw Russell before you in a pair of sweats and a t shirt, feet in a pair of freakin’ slides. Where the hell-

As he approached and the flames illuminated his face, you saw the bruising on his jaw, the sling his left arm was in, the way one of those feet was in a soft cast boot. 

Judging by the guilty look in his eyes, Russell hadn’t miraculously just walked out of the nearby forest. 

“I should say I’m impressed he was about to break for you and spill the beans but you’re pretty convincing,” Russell tried to joke, losing the chuckle when you stormed in front of him. “If you want to slap me, right cheek please.”

“Are you alright?” He nodded. “How long have you been here?”

“‘Bout a week and before you rip into me because I see that look on your face and believe me, I deserve it…the job isn’t done yet. That’s why I didn’t contact you or come home. I needed to heal up before I go finish what I started.”

You hummed, stopping right in front of him, making your face blank. You quickly grabbed his shirt and clean jerked it, the cotton tearing, both Russell and Colter quietly gasping. With a quick push, you removed the material out of view and saw the stitch job on an old bullet hole, right over his heart.

“Tell me where I can find the man that ordered this job and ordered that bullet hole in your chest right now, Russell.” He sighed, your hand reaching out, grabbing the back of his neck as hard as you dared, pulling him right into your face. A flicker of fear crossed his, a thick swallow audible in the night air. “I’m sorry. You mistook that as a question it seems. Where, Russell. Or I swear to god, I’ll go poking and get the man’s attention all on my own.”

“I have to finish the job, Y/N,” Russell grumbled, jerking away, running a hand through his hair. “The only reason I’m here right now is because I needed a place to recover a few weeks and I thought Colter wouldn’t be here cause he never fuckin’ is.” 

Russell scowled behind you at his brother, sure Colter was giving it back even if you couldn’t see.

“Russell, you’re hurt. Let me-”

“NO!” Russell bellowed. You faltered back a step, Russell’s shoulder heaving, the guilt back on his face. “I’m sorry for yelling and I’m sorry for leaving like I did but Y/N, there is no scenario in which I get you involved in this even more than you already are. I do the job and we all get a pass for stealing those kids. That’s the deal.”

“How do you know there won’t be another job and another and another?” Russell lifted his chin. “You can’t know that and you-”

“Yes, I can.” Russell breathed deeply, brow furrowing. “I need you to go back home.”

You scoffed, shaking your head. “You’re out of your damn mind if you think-”

“I am begging you, quark,” his voice cracked. Some of your anger slipped, worry filling it’s place. “This is not the kind of job you can help with. Same thing I told Colter. If anyone, anyone, so much as attempts to, somebody I care about winds up dead. Maybe you. Maybe him. Dory. Mom. I made a deal with the devil and I made peace with that. So let me finish the job so we can be done with this.”

You closed your eyes, feeling a presence surround you. “At least let me give you a once over.”

A gentle hand took yours, your eyes opening after a moment. Russell slowly walked with you into Colter’s “house”. It was for the most part, a pole barn workshop with a dedicated back third for his living arrangements. 

Russell shuffled past the garage area and into the back, going to the lone bed, sitting along the edge. Green eyes flicked upwards, a look there you’d only seen once before. The same look Russell had given you a very long time ago when he’d dropped you and shipped you off back to Virginia, as if you were better off without him. Without him and his secrets.

“What’s the job?” you asked as you checked his healing bullet wound. Russell’s lips stayed sealed tight. “Any muscle weakness?”

“Just aches sometimes,” he mumbled as you checked over his shoulder. “Dislocated that.”

“You icing it?”

“I’ve been doing everything you would have wanted,” he said quietly. 

“Could have fooled me.” You squatted down and looked at his ankle, pursing your lips. “This a sprain?”

“Yes,” Russell mumbled.

“You shouldn’t be walking on a sprain.” You stood upright, crossing your arms. “You need to sit your ass down and keep this elevated for three weeks.”

Russell looked like he was about to argue that point but kept his mouth shut instead. He scooted back against the headboard,shoving a pillow under his bad ankle and glancing back at you. You shoved another underneath, shaking your head at him. 

“You know, Russ, you could have at least given your wife a damn kiss.” You started to leave when a strong hand caught yours, firm but not crushing.

“I wasn’t sure you wanted me to do that anymore. I haven’t been a very good husband.” You sat on the edge of the bed by his side, angling yourself towards him. Russell’s hand still held yours, green eyes full of a sadness you weren’t expecting. “I know I’m hurting you by keeping secrets. I meant what I said, Y/N. You don’t have to wait for me.”

“You made a deal with the devil. That’s what you said.” He nodded, scrunching up his nose. “I get the whole if you don’t do this, people will hunt us down until we’re all dead. I get that part. I get not contacting me while you were on this job. But what I can’t wrap my head around is you not calling me when you were hurt. Because you might be on this job but taking care of my husband when he’s hurt is my freakin’ job, Russell.”

“...There’s nothing more that I wanted than to go home to you. Believe me.” He shook his head. “Y/N, I want to come home. You don’t know what I’d give to just go back.”

“Deal with the devil though.” He sighed, nodding once. “You’re sure the devil will let you go?”

Russell’s lip ticked up, a boyish grin there. “This job is the sort of thing that he doesn’t want out. Mutually assured destruction. It’s why I got medical care when I got hurt instead of a bullet to the head. He knows if I die, what I know leaks. He touches my family, it leaks. He knows he can’t ever find it. So…yeah. One job and it’s done.”

“But if you’ve got the info now, why keep doing the job? Why can’t you just-”

“Because he has a secret too. Something I can’t let…” Russell trailed off, glancing over his shoulder back towards Colter’s patio where he sat in front of the fire. “...something I can’t let a certain someone know.”

“Russ…whatever you did-”

“Not me. Our father. Colter…dad did something to him. Something he can never know.” Your eyebrows shot straight up. Russell held up a hand, sighing deeply. “Not…dad loved us, him. But he did something Colter can never, never, know about. It’d change him and I’m not putting that on my little brother.”

“Did he…you know-”

“No. He didn’t abuse him. He just…” Russell shook his head out, scrunching up his face as he recalled whatever knowledge he held weighed too heavy on him. “Fuck it. It was abuse but not the kinds you’re thinking of. It just…explains some things about why he is how he is? Colter has no memory of this and I’m keeping it that way. So I do the job and this guy doesn’t tell Colter the truth.”

“Okay,” you said quietly. “I’m still pissed at you.”

“I know.” You shifted closer, brushing your lips against his. Russell leaned in, snaking his hand through your hair, pulling you in. 

God you’d missed him.

“I’ll tell you someday, I promise,” Russell whispered. “When we’re truly alone.”

“Colter or the job?”

“Both. But for now-”

“I know,” you mumbled, Russell nuzzling your cheek. “Is Colter okay?”

“...Yes. He’s just…different.” That wasn’t new to you but you let it go for now. 

“Are you okay? Whatever this job is?” you whispered. He didn’t answer, just kissed you again. Russell didn’t let you pull back to ask more questions, his mouth captivating yours, too needy for your liking. Whatever the hell this job was, you needed it over and fast. 

Or else you were afraid whatever Russell was doing would be a ghost that followed him until the day he died. 

A/N: Yikes, I really wonder what their dad did that Russell doesn't want Colter knowing about! Don't worry, we'll come back to explore this a bit more and that deal Russell made once S4 starts! 😉

[spnwoman]

Oh wow Michelle great read!! This was giving me all the feels!! Oh boy what Russell is doing to try and protect his brother and her, makes me so worried for him! And he has to keep everything secret as much as he can! I loved this! Lots of emotion! I can’t wait to see what’s gonna happen in S4! 😬

[zepskies]

30 Days or Less

Pairing: Mark Meachum x Reader

Summary: The full story. The true story of how you met Mark, with every tantalizing shade of public humiliation. You knew better than to date a cop, let alone a detective in your father’s division. But Mark Meachum was exactly the kind of stubborn and reckless man that threatened to knock every responsible thought out of your head, if he could convince you to take a chance on him.

AN: And we’re back to the beginning with this series! I was very happy that so many of you said you wanted more Mark because I had a craving, and I truly love coming back to TWDUP. It’s now gotten pretty long with the main series and post-series shots. About time we get to some more prequel shots tho. One scene in particular should be familiar to you. 😉

‼️ Remember that this is set six years before the main series, so I'm pinning Mark as 39, reader in her late 20s.

Posted on Patreon: May 22, 2026

Word Count: 11K

Tags & Warnings: Meet cute (lol), Mark being a walking warning label (his version of flirting), father-daughter dynamics, detective work and other sleuthing, the return of Rachel, and more…

🎵 Series Playlist: YouTube || Spotify

⊹ Series Masterlist

The smell of stale coffee hit you the moment you got off the elevator. It never failed to remind you of ink-stained pages, and your dad’s calloused fingers turning them.

You knew him best by the shape of his shoulders hunched over his work, like that alone could stop you from being curious.

You would hazard a peek inside his office at home, on late nights where you were meant to be in bed hours ago. But if your dad was still awake, you knew the house was safe. For some reason, as a kid, you needed that reassurance. You needed to know the monsters he caught—the ones you overheard him telling your mom about—were outside. They weren’t getting in. Not past those broad shoulders.

The memory of that cold, forgotten mug of coffee that sat as a near constant by his writing hand wafted nostalgia in your mind’s eye as you hastened down the second-floor corridors of the Central L.A. police station.

It was one of those rare days when you were actually nervous to meet your dad for lunch. 

…Okay, maybe not nervous exactly, but you knew you need to bring your A game. Today had a purpose, and you wouldn’t be you if you didn’t have a plan. 

You asked Sarah, your best friend since college, to help you prep for the interview you had later this afternoon. You found what you thought was the perfect outfit: professional, approachable, but sharp.

You had a folder balanced in one arm, the strap of your purse hanging on the other shoulder. The clack of your heels echoed in the hall as you wove your way through the building. You’d already sped past general reception, avoiding the booking rooms and various administrative offices, then taken the elevator upstairs. Your dad’s office was through these glass double doors that revealed an ecosystem of desks and cubicles, as well as various officers and personnel scattered throughout the bullpen.

The corralled chaos downstairs was for tourists. This was the Homicide division.

Phone calls, conversations and voices thrown across the room, research typed out at speed, the whirring of printers and coffee being made in the breakroom on a constant basis—it was a familiar drone that you mostly tuned out as white noise. But there was one voice you couldn’t, up ahead. It was deep, soaked in whiskey, and seemed to cut through it all.

“I don’t need to take it slow, Lieu. What I need is a real fucking case, not a milk run. Give this one to Vance. He likes traffic detail, lets him plant his ass on a corner and catch up on Below fucking Deck.”

You almost rolled your eyes as you turned the corner of a cubicle. Typical alpha male thinking his dick drags across the floor. Too good to keep people from killing each other during rush hour. Probably drives a fucking Prius.

“All right, look, wise guy—”

You heard the exasperated warning from Lieutenant Rivera, but you didn’t see the officer in question until he was shoulder checking you to the ground, startling as gasp out of you when you slipped in your heels. But his firm, steadying grip on your arm kept you from busting your chin, at least.

“Jesus!” you breathed.

“Ah, sorry, ma’am. That’s totally my bad,” he said, crouching down on bowed legs to help you pick up your scattered belongings. Meachum read the badge at his belt.

Once you got past the shock of it, you aimed a narrow look at him.

“Okay, cowboy, you don’t have to ma’am me. I’ve got it,” you said flatly. You were on your hands and knees on a dirty linoleum floor in your best interview pantsuit, your freshly styled hair getting in your eyes.

It was your big “everything” purse that got knocked over too, as in everything you might need on the day-to-day, or even in a pinch.

Which was why your head snapped up at hearing his intrigued hum. A gasp choked and died in your throat.

From his loose fingers, a lacy pair of panties unfurled like a delicate theater curtain. Dark purple. Victoria Secret.

In his other hand, he held a pack of condoms and travel-sized baby wipes. His lips twitched at a smile.

“Something tells me you’re always prepared,” he teased. 

Your face flushed and burned with increasing degrees of outrage and embarrassment. By now there were other officers and staff members eying you two, some smirking, others at least having the decency to hide their smiles and pretend to be working. Every single one of these people knew who you were, even if this guy apparently didn’t.

And if he did, it meant he didn’t care much about getting his ass raked by his boss.

You glared hard at Meachum and snatched the panties out of his hand.

“Can’t always expect a man to be packing, now can I?” You dipped a purposeful glance down his body, down to his jean-clad thighs and the taut muscles there—then back up to the amused sage of his eyes. His lips curved into a smirk.

You stuffed the panties and the rest of your shit back into the purse and managed to stand back up in four-inch heels, refusing his offered hand of help when he stood along with you.

“Don’t you want these?” he said. His eyes gleamed while he shook the condoms and wipes in his hand. “You might need ‘em in the near future.”

You bit the inside of your cheek. Don’t hold your breath, asshole.

“Keep them. Now you can say you’re packing.”

With the last word claimed, you doubled down with a swift walk-off, breezing by him to yank open the door of your dad’s office. You could almost feel the burn of the officer’s head-tilted stare on your ass.

Your face was still flushed—now mainly from repressed anger—when Dan looked up at you from his computer. His frown was telling as he took you in, then glanced past you, spying one of his usual suspects walk past through the gap in his office blinds.

“What the hell happened out there?” he asked.

You finished gathering yourself together, smoothing out your blazer and blouse underneath.

“Some asshole, Meachum,” you said. “Lacks spacial awareness, and clearly thinks he’s God’s fucking gift to women.”

Dan blinked his surprise, then huffed in lack of amusement. 

“Been back all of five goddamn minutes, and already he’s a persistent pain in my ass,” he muttered, watching Meachum continue arguing with Rivera about his assignment, all cool cocky confidence and an audacious fucking grin, as if he knew he was about to get his way. 

Dan rolled his eyes and refocused on you.

“Don’t mind him. He just got back a couple weeks ago from being on a federal assignment,” he said. “He’s just antsy to get back in the action here.”

You couldn’t help your curiosity, or the glance you made toward the detective. He was tall, a sharp jawline covered by a well-trimmed beard, his brown hair somewhat lengthy framing his face, but more tapered toward the back. His arms were crossed and likely toned under his buttoned-down shirt and brown leather jacket. He carried himself a lot like your father—like a military man. Relaxed, but controlled. 

“What kind of federal assignment?” you asked.  

Dan shot you a shrewd look. “A long one. He’s been out for a year.”

If his goal was to quench your curiosity, that only tipped another shot of lighter fluid and lit the match.

“Explains why I haven’t really seen him before,” you murmured. You’d just started making a point to have lunch with your dad during the week, ever since you moved into your own apartment six months ago. You were finally in a position where you could afford it in Los Angeles. But speaking of your job…

“Okay, anyway, let’s just go to lunch. I have something I need your input on,” you said, reminding yourself to concentrate on the plan here.

You’d take him to a place with a good burger, or maybe even a steak, and get a strong drink in his hand to lull him into a more contented state, like a lobster in a slow boil. Then you’d get him talking about the Lakers’ recent win, hitting him with the proverbial slab of butter before you came for his hard shell with the pliers.

Dan stood up from his desk and eyed your outfit with suspicion.

“My input, huh? Does it have something to do with why you’re all dressed up and made up? And why you’ve got that folder on your arm, like you’re getting ready to interview me for the 7 o’clock news.”

“Maybe.”

“Sweetheart, you know how much I love surprises,” he said dryly, “but how about you just lay it on me then.”

So much for the slow boil. You took a moment to steel yourself. 

“Actually, the interview is for me,” you said. “This afternoon.”

Again, Dan frowned. “Didn’t think you would actually leave that school. It pays well, doesn’t it?”

“Dad, being a paralegal at a private school in Beverly Hills is like being at the DMV with celebrities. All I do is file complaints. One of the assholes from How I Met Your Mother tried to get their kid’s teacher fired, just because she failed him on a midterm.”

He arched a brow. “All right. So what’re you going for, another law firm?”

“I saw an open position in the Head District Attorney’s office for an executive assistant,” you said. 

Dan’s face slackened. He raised an incredulous hand. 

“Wait, wait. Valwell? You wanna work for that fucking suit?” he said gruffly, shaking his head. “Why would you want to work for the DA? So you can slog case after case on murderers, drug dealers… I told you about the ADA who got shot and killed last year, right? Left behind a husband and three kids. That the kind of career you want to have?”

You sighed. Time to pivot.

“Dad, this isn’t anything close to actual criminals or fires or drugs,” you argued. “It’s a desk job. It’s something I know I can do, it’s got decent pay and great benefits, and it’s my foot in the door, helping the office that prosecutes criminals. I can even try to help make sure the victims get the support they need. One day, I might be able to help make a difference. You put that idea in my head, remember?”

He breathed the hot air of resignation through his nose. He could see that you were serious.

Stubborn as hell, being the usual key phrase. 

“I do have other prospects, but for this one I need a recommendation letter,” you said, and opened your manilla folder to show him the printed copy you wrote for him, leaving space for his signature.

“See? It even sounds like you. I think I nailed down your voice pretty well.”

“Honey—” 

“And it would be great to be able to say my dad, the literal police captain, believes in me.” 

Dan’s gaze returned to yours, a slight smile tugging at his lips. 

“That’s never been in question,” he said.

You smiled back. His soon fell, though. 

“Listen, I’ve told you this before. This world,” he said, tapping his fingers on his own desk. “It’s messy even within the rules, and it’s flawed across the board. The higher up you go, the more you see it.”

“I know,” you said. “But I think this one’s right for me.”

Dan could see that you were serious. You wouldn’t have come to him like this if you weren’t. At the end of the day, if either one of his daughters was going to step into law enforcement, in any capacity, he knew it would have to be you. 

He took a pen from his desk and signed the letter after giving it a cursory read. You really had nailed his voice. 

You took the letter when he was done and smiled brightly, kissing him on the cheek.

“Thanks,” you said. “How about Leonardo’s for lunch? I’ll buy.” 

He snorted, holding the door for you as you led the way out of his office. 

“Not a chance, honey. You know that wallet’s only good for showing ID when you’re with me.”

Rivera finally caved and gave the traffic duty job to Vance. At the moment, he did have the most margin in his schedule out of the patrol officers. It might mean a few more hours of work for Vance, but at least he’d get overtime. And it freed up Mark to finish the rest of his paperwork before he could officially take on another Homicide case.  

It also gave him the opportunity to watch from his desk when you stepped out of the Captain’s office. The man himself walked with you toward the glass exit doors. Mark once again got to appreciate the calm, confident sway as you walked in those heels, brushing your hair over your shoulder when a strand stuck to your lipstick. 

“We have plenty of time. My interview’s not until 4,” you said.

“Did you get the day off or something?” Dan asked.

“Yeah, I took PTO. I already know traffic’s going to be insane.”

“What you want to do is avoid the expressway. Remember the shortcuts I taught you…”

You stepped through the door he held open, all while Mark ran mental calculations on what your relation was to the Captain. You weren’t in law enforcement. That, Mark was almost certain of. You were too young to be Dan’s wife or sister. So most likely, you were one of his daughters. Mark knew there were two.

While Dan followed you out and the door began to swing closed, you happened to look back, your gaze catching on Mark. 

His lips tugged at a grin. He just couldn’t help himself. 

He shot you a wink.

Your lips pursed in annoyance. 

The glass door shut, but you were already turning on your heel, headed down the hall with the Captain right behind you. 

Mark leaned back in his chair, folding his hands on his chest. He glanced over at Finau, another detective who now sat at the desk to his left. Some new guy named Stevens had Mark’s old desk. Apparently a lot of shuffle could happen in a year, even with something as sacred as an officer’s fucking workspace.  

“You know who that is?” Mark asked, gesturing in the direction of your sexy little storm off.

Finau chuckled, a small shake of his head. 

“You don’t? That’s the Captain’s daughter, man.”

Bingo.

“Hmm,” Mark nodded. “What’s her name?”

Finau blinked, both amused and slightly beside himself.

“Bro.”

“What?”

“You really think she’s gonna give you the time of day after the shit you just pulled, in front of the whole fucking squad?”

Mark popped his brows. “I can be persuasive.”

Just then, the department’s office assistant, Vanessa, breezed between them with her cobb salad, vinaigrette on the side, no croutons. She greeted him with a bright smile.

“Welcome back, Mark,” she said, with a certain smoothness in her voice and a gleam in her eyes. He knew them well, and he gave her a nod. 

“Hey, Vanessa. Good to be back.”

“Let me know if you need anything,” she said. 

Her hand brushed his arm as she walked by. 

Finau watched the exchange, his expression wry and incredulous at the same time.

Mark gave a smirking shrug, reaching for his phone to make sure he still had Vanessa’s number saved. He could use a good homecoming. 

Finau just rolled his eyes. “Right.”

By 2:30 in the afternoon, the Captain returned alone. He called Mark over on the way to his office. The younger man followed, feeling the prickle of censure coming. He decided to be preemptive. 

“Ah, if this is about this morning, I just want to apologize for the little episode you might’ve heard about in the bullpen there,” Mark said. “That was your daughter, right? Didn’t mean to run into her like that. But she’s very, uh…”

Dan sat back in his desk chair and crossed his arms. A stoney deadpan fell across his face—one that made Mark wisely rethink his words.

“You know, driven,” he said. 

Dan snorted. “Take some advice, Meachum. You want a long career?”

Mark inclined his head. “Yes, sir.”

“Keep your eye on your fucking cases, and not my daughter,” Dan said. “Is that understood?”

Mark’s brows rose a tick, but he nodded.

“Very much so.”

“Good.”  

And with that, the Captain’s gaze cut away from the detective and down to his computer. A clear dismissal. Mark took his cue to leave the office, letting the heavy door shut behind him.

Well then. He’d just been given the first official warning. It’d probably be smart to follow this one, but when Mark thought about your testy mouth, that spark of challenge and appraisal in your eyes when you’d seized him up from dick to face…

Yeah, it was hard to put an off-limits label on that one.

Just as he got back to his desk, his phone buzzed with a call from Dispatch. He temporarily shut the thought of you away as he answered the call.

A body was found in Elysian Park.

Manuel Silva, 73-year-old Hispanic man

He got up early for his morning walk, like he did every day before he opened up shop at his family-owned insurance agency. He was murdered by a small fry drug dealer who was high himself. He just wanted Silva’s vintage leather jacket.

At least it didn’t take Mark long to track the asshole down. Within a week, he was booked and arraigned for second-degree murder.    

But Mark was also the one who had to drive down to Mr. Silva’s house on the day of the murder and talk to his wife. It was never easy to see the loved ones break down. Mrs. Silva clung to him the same way his mom had, after his old man’s stroke three years ago. 

Now, Mark was once again eyeballs fucking deep in reports.

What should perk up his day but you, strolling into the bullpen as if those glass doors were meant to open just for you.

But you still paused to say hi to Hank, a custodian you also knew by name. You gave him a genuine smile as you breezed by in an outfit that was professional, but still clung to your form in every right way. Mark found himself tracing your shapely lines with his eyes, on route to your face, and the new shade of lipstick you wore. He was partial to red.

Mark was a natural opportunist. He would’ve been remiss if he hadn’t gotten up from his desk, grabbing a few papers he had no intention of copying at the printer. It gave him a reason to cross paths with you though, nearly making a repeat of last week’s collision.

He steadied you with a light touch on your arm and chuckled through an apology.

“My bad,” he said, meeting your eyes. “Though we gotta stop meeting like this.”

You had the look of steeling yourself as you cleared your throat, curling a strand of hair behind your ear. You gave him another one of those appraising looks. He wondered just what you were thinking, and if you secretly liked what you saw.

“Meachum, right?” you said.

“Detective,” he added, injecting a little more charm into his smile as he offered you his hand. He hadn’t forgotten your name, though you hadn’t been the one to give it to him. “Again, I’m sorry about last time. I didn’t know you were the Cap’s daughter.”

“So if I was a nobody off the street, that would make bulldozing over a woman like a linebacker acceptable?” you retorted.

“Hey, to be fair, I tried to help you like a gentleman. And you generously made sure I didn’t walk away empty handed,” he said. A grin pulled at the corner of his lips, noting the way your face slid into a familiar testiness. “How’d it go with your interview, by the way?”

You paused in surprise. “How’d you know about that?”

“Your dad mentioned it last week,” Mark said. Or he might’ve overheard some of your conversation when you stepped out of Dan’s office.

“Oh, um, I think it went well, but I’m still waiting to hear back,” you admitted. “It could be a few weeks before they call me.”

“What’s the job?”

“D.A. Valwell is looking for an executive assistant.”

Mark whistled lowly. “Okay, the order side of Law & Order. That tracks. What are you, a lawyer?”

“Paralegal.”

“All right, cool. Where do you work now?”

“Uh, well, I work for a school full of trust fund kids who’d rather do blow in the bathroom than learn algebra,” you said, shifting on your feet. Mark’s broad frame was blocking your way to your dad’s office—on purpose, you were beginning to think.

The man chuckled. “Interesting. I’d like to hear more about it, but I know you’re probably here to have lunch with your dad. How about you join me for a drink tonight? There’s this chill place near downtown. Not too loud. Good beer on tap. Unless you’re more of a martini kind of girl.”

You sighed in amusement. “More of a whiskey sour girl, actually.”

“Well, what do you know. A woman after my own heart,” Mark said, his brows raising along with his grin. 

He eyed you in a subtle way, yet you’d never read a clearer danger sign in your life. 

You glanced around his arm and caught the way your dad was frowning while sitting at his desk, his firm gaze planted on you and Mark. 

“Something tells me you’re severely lacking in self-preservation,” you said, more quietly. “Either that, or you’re just that fucking cocky.”

Mark’s lips quirked. “Maybe a little of both, I’m ‘a be honest.”

You bit your lip against a laugh. “Well, I’m sorry to tell you this, Detective, but I don’t date cops.”

“Why’s that?”

“First of all, terrible work-life balance,” you said, citing the least of your reasons on your index finger.

“Mmm, fair,” Mark conceded.

“Divorce rate. Some studies say as high as 75%,” you said, adding the point to your middle finger.

“As opposed to the average?”

“40-ish%.”

“Well, we’re not getting married anytime soon, are we?” Mark teased.

Your lips tugged at a smile, but you still raised a challenging brow.

“Domestic violence,” you added onto your ring finger. “28% of law enforcement relationships, versus the average 16%.”

He acknowledged that with a nod. Unfortunately, he’d seen it happen a few times, on the force and in the military. Some people just couldn’t handle the stress of the job, what they’d seen and done, and how it fucked with their head. Some had control issues. Some guys were just fucking animals who liked the job a little too much.

“I can assure you, sweetheart, on my mother’s life,” Mark said, “I’m one of the good ones.”

There was still a degree of cocky in his crooked smile, but his eyes were serious. You didn’t know quite how to feel, only that your own sense of self-preservation was throwing up several color-coded flags in your mind. The problem was, they all conflicted.

“If you say so,” you said, in a tone of acceptance. Pending evidence to the contrary.

“While I hope none of those points are from personal experience, I’ll bet I can change your mind,” he said.

“Oh, really? Wonder how long that’ll take,” you mused wryly.

“All right, you wanna up the stakes? Let’s say…30 days or less,” he bargained. Still, with that smile that did everything to compliment his handsome features: a GQ-worthy jawline covered by the kind of beard that wasn’t too rugged, clean lines, with enough scruff to run your nails through.

There was a quiet intensity to his eyes, hunter green. And if you were honest, his voice was the kind that likely knew how to make you wet.

But you’d already had your unfortunate entanglements with men like him. Hence the dating rule. After a while, the thrill wore off, and the reminder came—the one that said you’d always be second best to the job.

“What about me is making you this tenacious?” you asked. 

“I’m good at reading people. Kind of part of the job description. But I’ve just got a feeling that you’re worth knowing,” he said, meeting your gaze. “Intimately.”

A blush flared hot in your cheeks. The man had nothing but audacity, and he knew how to sling it. 

You managed to contain your reaction though, tilting your head up at him as you crossed your arms. You were all too aware of the fact that he was close enough for you to smell his cologne, hovering just on the edge of what was appropriate in the middle of a busy office. 

Your lips parted, and you managed to unstick your tongue from the roof of your mouth.

“It’s been tried, Detective.” 

The way his gaze roamed your face, then held your eyes…it made a warm tingle run up your spine. 

Another slight smile curved his lips.

“I’ve got no doubt about that,” he said.

Despite the way you rolled your eyes and finally managed to slip around him, Mark won your smile. 

He spied the edge of it before you brushed by him to get to your father’s office.

Day 3

You hadn’t been back to the station for another visit just yet, but that wasn’t unusual. Mark found out from Finau that you came around for lunch with your dad roughly every other week. Sometimes less, depending on your schedule and the Captain’s.

You two must have been close. Mark couldn’t exactly relate. His father had been the drag you by the ear between his next beer kind of parent.

Mark subtly (carefully) asked around with the people that knew you a little better, like Vanessa. A couple of drinks after work at his favorite bar led to a couple more at his apartment, and another homecoming.

When he mentioned how often you’d been visiting the station, Vanessa told him over morning coffee that you’d recently moved into an apartment in Central Alameda. You’d asked for her opinion on nearby gyms. You even told her you tried to go three days a week after work.

But this was fucking LA. That gave him a solid 15 options on gyms within a five-mile radius. Mark decided against checking out the yoga studio and the hot Pilates just yet, and went for the LA Fitness Vanessa suggested to you first.

Mark took advantage of a free trial day promotion. He knew it was a long shot to think he’d run into you—never mind the mild creep factor of this kind of reconnaissance.

But he wanted to see if he could catch you outside of the station, where your dad’s presence loomed large and his eyes were on Mark’s back like a red-hot target.

Day 4

Captain Polenta, Mark’s old CO in the Army, always told him he was fucking hardheaded. Stubborn. Unwilling to quit while he wasn’t ahead. Until he was—until he proved himself.

After that waste of time the previous afternoon, Mark lost patience and came by the gym again after work. The difference was, he was still dressed in his normal jeans and jacket combo rather than activewear. He whipped out his badge at the front desk. Some twenty-ish Timothée Chalamet looking dude was distracted on his phone. Mark thought he heard some kind of TikTok video playing.

“Hey, man. Detective Meachum. I’m looking for someone who might be a member here. Have you seen this woman come in here in the past few weeks?” he said, holding up a picture of you on his phone that he found on your Instagram profile.

“Uh…” Chalamet’s brows knitted together as he looked over the photo. He shook his head. “I don’t recognize her. What’d she do?”

“Can you look her up by name?” Mark asked.

Common tactic to avoid giving away unnecessary information: ask follow-up questions.

Chalamet looked annoyed, but he nodded.

“Yeah, what’s her name?”

Mark gave it to him, silently wondering why the fuck he hadn’t done this earlier.

The guy was able to tell him that while you didn’t have a membership, you’d come in for your own free trial day four months ago.

Mark decided to use the same tactic across four other gyms over the next few days, until he finally found you. Rise Bodyworks. A little bougie for his tastes, but he could see you fitting in with the small sea of tights and grip sock-wearing women, with their high ponytails swishing on the ellipticals or balancing mini hoola hoops between their thighs in the pilates room.

Interesting, he thought, his lips tugging upward.

He lingered near the front desk as he scoped the place out, and soon enough, he actually spotted you on a mat in the stretch zone. You had your own pair of tight-ass yoga pants, the straps of your sports bra crossed between your shoulders, your body curving into Warrior 2 as a fine sheen of sweat glistened on your bare skin.

Jesus Christ.

He ducked out quick to grab his exercise bag from the car. He was driving some bullshit sedan while his car was in the shop with an oil leak problem.

But in a rare moment of hesitation, he had to ask himself: Was he really about to do this?

Were you worth the trouble he was sure to rack up with the Captain if this little calculated risk didn’t pay off?

Again, Mark thought of that spark of challenge and appraisal in your eyes, the cheeky curve of your mouth.

Hell yeah, he thought. Understanding an order didn’t make it a good one to follow, and he’d come this far.

You breathed through your cooldown routine, bending forward at the waist for a full-body stretch. Your arms shook a little when you went into Downward Dog. You were lost in the music playing through your Airpods and the concentration you’d managed to maintain for the past hour, until felt the vibration of steps coming toward you.

You glanced up and nearly went cross-eyed at the sight of those familiar bowlegs approaching. You almost fell over when you took in the rest of the man. He was grabbing two 25-pound weights off the rack.

“Jesus!” you uttered, your knees sinking to the mat less gracefully than you would’ve liked.

It earned the attention of the detective, Mark fucking Meachum. He glanced over your way with a look of surprise. It soon melted into a grin as he took out his own Airpods.

“Well, hey. Small world,” he chuckled, veering over to your mat.

He offered you a hand to help you stand. This time, you actually took it, if with an edge of suspicion in your almost involuntary smile.

“What, are you following me?” you said, raising a brow.

“Come on. I’ve been coming here for a few weeks now,” Mark said. “I tend to work out in the morning though.”

“I…try to get here after work, when I can,” you said. You still didn’t know if you believed him, but you supposed it was possible. “Where do you live?”

“Not far,” he said. “You?”

Kind of vague, but you guessed you couldn’t blame him. You didn’t feel comfortable telling him you lived barely ten minutes away, most of which due to traffic.

“Same,” you said. “Well, um, have a good workout.”

You grabbed a hand towel you left on the ground and began rolling up your mat.

“You done already?” Mark teased. “That was some nice stretching, but I doubt that justifies the price of this little monthly membership.”

$50 a month was steep as hell. Thank fuck Mark was able to talk himself into a free seven-day trial with the girl at the front desk.

He grabbed your water bottle for you though, even as you eyed him in contemplation.

“FYI, I’ve already been here for an hour,” you said, gesturing at your sweaty arms and chest as you patted them dry with a hand towel. “But if you’re willing to take it easy on the treadmill, I guess I could use a longer cooldown.”

Mark nodded, setting the weights he grabbed back on the rack.

“Sounds good to me,” he said. “I should probably get some cardio in first before the lifting.”

“What’s your typical routine?”

“Oh, you know, start with 25 pounds each just to warm up. Then work my way up to about 175, 205 if I’m bench pressing.”

You noted the look he aimed your way, gauging your reaction. You smiled in amusement.

“Well, that is impressive,” you said.

He chuckled again. “You don’t sound like you believe me.”

“Oh, I sure do, Detective. You’ve got meaty man muscles upon muscles. That’s got to be worth at least a Police Star.”

You had a way with sarcasm. It sounded like silent laughter in between.

“All right, I warn you. I’ll bench press you if you want proof,” he teased.    

You snorted, despite the prickle of a blush.

“That’s not necessary.”

Mark joined you at the treadmills, and you two fell into an easy walking pace side-by-side.

“Heard back on the job yet?” he asked.

You were surprised he remembered. “Um, yeah, actually. I have the second round tomorrow.”

“Good,” he nodded. “So, paralegal, huh? You aiming at being a lawyer?”

“Not so much,” you said. “I mean, that was my plan at first, since I was Pre-Law in college. But I was still studying for the LSAT when I worked for my first law firm. Defense attorneys who give the decent ones a bad name. They cared more about getting their Jag detailed than the scumbag clients they were representing.”

Mark hummed in commiseration. “I’ve been cross-examined for some cases. It’s no picnic. They’ll try anything to trip you up.”

“Yeah, because they’re assholes,” you said. “It made me realize that one day, I’d probably turn into exactly what these people were. I’d owe my cheating ex-husband alimony and let a nanny raise my kids. I’d live out of my office and survive on Red Bull for breakfast and depositions for dinner, until I’m successful enough to have the underling lawyers at the firm doing all the grunt work while I’ve upgraded to vodka tonics, trading witty repartee with rival lawyers instead of genuine conversation. That’s no way to fucking live.” 

Mark wore a faintly amused look, just watching you. You couldn’t tell if he even heard what you just said, or if he was just trying to figure out when you’d take a breath.

“What?” you asked, smiling on reflex.

He shook his head. “Nothing. I’m just impressed. I wish my suspects were more like you. They’d crack under interrogation in .5 seconds.”

You had to laugh, holding onto the treadmill to keep yourself up and moving with the pace you set. Mark chuckled and briefly grabbed your hand too, for balance.

“My point is, the paralegal thing has been my way to pay the bills while I figured out what I actually want to do,” you said, meeting his eyes. “I want to do something that matters, you know, in a good way. I’m just…open to the possibilities.”

He nodded, still amused, but more genuine too. “There’s nothing wrong with that.”

You shrugged. “Well, that’s where I’m at. What about you? Was being a cop always the plan?”

He whistled low and shook his head.

“Hell, no. Per my father, I thought I had a healthy mistrust of the whole system. That was until he had me enlist.”

Your brows rose in interest. “You were in the military?”

“Airborne Ranger, Sergeant in the 75th Ranger Regiment,” he said, taking some pride to do so, you noted.

But this time, you really were impressed.

“Very A-Team of you,” you remarked. “You probably know my dad was in Special Ops, a Weapons Sergeant.”

Mark nodded. “That I did. Kind of hard to believe he hasn’t moved further up the ladder in PD.”

“He doesn’t want to,” you said, quirking a smile. “He already resents the fact that he has to review budgets and all the other heaps of paperwork. He always says it only gets worse the higher up you go.”

“I hear that,” Mark said. “You’ll never catch me in a desk job. I’d go fucking comatose.”

You laughed. “Not enough adrenaline, huh? That why you were out for a year working for the Feds?”

He blinked in surprise.

“Well, well, look who’s done some due diligence of her own,” he teased. “You checking up on me?”

You rolled your eyes, despite your more reluctant smile.

“My dad told me. After you ran me over, I had to ask him who the hell you were.”

He hummed, gnawing on his lower lip.

“All right, what’s it gonna take for you to forgive me on that one, huh? I offered to take you out for a drink. Hell, I’ll take you to dinner. We can settle our little bet here and now.”

Your mouth pressed into a line.

“Oh, I know you haven’t forgotten about that,” Mark said knowingly. “I’m serious about it too.”

“I’m sure you are,” you replied. “Sorry, like I said. I don’t date cops anymore. Too much stress on my life that I don’t need.”

“Anymore,” he echoed with interest. “Okay, so there is a story there.”

You sighed, then laughed as you rubbed both hands over your face. You were probably smudging your makeup, but at this point you could care less.

This guy just didn’t quit.

Day 12

He didn’t manage to get your number out of you that day in the gym, but you did let it slip that you liked working out on Tuesdays, Wednesdays, and Thursdays if you could make it.

By Thursday, Mark had gotten some more stories out of you—namely the one where you’d actually dated an officer who’d gotten promoted to Sergeant a few months ago. Peter Callahan. Mark knew him by reputation: a bit of a kiss-ass when it came to the higher ups, but a solid cop overall.

It was hard for you to tell that story though. Mark saw the struggle in your eyes, the old scars that hadn’t made you hard, just guarded. He could understand that.

“Peter’s a good man,” you said eventually. “He just…didn’t have room in his life for me. Not where it mattered.”

Mark took that in with a nod, and a hum that didn’t really give his opinion one way or the other. Because that was the moment he began to doubt himself.

He started to think that maybe he should leave you alone after all.

You weren’t a Vanessa. And you wanted more than he could probably give you on his best day, after a twelve-hour shift finished kicking his ass. 

But every time he considered ending this, whatever it was starting to be, a flash of your smile, your teasing, your sharp sense of humor, or that thing you did, when you swept your tongue across your lower lip after taking a sip from your water bottle—

It all kept him reeled in, somehow willing to pay for a gym membership he didn’t need, just to have an hour or two with you. He knew he was doing too much, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that it was worth it. 

Day 18

The next time you saw Mark Meachum was in the lobby of the police station. Your dad told you to start calling him when you got there on Tuesdays. Instead of going all the way up to his office, he intended to meet you downstairs. You had a feeling it was less due to his schedule than it was the potential for…future collisions. 

Too bad one of his Homicide detectives had basically gotten your scent embedded in his brain, like a goddamn dog.  

Mark was on his way out when you were on your way into the station. The moment he saw you, a slow smile spread across his face.

“Hey, there. Been a minute,” he said, squeezing your arm in greeting. It wasn’t quite a hug, but it was close enough that you needed to crane your neck slightly to meet his gaze. Again, you could smell his cologne—musk and spice, with a hint of sandalwood. It was probably imprinted on the brown leather jacket he wore so often. It hung on his shoulders well.

You now knew just how broad and toned they were, since he always came to the gym wearing loose sleeveless shirts. He’d spotted you once while showing you how to deadlift the meager weight you could. His chest had been warm at your back, with his big, steady hands molded to the curve of your waist.

“Hey. On a case?” you asked, clearing your throat.

“Grabbing lunch real quick,” he said, a grin beginning to pull at his lips. “You’re welcome to join me.”

There was the slightest hesitation in your reply, and he didn’t miss it.

“Can’t exactly bail on my dad, can I?” you said.

“I’m sure he’d understand.”

“No, he wouldn’t. And you know that,” you said with a snort of laughter, shaking your head. “Jesus, you’re a walking warning label.”

He smirked. “Well, I promise the contents are worth a night of bad decisions.”

“One night, huh?” you said.

Mark’s lips quirked. “Your dad certainly doesn’t have to know about it.”

Your gaze lowered as you nodded in understanding. “Hmm, I get it.”

Mark paused, noting the way your demeanor began to shift on him. While he tried to work out why, you crossed your arms, your amusement fading.

“You know what, Mark, it doesn’t feel like this is about dating me. Feels like it’s about nailing the Captain’s daughter, with a side of bragging rights. Been a hot minute since I’ve heard that one,” you said. 

Mark’s mouth parted, but he found himself in the unusual position of coming up empty on something to say. He followed you though, when you started to walk away from him. He called your name, more seriously. 

“Listen, that’s not what I meant.”

You had no intention of stopping to hear him lie. You had a mind to just reschedule your lunch with your father all together. But you did pause for an older woman walking into the station. She looked uncertain, intimidated by the bustle of so many people—mostly officers and staff—in such a large, open space. 

“You need some help?” you asked her. 

“Uh, yes. I’m looking for a policeman—”

“Mrs. Silva?” Mark cut in. He stepped around you to greet her with a friendly, guiding touch on her shoulder, leading her away from the chaos of the central lobby. 

You were curious enough to linger there, just close enough to hear their conversation. 

“You have good timing. I was just about to step out,” Mark said. He reached into his pocket. “I’ve got something for ya.”

He pulled out a small plastic bag, marked Evidence. 

“I spoke to the ADA, and I was able to convince him that this wasn’t essential evidence to the case,” he said. 

Mrs. Silva took the bag with slightly shaking hands. She opened it and found a broken silver Rolex inside. 

“I can give you the number of a good repair shop,” he said, pointing at the spindly crack at the corner of the watch face. 

Mrs. Silva shook her head. 

“I got this for him on our 25th anniversary,” she said, in a soft, unsteady voice. “Manuel was a bit of a butterfingers. He dropped it the first time he tried to put it on.”

She laughed and swiped a tear from her eye, then another.

“But when he picked it up, the watch still worked. So he wore it like that for twenty years more.” 

Mark smiled. “My mom had an old shelf Dad built for her flowerpots. She kept that thing until it had rain rot and splinters.”

Mrs. Silva’s face warmed that slightest bit. She took his hands in hers, along with the watch. 

“Thank you, mijo,” she said.

She even smiled at you on her way out. You reciprocated gently and opened the door for her. But after she left, you glanced back at Mark with mixed feelings. He might not have been as big of an asshole as you thought, but he was probably still an asshole. 

He tried to close the distance between you, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Look, I’m—”

“Meachum,” the Captain said sharply. He’d just gotten off the elevator, and he met you with a hand on your shoulder. His gaze fell back on Mark. “Rivera has a case for you and Harmon. They’re waiting for you upstairs.”  

“Yes, sir,” Mark said, biting back the sting of a lost opportunity.

Dan guided you toward the exit doors. You were annoyed at his obvious meddling, even if you were finally on the same page with him. And yet, you couldn’t help glancing over your shoulder. 

Mark met your eyes for a moment, but ultimately, he didn’t have the follow through. He headed back toward the stairwell.

“A weekend cruise would be fun, but if we try to make it a girls’ only trip, Lauren’s going to throw a tit-fit that she can’t bring her man. Like seriously bitch, it’s been three months already. You can’t go three days without his dick?” Rachel said as she scrolled through her phone, looking at an Instagram reel of Top 10 Hottest Spots in Downtown LA. 

You were sitting at your mom’s kitchen table, a glass of wine in your hand while you counted the number of paisley flowers across the table. After twenty minutes of this, you were starting to zone out of your own body.

“That’s the honeymoon phase. She still likes his dick,” you remarked. 

Lisette was busy peeling garlic in the kitchen for the spaghetti, but she frowned in distaste at both you and your sister.

“Do you have to say dick at the table?” she asked. Rachel got up to grab a Celsius from the fridge.

You smirked. “You’re right, Mom. Best place is in the foyer. The acoustics are better.”

Rachel snuck up behind Lisette and leaned in close to her ear.

“Dick-dick-dick-dick-dick,” Rachel whispered, giggling when your mom grabbed a wooden spoon to swat her with.

“You both are horrible. I blame your father entirely,” she said, despite her amusement.

You snorted. Your dad, the literal army sergeant? Your mom’s attempt to implement the swear jar hadn’t even lasted through your fifth birthday.

“You married him,” you reminded her. Rachel rejoined you at the table and continued snacking on the salami and cheese Lisette put out. Your mom was nothing if not the perfect host, even when it was just her daughters coming over for a family dinner.

“Yes,” Lisette sighed. “A fact I have to contemplate every day. Speaking of, he got held up again. But he should be here by 7:00.”

“Right, so you mean 8:00,” you said, finishing off your glass of wine. “Time for more Chardonnay. What time is The Bachelor on again?”

Rachel grabbed onto your arm and held you back from leaving the table.

“Nooo, wait, you’re supposed to help me figure out what to do for my birthday!” She leaned over and showed you the list of clubs she was breezing through on her phone. “Look, this one’s new. It has a rooftop bar!”

“Why don’t we just go out to a nice restaurant. If you want to go dancing, I know a cool salsa club,” you suggested.

Rachel pouted. “I’m turning 25! I want to let loose and have some fun! You know what, I’m calling Yesenia. She’ll know what clubs are hot right now.”

You watched her go out to the back porch, restraining a sigh. You didn’t really want to be the de facto designated driver for these girls. They were mostly your friends in high school, who’d gotten used to Rachel tagging along with her older sister. But even now, they still acted a lot like Rachel, especially when they were drunk (or high).

She had a point though. It was her birthday, and she could go a little wild if she wanted to. Your job, as always, was making sure she didn’t go too far off the reservation.

A few days later, you ended up paying a whole $25 to park near Exchange LA, a trendy club in Downtown. You corralled Rachel and the other girls like herding cats—all the way from the parking garage and into the immense club. Already you could see the large TV screens and streaming lights. You felt the bass in the floor, vibrating in your chest and underneath your platform heels. 

Well, here we go.

It was damn near three in the morning when Mark handed his perp off to Murphy, one of the officers in Booking. After thirty-six hours on a stakeout, he finally caught her coming back to regroup at her mom’s house, after shooting her cheating ex-boyfriend and taking back her cat. 

But what Mark saw in one of the other female holding cells made him pause. He blinked in disbelief.

He found you, sitting on a bench with a young woman laying down with her head in your lap. Both of you looked frizzy and wrecked, your mascara and eyeliner dark around your eyes, lipstick smudged, along with a bruise forming under your eye. 

The moment you recognized him, your lips pursed, and you looked away in embarrassment.

Two other women were sitting near you—he assumed they were your friends. They were trying to sleep sitting up against the wall with the pairs of their six-inch heels resting in a line on the bench beside them. 

“What the hell?” he said incredulously. “Is this a fucking Bridesmaids reenactment?”

He looked around and realized that there were three other women in the next holding cell, similarly dressed like they’d just come from a club. And they were even more fucked up than you and yours. One girl had tissues stuffed up her nose and dried flecks of blood on her dress.

You sighed tiredly and rolled your eyes heavenward. “Of fucking course.”

“What the fuck happened here?” he asked.

“My sister’s birthday.” 

“Okay. So, what, not enough Magic Mike strippers to go around?” 

You snorted. “I’m never going to another fucking club in Downtown again. The girls hit harder than their boyfriends.”

At that, Mark frowned harder, but he nodded at the officer who came through to check on the scene. Perfect timing. 

“Hey, Murphy. Get this door open for me, would ya?”

Murphy came over, giving you and the others a once over to make sure you were fine. He was resistant to Mark’s request though. 

“They haven’t been processed yet.”

Mark’s frown deepened. 

“Don’t you know who the fuck they are?” he said, gesturing at you and your sister with a jab of his thumb.

“Yeah, we called the Captain. He said to leave ‘em there ‘til morning.”

Mark had a hard time believing that, but he showed the officer his watch.

“Well, look at that. It’s 3:00 a.m. I’d say that’s morning,” Mark snapped. “Open the goddamn cell, Murph.”

Your previous annoyance slowly melted into surprise. You perked up hopefully. 

The officer shot Mark a terse look, but the detective knew how to throw his weight. It was just enough to let him inside the cell so he could help you up, then your sister and your grateful friends. They murmured their sleepy thank yous while slowly putting their shoes back on.

“Seriously, what happened?” he asked. He touched the side of your head lightly as he got a closer look at the bruise under your eye. 

You winced on reflex, but seeing the note of concern in his eyes, you almost smiled. You finally gave in with a sigh.

“I took them to Exchange,” you said. “It was crowded and crazy, but it didn’t get bad until we were all a couple drinks in. In Rachel’s case, more like a few. This guy was all over her on the dance floor.”

“Jesus, I was just vibing,” she interjected.

“Fine, I’m just telling him what happened,” you said to her. Then you returned Mark’s gaze, more than a little exasperated. “To be fair, she was just letting loose. How the hell was she supposed to know this fucking guy had a girlfriend?”

You gestured at the cell next door. As far as you were concerned, those were the real perpetrators. “One of those bitches came out of nowhere and started running her mouth. By the time I got over there to try and deescalate, she was dragging my sister like a ragdoll, and her asshole friends were helping her. I caught a few strays just pulling them off each other. Then shitty boyfriend joined in, and it all was fucking insane. But when Security finally showed up, they didn't ask any questions on who started it, and they didn't care! They just dragged all of us out.”   

You rubbed your arm in annoyance as it all replayed in your mind like a shitty reel.

Mark noticed a bruise there too, right above your elbow. 

“I’ll take care of this,” he said.

Within the hour, you, Rachel, and your friends were free to go, as were the other girls who attacked you and your sister. As it turned out, they were vacationers from New York. They had more than learned their lesson.

Mark called the club and talked the manager out of pressing charges for the disturbance and damages, especially the glass you shattered over the skeevy boyfriend’s head.

But by then, your father arrived at the station, just in time to chew you and your sister out in his office. But mostly you.

“Fucking disgraceful,” he snapped. “How could you let this happen? You’re supposed to look out for her, not let her reenact Girls Gone Wild at the fucking club!”

You crossed your arms defensively, on her behalf. She looked sad and pitiful sitting in the spare chair, even with his jacket thrown over her shoulders.

“She’s an adult, Dad, and not a damn nun either,” you argued. “And I was looking out for her—”

“Really? Is that why you’re both all tore up, looking like a couple of scrapping junkies? You could've just called Security over, instead of engaging in a goddamn free-for-all,” he said cuttingly. “And you’re the one who wants to work for the DA’s office. What if Valwell hears about this little stunt, huh? What’s he gonna ask me the next time I gotta be in the same room with him? You oughta think about your reputation—and how it’s going to reflect on me—before you go smashing bottles over people’s goddamn heads.”

You looked away, your jaw clenching. Mark caught a glimpse of tears welling up, even though you tried to blink them back. Until now, he’d been a silent watcher from where he stood against the wall with his arms crossed. But he felt compelled to say something.

“It sounds to me like she stopped a creep from taking advantage of her sister, and his crazy bitch from thrashing her on the dance floor,” he said, earning the steely look of his captain. “I’d say that protective instinct reflects pretty well on you, sir.”

Dan held up a finger, aiming his firm glare at Mark.

“Now’s a good fucking time for you to butt out, Meachum. Matter of fact, you’re dismissed for tonight. Go home,” he said.

You looked over at Mark, a hesitation in your eyes as you blinked back their watery shine. His lips quirked, but he followed his orders and stepped out of the office, heading out of those glass double doors.

Rachel sniffled, wiping at her own tears.

Dan let out a heavy exhale. “Come on,” he said, reaching to help her up with a note of gentleness. He nodded up at you.

“Let’s go. I’ll take you home,” he said.

“It’s fine. I can drive myself. I need to pick up my car anyway. It’s sitting in a parking garage racking up an hourly fee,” you said. You swept your hair away from your face to disguise the way you brushed away any remnants of tears.

Dan hesitated. He realized then that he may have been a little hard on you.

“It’s almost four o’clock in the morning. Just let me take you over there,” he said.

“Sorry, I can’t be in a car with you right now,” you said, grabbing your jacket and your purse off the floor. You stepped out of his office and headed for the hallway elevators on aching feet.

When you stepped off, the lobby was dark and empty—except for the two night guards, and one Detective Meachum.

He stood leaning against the wall with a hand resting in his pocket, the longer strands of his hair falling forward as he scrolled through his phone. He looked up at you with a smile. Your face slackened in shock and confusion.

“What are you still doing here?” you asked.

“You left your car behind, right?” he said.

You shook your head with a huff of laughter.

“Didn’t exactly have a choice on that one,” you remarked, quirking your head. “What if I had come down with my dad? You really do have a death wish, don’t you?”

“Calculated risk,” he said, grinning a little. “I’ll give you a ride Downtown if you want. Or, I can just take you home. I’ll call in a favor and have your car dropped off at your apartment in a few hours.”

You didn’t know what to make of this guy. But you also didn’t have a lot of time to deliberate. You knew your dad and sister had to be coming down on the next elevator. Your nails tapped against your purse in contemplation.

“I’ll give it to you. You’re trying real hard to get into my panties,” you muttered. 

“It’s got nothing to do with your panties, though I know better than most what a sexy sight that is,” Mark said, earning a flicker of your reluctant smile.

More earnestly, he said, “Are you gonna let me help you, or what?”

You sighed in defeat.

“All right, Mark,” you said. “What do you drive?”

“A sexy Ford Bronco. 1975. But it’s in the shop at the moment, so I’m stuck with a Chevy. This way, please.”

He fell into step with you as you switched directions and headed toward the staff parking lot out back. He matched your slower pace to rest a supportive hand on the small of your back. You looked exhausted, cranky, and sore enough to fall ass over tea kettle.

He held the door open for you when you reached the end of the hall, and held you steady by your arms when the cooler winter air buffeted you back against his chest. 

He shrugged out of his jacket, pulling it over your bare shoulders. He liked the look of you in the little black dress you had on, even better in those heels. You murmured your thanks, your hand brushing with his when it fell away from your arm. 

You were starting to picture that Bronco he mentioned, even as you approached his rental car, a silver Chevy Cruze. 

“1975, huh?” you mused. “The year of Jaws and rioting Led Zeppelin fans.”

“You’re a Zep fan?” Mark asked in pleasant surprise. 

You smirked. “Through Good Times and Bad Times.”

He smiled too. “The Song Remains the Same.”

“Call it my ‘Immigrant Song.’”

“Only ‘In My Time of Dying,’” he replied, opening the passenger side door for you. 

You hesitated there, leaning against the side of his car for a moment. You met his eyes with a cheekier curve of your lips. 

“Good one. I guess ‘You Shook Me,’” you said, “all night long.”

You ducked into the car, and Mark shut the door for you. He jangled his keys in hand as he made his way to the driver’s side. He smiled to himself and quirked his head.

“Okay,” he said to himself.

Whatever the next hour was going to be, he was up for it.

It was still dark when he walked with you from his car to your apartment building. You punched in the code that let both of you inside the lobby. Only one hazy light was on to let you actually see the way down to the elevator, but you stopped short, slipping out of the jacket and the scent of his cologne washing over you. You handed it back to him. 

“Thank you. For tonight and…everything,” you said. Your voice was laden with more than one meaning, and he read them all.

His lips tugged upward. “You’re welcome.”

You considered him then, wondering if he was going to be bold enough to ask you how grateful you really were.

“I’ve heard some things about you, you know,” you said.

“Uh oh,” he said in amusement.

“Let’s see. My dad called you a pain in his ass. You have a reputation for being reckless, with surprisingly little regard for protocol or paperwork, for that matter,” you said, a smirk playing at your lips. It soon faded though. “One thing you do seem to appreciate is the hard work of my dad’s office assistant, Vanessa. Then there’s Anette in Billing, Officer Bella Hastings, and let’s not forget Nina, the receptionist in HR.”

His chuckle was a bit strained. He ran a hand through his hair and rubbed absently along his neck.

“Okay. You’ve certainly done your research,” he said, crossing his arms as his head tilted. “Which means you’ve been contemplating this, you and me.”

“It means, I do appreciate what you’ve done for me tonight, but I don’t think I’m what you’re looking for,” you said.  

He hummed, his gaze dipping down to your mouth, and back up to your eyes.

“Oh really, and what’s that?” he asked. “Since you think you know me so well.”

“I think you’re the guy who throws everything he has into the job, because that’s what it demands. I’m familiar with the type,” you said wryly. “So you look for what’s convenient in the half a second you let yourself breathe—between the bastard you’ve got in front of you, and finding the next one who murders a man for his fucking jacket.” 

Mark took a calculated step closer, beginning to breathe your air. 

“Think you’ve got me all figured out, huh?” he asked. 

Your gaze met his, direct and firm. 

“I’m not convenient, Mark. I’ve already been down that road, and I don’t like bullshit.”

“No, I don’t imagine you do,” he said. “And I respect that. But you gotta know, the fact that you’re telling me this after you just spent the night barefoot in jail for beating some dude’s ass—”

“I was protecting my sister, okay?”

“Exactly,” he smiled, gesturing at your frizzy hair, the strap of your dress slipping down your shoulder, and the heels hanging from the tips of your fingers. “This is just about the sexiest thing I can imagine.”

Somehow, he got you to smile. 

No matter how much you fought it, a bubble of laughter managed to escape you too.

He laughed with you, then gave into the itch to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, his thumb brushing your cheek. He got to feel the warmth of your blush. By now you’d fixed some of your smudged makeup, but it didn’t take away from your natural beauty. A rarity in this town.

Your mouth parted softly, but for the first time he could remember, you were at a loss for words.

“You know, tomorrow marks 30 days,” he said, with a teasing grin. “It also happens to be my day off. How about you let me take you out. Give me one day, and you make your judgment call on me. I’ll respect whatever you decide. But just so you know, while I also respect your father, I don’t give a shit that he’s your dad. What I’m not looking for is bragging rights.”

You bit your lower lip as you thought it over. 

At the very least, he heard you. He seemed to respect you too. He cared about you enough to make sure you didn’t spend the night in jail, and made sure you got home safe.

Your head was telling you one thing, but maybe if you gave him a chance, he’d prove you wrong. 

So, you smiled. 

“All right, Mark. You’ve got a deal,” you said. “Tomorrow around 5?”

“Let’s do it. I’ll pick you up,” he nodded.

You tacitly agreed, though a mischievous idea had you wanting to test his resolve. Smiling, you adjusted the shoulder strap of your dress back into place. You turned on your heel, hesitating on purpose as you fiddled with the back zipper at the base of your neck.

“Hey, would you mind helping me with this? I always have a hard time with this dress,” you said, sweeping your hair to the side.

Mark’s brows arched high. That certainly wasn’t what he was fucking expecting. But you had a habit of keeping him on his toes. 

“Sure,” he said, clearly his throat. 

He stepped in behind you, close enough to feel body heat. He took the edge of your collar between his fingers and started dragging the zipper down slow. He drunk in every inch of your smooth skin that he exposed.

“All the way?” he asked.

“Halfway is good,” you said. He wasn’t able to see your smile, but he heard it. 

Little minx.

Mark obliged you, but his hands lingered, his knuckles just brushing your spine. He was very tempted to lean in and lay his lips wherever you allowed him, starting with the side of your neck, and moving downward from there. But he knew, this had to be a damn test.

“Thank you,” you breathed. 

Then you walked away from him, heading toward the elevator. As you went, he watched you reach back with nimble fingers and drag the zipper the rest of the way down, past the small of your back, stopping just above your ass. He followed the natural curves with his eyes.

And his jeans were getting tight.

You turned on your heels and hit the elevator button for your floor. You met his eyes, and the tease of your smile made him shake his head in amusement. You were a cruel woman. 

“Goodnight,” you said.

“‘Night, sweetheart,” he said, just as the elevators closed. 

Afterward, he quirked his head and turned to leave. He accidently pushed on the pull handle of the exit door, making him stumble slightly. Clearing his throat, he stepped out more smoothly on the second try. He headed back to his car, like that didn’t just get caught on the surveillance cameras. 

He was taking today as a win though.

He had a date.

AN: loll not always as smooth as he thinks he is. 😆 How'd you like the very start of their story? 💛

And are you ready for the steamy continuation of their first date, directly after Pedal Down? 😏

Next Time — in One Good Try:

“Third floor, huh? I like that,” Mark said.

His beard rasped along your neck as he pressed a kiss there. He smelled like dulce de leche churros from the Mexican restaurant he took you to—like caramel, cinnamon sugar, and whiskey. You would never admit to melting a little more, your head tilting with a sigh as you braced yourself against the elevator wall. You needed the stability. 

“Why’s that?” you asked.

“Safer than the ground floor,” he said, humming in pleasure as he inhaled your perfume. “That’s nice. What’s that, Burberry?”

“Yves Saint Laurent,” you replied, smiling harder, trying not to. 

“Fancy,” he murmured against your skin. 

“It was a birthday gift.”

He wondered if your ex, Sergeant Perfect, was the one to get it for you. But he realized that it didn’t matter. Mark had a hold of you now, and he didn’t feel inclined to let go.

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[spnwoman]

Woohooooo wowzaa! What a read oh my gosh I loved this from start to finish! I have to say the way you write I can literally picture Mark and his voice and expressions!

Wow look at him just keeping on trying! 😆Especially with the gym! lol but hey he did get to know her more! 😄 and helping her, her sister and friends outta jail, getting her home and testing the waters so to speak hehe!! 😉 and look at her being a little tease right back with the zipper on her dress! 😁u go girl! 😆👌🏻👏🏻

Wow I loved this I just wanted to read more and more! Fantastic writing as always my friend! ❤️❤️🤗

[zepskies]

KEEP THE LIGHTS ON

Pairing: Russell Shaw x Reader

Summary: He picked up the phone. He ignored the shake in his hand as his thumb pressed a series of digits he’d long ago memorized, just in case he ever had to call you from a phone that wasn’t his, on a line that couldn’t be traced. This was one of those times.

AN: This can be a stand-alone one-shot, but it fits well in the Every Second Counts-verse — between Bubbly and Breaking Point. (Inspired by 3x22 but not set in that episode.)

Posted on Patreon: May 29, 2026

Word Count: 2.7K

Tags & Warning: Angst, blood, “last words,” Colter sighting, hurt/comfort, tinge of spice and implied smut

You were really gonna kill him this time.

A grunt passed between his lips as he moved his hand back an inch, catching a gnarly glimpse of oozing blood and raw flesh under the soaked bandage square.

Yep. Smothered in his sleep, that was his bet. Or maybe a little Raid sprayed on his food—that would be creative. Because you knew he couldn’t resist your cooking.

Russell groaned and tried to push himself off the wall, but his body wouldn’t budge.

“Fuck,” he muttered.

He was a sitting fucking duck here. Literally.

A labored breath escaped him, along with another rivulet seeping through his shirt. His free hand itched for the cell phone lying beside him on the cement. Backup was on the way, taking a bit long though.

Time was always the question and the challenge. The decisions in between were what he was usually good at, even in moments like these.

He picked up the phone. He ignored the shake in his hand as his thumb pressed a series of digits he’d long ago memorized, just in case he ever had to call you from a phone that wasn’t his, on a line that couldn’t be traced. This was one of those times.

The line rang so long, he was losing hope that you’d answer.

Until your voice finally greeted him, with a raspy clearing of your throat and sleep-laden confusion.

“Hello?”

His lips raised toward a smile. “Hey, sweetheart. Sorry I woke you.”

“Russ? Hey…what’s this number you’re calling me from? You okay?” you asked. He heard the shifting of fabric.

He could imagine you sitting up in bed, leaning on your elbow as the sheets slid down your body a little. He closed his eyes. He could pretend he was there with you, sliding in from behind and burying his face in the familiar hollow of your neck and shoulder. Your hair would tickle his forehead, but he’d get the flowery mix of your soap and body lotion stuck in his nose, rather than the copper tang of blood.

“Yeah, everything’s cool,” Russell said. He bit the inside of his lip as the gray ceiling momentarily turned charcoal in his vision. There was numbness in his fingertips. “Just had a minute, wanted to check up on you.”

“I’m good,” you said. “Miss you though.”

He was trying to keep his breathing shallow, but he needed a deeper one then.

“Miss you too, baby.”

“When will you be home?”

“Soon as I can,” he said, stifling another pained grunt as he shifted against the wall. “Keep the lights on for me.”

“Yeah? Last time you said that, you were held up for three weeks," you said wryly. "Think I need to collab with Dory and invent a virtual lie detector."

“You know what, maybe you should just tell me what you’re wearing. Give me some ideas on how to make it up to you when I get home,” he teased, though it ended on a shallow cough.

His gaze wandered the warehouse. It looked like it hadn’t been in use for a while, but he could smell the remnants of sawdust and mildew in the air. The only light came from the slivers filtering in through the closed exit doors, and a small window for ventilation near the ceiling.

He didn’t think he’d go out in a fucking backwoods middle of nowhere place like this, but it was as decent as any he could expect in this line of work. Good enough, if he got to talk to you first.

But you didn’t laugh like he expected.

“Baby,” you said. Concern crept back in. “For real, are you okay? You don’t sound right.”

“Yeah,” he said, clearing his throat. “Just a little tired. Waiting on someone to get here, so we can get this show on the damn road.”

Just then, he heard the sound of wide tires pulling to a stop outside the warehouse. Russell didn’t relax just yet. That could've either been his backup, or his target's delayed reinforcements. He tucked the phone between his ear and shoulder on his right side, wincing at the pain the movement caused as he reached for his gun.

“Actually, they just got here. Gotta let you go,” he said.

“Russ, wait.”

“I love the sound of your voice, you know that?” he said, flickering at a smile. “And I love you.”

“…I love you too,” you said, on a slightly unsteady breath.

He knew he hadn’t convinced you that everything was fine. You were too smart, knew him too well by now.

Regardless, he had to hang up. Then he raised his gun at an angle that still kept his elbow steady, resting against his side.

The door scraped against the ground as it opened. The man’s tall gait came in swiftly, then picked up speed. Russell’s vision might've been blurring on the edges, but he recognized that blonde head. He was able to relax, lowering his gun.

“Russ,” Colter said, grabbing his brother’s shoulder that didn’t have a hole shot through it, just inches below. “Hey, you with me?”

“Mhmm,” Russell said, as his eyes closed on him for a second. He forced himself to stay awake through sheer willpower. “Not goin’ anywhere, little brother.”

“That’s right,” Colter said more firmly. The worry was clear in his brown eyes, but he smiled anyway, digging into the small duffel he brought with him. He went for the antiseptic and the bandages first, then the pliers. “You’re lucky I wasn’t too far.”

He moved back Russell’s jacket, then tore at the collar of his grimy, blood-stained shirt.

“Who me? I’m fine,” Russell said. “I’ve had way worse than this.”

“You don’t look fine,” Colter said, trying to gently pry Russell’s hand away from the wound. “Here, let me see.”

“I’m good.”

“No, you’re not. Move your hand so I can see?”

Russell smirked. “So bossy.”

Despite himself, Colter shook his head in amusement.

“What happened?” he asked.

“Nothing I couldn’t handle. You should see the other guy.”

“Right. That’s why you called me, because you have this all handled.”

Russell’s body seized up with a flinch at Colter’s pliers seeking the fat piece of bullet still lodged inside his chest.

“Hey, have a heart, huh?" Russell complained. "Some anesthetic, please.”

It was another 18 hours before Russell’s Chevelle Malibu crossed the threshold of Wyoming’s state line, and another two before he stopped in the driveway outside the modest house he now called home.

He was slow moving as he hefted his duffel bag. Every step was a calculated trudge up the wide, white stones of the pathway. The neighborhood was quiet after dark, but the porch light was on. It was his target, and his beacon.

He unlocked the front door with his keys and found mostly darkness, except for the warm glow of the hallway light. He didn’t have time to make it there though—not when you were already hurrying out from the master bedroom to meet him.

He smiled at the sight of you in a tank-top and your most well-worn sweatpants, but you looked more relieved than happy. The kind of relief that wasn’t calm, even when your hands were on him, gripping his leather jacket like you were making sure he was actually there. He let his duffel fall those few inches to the hardwood floor.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he said, though he stiffened and grunted in pain when your hands landed on his shoulders. Specifically, his left.

You pulled back on reflex, gasping softly. You stared up at him in worry. He looked so pale...

“It’s okay,” he said, holding you by your waist. “It’s just—”

You didn’t wait for his inevitable lie. You were verging on angry as you carefully pulled down the zipper of his jacket.

“Uh, wait a minute,” Russell said, but you couldn’t be placated. You wouldn’t let him stop you from finding whatever he didn’t want you to see.

Soon, you almost wish you had.

“Oh my God,” you breathed, though it was choked by tears as you took in the blood covering the entire left side of his gray plaid.

He had a red-tinged bandage covering the area just above his heart. It was held in place by medical tape and stretchy gauze that wrapped around his shoulder and under his arm. His chest and stomach were stained with crimson blotches leading from the wound. He smelled like rust and antiseptic, grime and sweat.

He watched every shade of your reaction, from shock to dismay. In hindsight, he should've at least tossed the shirt.

“Russell, what the fuck?” you said shakily.

His hand raised to cradle your cheek, earning your attention back up to his face rather than his body. His thumb caressed your skin, brushed away some tears.

“It looks worse than it is,” he said.

You shook your head. “You need to go to a hospital."

“I already got patched up. It’s okay, just need to sleep it off,” he replied. Colter had stabilized him enough to take him to the closest ER for the stitches. Colt even stuck with him until the doctor was done, probably to make sure Russell actually sat through the whole process.

“It’s not okay,” you snapped. “It’s not fucking okay.”

You stepped away from him and retreated back into the bedroom, holding a trembling hand to your mouth as you went.

He didn’t exactly know if he was welcome, but he really needed a shower and a solid night’s sleep, and he never slept better than when he was beside you.

But you avoided looking at him as you got ready for bed, haphazardly ripping off throw pillows and pulling back the comforter. Russell noticed your laptop on the nightstand, no less than three half-drunk mugs of coffee pushed back by the lamp, as well as a small hoard of candy wrappers and a bowl of popcorn on the floor. It was near four in the morning, and you hadn’t even tried to go to sleep. Or more likely, you couldn’t.

Russell carried the weight of that guilt into the adjoining bathroom, where he started by slowly trying to take off his jacket. He got halfway through peeling the sleeve off his left shoulder before the sharp pull of his wound forced a hiss from between his teeth.

“Fuck,” he said under his breath. There were more grunts and struggles, though he tried to keep it quiet. Once the jacket was a useless pile on the floor, he got a better look at his tattered shirt and released a steadying breath, almost shrugging at himself. All right, here goes.

He pulled back the collar of his shirt, but dried blood had adhered the fabric to the sensitive skin around his wound.

“Goddamn it,” he said lowly.

The bathroom door slid open. You paused in the entryway and crossed your arms, taking in every ridiculous part of this.

For once, Russell didn’t know what to say. He didn’t want to upset you (anymore), and he had a feeling you’d appreciate a you should see the other guy joke even less than Colter had.

“Sit,” you said, pointing at the closed toilet lid.

“I got this,” Russell said. But you pinned him with a sharp look.

“Russell, sit down.”

He quirked his head. “Okay. Yes, ma’am.”

Your lips almost curved upward, but you remained firm. Your hands were gentle though; they grasped his arm and helped him sit. You started with the easiest part, kneeling down on the tile floor to unlace his boots.

Russell wanted to tell you that you didn’t have to do it, but he also didn’t want to rile you up again. Instead, he steadied himself by grabbing the edge of the counter. Guilt twinged more heavily in his heart as he watched you slide off his left boot. He tried to help you with the right one, hooking his foot behind the heel, but you laid a hand on his knee.

“I’ll do it,” you said, your gaze flicking up to his. “Just stay still.”

Russell paused, but he conceded. Soon you’d worked off his boots and socks, then slowly, his shirt. He held you to him afterward, by your hips. You saw that even his hands were stained pink. Either he’d scrubbed them raw or hadn’t scrubbed them hard enough.

“What happened?” you asked.

“Just…you know, got clipped,” he said. “It’s no big deal. As you can see, I’m fine.”

You shot him a flat look. “How did it happen?”

He sighed. “You know I can’t tell you that.”

That you did, but you hated it anyway. Your gaze once again drew to the web of bandages wrapped around his right shoulder. Your fingertips landed just beside the thickest padding above his heart. Russell’s hand covered yours.

“Thank you...and I’m sorry,” he said at last. “Didn’t mean to worry you.”

Your lips pursed. You took his face in your hands, a touch softer as you stroked his bearded cheeks. He was still too pale, but nonetheless, unfairly handsome.

“Please don’t do this to yourself anymore,” you said. “Don’t do this to me. You promised you’d be done with Horizon by now.”

Russell nodded. “I know.”

“You know?” Your brows rose. “Do you know what the past 24 hours were like for me since you called me in the middle of the night like that? I could hear it in your voice. You weren’t sure you were going to make it home.”

Your voice wavered as tears welled up in your eyes again, despite your attempts to blink them away with a sniff.

Russell didn’t have a clever retort this time. No way to downplay or tease. He had come back with a few scrapes and sprains before, but this was different. That look on your face when you opened his jacket, saw the blood and bandages, probably picturing a horror show underneath...

He wasn't ever going to forget that look. And it was better he didn't. He had to remind himself that you were a civilian. You weren't used to all this shit, the hazards of the job.

“You’re right. It’s not fair to you,” he said. “Just uh…give me a month or so to wrap things up. I already signed on for a couple more contracts.”

“You better mean it, Russ,” you said. You tilted his face upward, making sure he met your eyes. “You gave me your word.”

“I know, and I’m gonna keep it,” he said, squeezing your hips. He smiled. “To prove it, how about we reseal the deal, huh?”

You stared down at him, heaving a more exasperated sigh.

“Come on,” he said, biting his lip on a smirk. “We both know you wanna kiss the hell out of me.”

You wanted to slap him, more like.

You shook your head and pressed his face between your hands, grunting in sheer annoyance. But you still bowed your head and kissed him.

He smiled against your lips. His arms slid around your waist and trapped you against his body. He hummed at the feeling of you, of every soft curve that fit just right against him.

Your fingers slipped through his hair, gently at first. But you reminded him of your resolve with a tighter grip.

“I'm serious,” you warned, between kisses. Each one meant something different—relief, fear, yearning, passion, love, and long-suffering all at once.

He nodded, though he groaned, palming your ass as your tongue slipped against his.

“I got it, sweetheart,” he said. "Not happening again."

His hands then wandered down your back, dipping under the waistband of your sweatpants. He found you bare underneath, no panties. He was pleased at the thought as he pressed a line of open-mouthed kisses along your jaw, down your neck, earning your soft moan. His fingers trailed under your tank top next, pushing the fabric up higher and raising goosebumps in his wake.

“Take a shower with me?” he asked, with lips pressed to your skin.

“Hmph. You definitely need a shower,” you said through slightly panting breaths. You helped him stand so you both could work on getting off his jeans.

He grinned. “So that’s a yes?”

Your lips threatened a smile in return.

“That’s a, get your ass in there,” you said, but you grabbed his elbows to steady him when his broad frame teetered on his feet. “Be careful.”

His hand fell to your shoulder gratefully.

“Yes, ma’am.”

AN: lol what are we gonna do with him? 😅 I think this helps make even more sense why reader's so mad at him in Part 1 of Breaking Point.

And I seriously hope Russell comes back more regularly for season 4. That twist at the end of 3x22 is more interesting than any other episode/arc in S3 imo. Until then, hope you enjoy some angsty hurt/comfort!

Let me know what you think in the reblogs/comments! 💙🩵💛

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[spnwoman]

Oh Russell what are we gonna do with him ! 🤦🏼‍♀️😅

Awwww I loved all the emotion in this right from the start when he called her and she could just tell something was wrong… thank gosh for Colter coming when he did tho!!

Awww that ending I’d be the exact same way with him! Don’t scare the crap outta me like that again Mr! And the feels at the end awwww❤️ I loved the episode and this was so great to read I loved it to bits!!! 😁😁

[russjensen]

Jensn Ackles as Russell Shaw | Tracker 3.22

[spnwoman]

@luci-in-trenchcoats @zepskies

The hat….. the look…. Ohhhh the hat 😅😰

[luci-in-trenchcoats]

All Too Well (Part 20) - Girl Dad

Summary: One month after the reader and Ben have been released, Homelander killed, and reunited with their loved ones, the pair have found a new peace with their family. Only there's still a few surprises in store for these two...

Masterlist

Pairing: Soldier Boy/Ben x reader

Word Count: 2,200ish

Warnings: spoilers through S4, language, violence, smut, captivity, mention of torture/miscarriage/parental abuse, supes vs. humans, death, illness, adultery, threats of violence against a child, attempted murder/murder, vigilantism, mention of drug use/drinking/WW2 violence and more

A/N: Ah, here's the end finally! I've loved this series so much and am so happy I got to share it with all of you! Please enjoy and let me know what you think!

2025 - Connecticut - One Month Later

The wind whipped around you, your new parka coat keeping you warm despite the chill in the mid December air. Ben preferred the style of a traditional long black wool coat, a green tartan scarf wrapped snugly around his neck to keep him warm. 

The dark gray earflap beanie with little tassels on either side made your lip quirk up though. He hated the thing. Absolutely hated it. Grumbled about what man on earth would wear such a thing.

Yet, he wore it every time he went out the past week. All because Mabel had picked it out when you went shopping for winter clothes. You could read on his face how much he loathed it when she brought it over to show him. She was perceptive but didn’t catch his disgust.

So he wore that damn hat he’d rather see burn, made it a point to wear it. All because his daughter got it for him.

“Don’t say it,” he grumbled as the two of you walked down the quiet mainstreet of downtown.

“Wrapped around her finger...” You smiled wildly, taking his gloved hand in yours. 

“Shut up.” He bumped your hip, tilting his head up as flakes fell from the darkening sky above. “Sixty eight years ago today.”

“I’m really glad you crashed my party.” He cocked his head, lip tugging up, a question behind it. “Despite what happened, I really mean that. You’re the best thing that ever happened to me.”

“I never would have…why didn’t the Compound T kill us? We got it that night in December at the manor. All those studies the kids showed us…we should have died back in ‘57. We had no proof that original V was a protector. So why didn’t we?”

“I…don’t know. Maybe because original V was stronger? You had it in your veins. Mabel had it in her cells so…I don’t know.”

“What makes us so special?” he murmured. He stopped walking, worrying his bottom lip. “It doesn’t make any sense.”

“Guys!” Mabel waved from far down the street, pointing at the restaurant she wanted to take you to for dinner. You gave her a wave, Mabel ducking inside out of the cold. 

“Maybe she protected us? Did her shielding?” you asked quietly.

“Simpler than that.” Your heads turned, Blake walking up behind you in a navy blue waistcoat, his hair hidden beneath a bright orange hat similar to Ben’s. “I see she got you with the stupid ass hat too. At least yours doesn’t look like a traffic cone.”

“What the hell do you mean simpler than that?” asked Ben quietly. Blake shrugged. “Thanks, jackass. That cleared everything up.”

“OG V likely gave you protection from Compound T and you,” Blake said, looking you up and down, “You can survive Compound T because you just can. Genetic anomaly. S’why Mabel’s so strong. No way to prove it but makes sense.” He hummed and slipped past, turning around with a smirk. “Oh by the way, had a nice chat with Louella and Delia today. Your moms are wondering when you’re going to move your asses along and finally get married. I ever mention your mom’s a hottie, Bancroft?”

“You little cock…” grumbled Ben, Blake whistling as he spun around towards the restaurant, a pep in his step. “Can I drop kick him into the nearest ocean? Please?”

“No. He only likes to torment you because you get so riled up. Maybe if you asked your nephew nicely, he would pass a message along to Louella.”

“Yeah, like stop harassing us, ma. Why don’t you go get a boyfriend in the afterlife? Maybe find not such a dickhead this time?”

“Would now be a good time to tell you your mom is hooking up with-” called Blake, Ben taking off after him down the sidewalk. Blake had enough common sense to book it, both of them running past the restaurant. Mabel stepped outside, watching after them by the time you caught up.

“Dad’s not going to actually kill him, right?” she asked, an edge of worry to her voice. 

“No. Deep down he likes the teasing.” You both winced when Ben tackled Blake into a snowbank. “One hundred and five years old. Still acts like he did when he was six.”

“It wasn’t pretty but it was worth it, wasn’t it?”

“I loved him before I knew what love was. It’s always been him and it’s always been me. The only regret, the only one we have, is not being there when you were small.” She smiled and shrugged.

“S’okay. He would have flipped his shit during my weed phase.”

“You had a weed phase, young lady?!” he shouted from down the street. 

“I always forget about the super hearing,” she winced. “He’s not actually mad, right?”

“Considering all the shit he’s done, no, he has no leg to stand on,” you said, staring down the street, Ben rolling his eyes. He flinched when Blake hit the side of his face with a snowball, quickly dashing off into the snow with Ben hot on his heels. “Gentle, Benjamin!”

He flipped you off as he ran, a heavy sigh leaving your body. Mabel laughed. “Imagine if you guys had a boy.”

“I think he likes being an uncle to a boy but was always meant to be a girl dad. That’s what you call him, right?”

“Yeah, yeah that’s the word,” she laughed. “I hope I find someone someday I love like that. Have my own kids. Blake and I both want that. We figure it’ll happen when it’s supposed to.”

“Kids? Wait you still…” you trailed off. 

“Forever young and forever getting a period. Never get the blessing without the curse,” she half-laughed. She eyed you strangely, a quick tug up of her lip. “You still could you know. More kids. Genetically speaking of course.”

“Oh.” You shook your head. “That’s um, not possible for us. It’s okay. We made peace with that.”

“You still get a period…” she said. You raised an eyebrow. “You’ve been stealing my supplies which is totally cool. Just…maybe you don’t quite remember things how they happened? Vought told a lot of lies.” You frowned, Mabel shrugging. “Hope you guys are using protection is all.”

“Mabel, it’s not possible for me-”

“Funny thing about our powers with the mind and memories…we can’t remember our own memories perfectly but we can other people. We can tell the difference between a coma nightmare and reality.”

You stared at her, Mabel smiling before looping her arm through yours. “You’re saying…Vought told me…” 

“Think about it. Why would they use Liberty’s eggs to make Homelander if they had you who they knew could make a supe baby? Maybe the torture was just to try and get the eggs because they couldn’t but they never got any, you know?”

Your gaze flicked down to where Ben was sitting on top of Blake in the snow, shoving piles of it down his jacket. “You, you don’t know for sure. Who knows if I’m even…”

“What’s wrong?” asked Betty as she came up the sidewalk. She turned to Mabel, a frown on her face. “She looks sick.”

“She’s freaking out cause she’s just realizing she can have more kids.”

“It’s not possible,” you said, watching Charlie approach Ben and Blake farther down the block. “Bets, tell me it’s not possible.” Betty placed her hands on your shoulders, a tiny shrug making you shake your head. “No. Betty I am over a hundred-”

“I mean, I still get a period, babe. It’s very possible. Unless Ben got the snip which I doubt. I made Charlie a very long time ago.” You put a hand over your stomach, a cool sweat breaking out over your skin. “When was your last one?”

“I wasn’t exactly tracking. I barely know how to use the ephone.”

“iPhone.”

“Whatever.” You ran a hand over your head, breathing hard. “You’re saying…you’re saying there’s a chance…we could have…”

“Y/N?” Ben’s voice echoed through the air, his body by your side fast, hands on your cheeks. “Betty, what’s wrong? She looks like she’s about to vomit.”

“You can still have kids. If you wanted. Congratulations.” Ben’s eyes travelled downwards and back up fast, words caught in his throat. “We’ll uh, give you guys a minute. Come in when you’re ready.”

Betty and Mabel ducked into the restaurant, Charlie and Blake joining them with raised eyebrows. 

“Ben,” you whispered as he walked you back against the brick front of the building. He pulled you around a corner when other people came up the sidewalk, the two of you cast into a shadow. “They’re just guessing. They don’t know for sure.”

“You know she’s right, don’t you.” 

“I trust that Mabel wouldn’t lie to me. If she said my memory is false, I believe her.” Green eyes filled with worry, his thumb tracing under your eye. “Ben, we’ve never used protection. Ever. Not once in our entire history of fucking. And we’ve been going at it like every damn day. What if I’m…”

“Then you are and we will be okay. If you’re not, that’s okay too. If you want more, we can have more. But I don’t need them to be happy. You were always enough and Mabel…she’s just a bonus. Whatever you want to do, we’ll do.”

“Okay. Okay,” you breathed out, resting your head against his chest. “But you’re wearing a condom from now on. We don’t need any surprise kids popping up. Only planned ones.”

A voice chuckled nearby, a young woman bundled up in a cream white parka walking past in the alley. “Sorry. Inside joke.”

“Wait,” he said, grabbing the woman’s arm. He ripped off her hat, narrowing his eyes. He spun her to face you, pulling her over to the street light. “Y/N. Look at her.”

The woman shared a suspicious resemblance to Mabel, an oh so familiar dusting of freckles across her pink nose. The most alarming thing of all was her lack of struggle or fear at being manhandled by an apparent stranger.

“Who are you?” you asked as Ben walked her back against the wall. She looked back and forth between you and Ben, biting her bottom lip. 

“Well, I think that’s a little obvious,” she half-joked, frowning after a moment. “Sorry. I laugh when I’m nervous.”

“What’s your name?” you asked.

“Don’t really have one. People would call me Echo. Never liked it much.”

“Well, you can pick out a new one. How’d you find us?” asked Ben quietly.

“Starlight,” she whispered. “She told me…she found me at Red River after Homelander was killed, told me a lot of things.”

“Okay,” you said, a million questions going through your head. “Lets, lets go back to the house, we can talk there, okay?”

Ben plucked off his hat and popped it on Echo’s head, her big green eyes staring up at him in bewilderment. “What?” he asked.

“You’re so much nicer than Starlight said you’d be.”

“You try to kill a girl one time…” he muttered to himself. You took Echo’s hand, leading her up to the sidewalk. Mabel was walking around out front, arms crossed.

“If you guys are done making out, the reservation…” Mabel took in Echo, her eyes wide. “Uh, hi. I’m Mabel.”

“I’m uh…”

“Delia,” said Ben, pushing her back gently. The girls stared at one another, Ben smiling over at you. “How’s that sound, kid?”

“Delia’s cool,” she said. “I uh, I’m um…I’m your sister they made in a CIA lab sixteen years ago? I know it doesn’t make sense but I guess they took a couple of mom’s eggs and had some dad DNA leftover from a raid and I don’t really understand-” Mabel wrapped her up in a hug, tucking her slightly smaller frame against her tightly. 

“Relax, Del. We’re good,” said Mabel, keeping her close. Delia returned it, your head glancing up at Ben.

“You just naming our child after my mother all on your own over there?” you said quietly.

“Seemed fitting. I promise you can name the next surprise daughter.” You nudged his ribs gently, Ben tossing an arm over your shoulders, pressing his lips to your ear. “Did she say she was made in a lab?”

“Sounds like it. Then that Red River orphanage place. Can’t imagine what she’s been through.” You wrapped your arms around his waist, smiling as the girls shared a laugh. “Just when I was getting used to being a mother to a sixty seven year old.”

“She’s so young. She doesn’t just look young like Mabel but she’s a real fuckin’ teenager. This is a whole different ball game,” he whispered.

“Yup. So let’s take our girls home, get some answers, and start to figure this out,” you mumbled. “This is going to get a lot harder.”

“I know. Especially if you are pregnant.” 

“Maybe we’ll have a boy this time.”

“Limit of one surprise child a day, please and thank you.” He kissed your temple when you laughed, a smile on his face. “We’ve handled worse, don’t you know?”

“All too well, Ben. All too well.”

A/N: That's all she wrote! What do we think about the reveal of Delia at the end there and Ben and reader needing to figure out how to parent a teenager? Don't worry, we'll be checking in with this gang down the road again to see what they're up to 😉

This one was a wonderful struggle and so different and fun for me to write! Please let me know if you liked this kind of dual time periods storytelling and if you'd want to see more of that or SB fics in the future! 💚 And a big thank you to my friends who encouraged me to end up posting this on tumblr as well!

[spnwoman]

Ohhhhh I loved this!! What a huge surprise ending there!! 😮😳I did not expect a “Delia” to appear! Wowzaaa!! That’s awesome and! If she’s pregnant ohhhh boy! Hehehehe!!!

Awww Michelle this was a truly amazing soldier boy read! I absolutely loved reading them thru this journey!! Incredible writing as always!! 🤗❤️❤️

[luci-in-trenchcoats]

All Too Well (Part 19) - Someday You Will Find Me

Summary: The reader and Ben share a still early morning together while everyone recovers from the fight. But Ben can't quite help the feeling that this isn't the first time he's run into a certain someone...

Masterlist

Pairing: Soldier Boy/Ben x reader

Word Count: 4,800ish

Warnings: spoilers through S4, language, violence, smut, captivity, mention of torture/miscarriage/parental abuse, supes vs. humans, death, illness, adultery, threats of violence against a child, attempted murder/murder, vigilantism, mention of drug use/drinking/WW2 violence and more

A/N: So much softness 🥹 And we learn a few things along the way! 😉Please enjoy and let me know what you think!

2025

“How do I look?” You padded barefoot into the townhouse kitchen. Thunder still roared outside but everyone in the house was dead asleep apart from you and Ben. It was five in the morning, the house dark apart from the fire Ben had started in the living room. 

He raised an eyebrow at the silky pajama set you wore. Long sleeve top, shorts for bottoms, a pretty purple color with pink detailing on the cuffs and collar.

“I think you are going to like your fashion options much more in this century.” You smiled, walking over to the couch, crawling across a cushion and sliding into his side. He wore no shirt but had on a pair of black flannel pants Blake had tossed at him around midnight.

“Think Mabel will let me steal these?” He hummed, draping his arm over your shoulder, letting it wrap around your back. Your head rested on his pec, both of you watching the dancing flames behind the glass. “S’not a wood fireplace.”

“Fire in one press of a remote,” he said, holding up a little rectangle with circles on it, letting it drop to his other side. You burrowed in tighter, feeling the warmth of his skin on your cheek.

“I thought the rectangles were called phones,” you said softly. He chuckled, the sound easing through your bones.

“I think this place is run on all sort of little rectangles. I know some but maybe someone can make a cheat sheet for us while we figure it out.” 

“Why do you think she was afraid of us seeing her fight with Homelander?” you murmured. You rested a hand on his obliques, fingers tracing over the strong muscles under his skin.

“I have a strong feeling she’s only killed two people before. The one that tried to hurt her when she was a teenager and then Homelander last night.” His fingers continued to dance up and down your arm as you laid in silence. “She gave him more kindness than he deserved. Maybe she thought I’d think she was weak.”

“What do you think?” He was quiet for a long beat, fingers dancing over your arm.

“I think our baby girl is a better human being than I could ever hope to be.” Your chin tilted up, Ben still focused on the flames. “I would have took down the whole building without caring about a soul inside.”

“You’re a bad liar.” His lip ticked up, eyes falling closed. “You just lack the finesse but you would have cared. If you’d lived, it’d be the nightmares and drugs and drinking all over again. You have always cared. You just wouldn’t admit it to anyone, not even yourself.”

“I forgot who Ben was for a long time. It was easier to stay Soldier Boy. Although there was one weekend Legend and I went on a trip…” He flicked open his eyes, letting them stare at the ceiling in the direction of Mabel’s room. “It was a fishing trip. He begged me to go, stay out of trouble for a few days. Gave me a massive bag of coke for free for going along.”

“That must be the picture I saw at his place. You looked, I don’t know, like you in it, not Soldier Boy. If that makes sense.”

“I think I know why.”

Saranac Lake - 1981

“Jesus fucking christ,” I muttered under my breath. I slid out from behind the wheel of my Bronco, white sneakers already caked in dry dirt. I stared at the cabin, okay it was a fucking mansion if I was being realistic, about fifty feet away. Legend’s Mercedes was parked on the other side of my truck and I grumbled when I spotted him walk out the front door, two glasses of what I hoped was strong ass whiskey in hand. 

“Wasn’t sure you’d show up,” he said as he approached, frowning only slightly at my blue jeans and white polo. “Don’t you ever fuckin’ relax? Where’s the shorts?”

“It’s upstate New York in the dead of summer. On a lake. If you want mosquitos to eat your white meat go right ahead.” I smacked my arm when I felt one land on me, eye twitching when it came away with a black smudge. 

“Huh,” he said, handing me a glass as I wiped my hand on my jeans. “So even supes deal with the annoying shit the rest of us do.”

“I stopped trying to apply logic to the situation a long time ago.” I grabbed my bags from the trunk, downing my glass along the way. It had been awhile since I’d thought about my humanity. 

Knives didn’t cut me but a mosquito bite still itched. Bullets bounced off my skin but the heat of a hot burner still scorched as much as it had as a kid. A pair of lips around my dick was as sensual as the first time Y/N ever let me enter her warm-

My throat burned from the whiskey, a flash of Y/N’s smile in my mind. I wonder what she looked like now. She’d be…fifty eight in a few months. I bet even now she was gorgeous. Some wrinkles around the eyes. Some gray hairs. A smile that knocked the breath out of you.

My arm braced against the back of the truck, a heavy sigh slipping out. 

“Countess giving you shit again?” asked Legend. 

“No. Just…” I shook my head, closing the trunk hatch and walking up the drive to the front porch with him.

“If one of the side girls is giving you trouble, you know we can deal with that.” I didn’t say anything more as he showed me inside. It was modern and rustic all at once, the kind of place I’d rent to take a wife and kids for a summer vacation in another life. Legend pointed the way towards the master suite and went to pour me another drink. 

The bag was dropped on a bench at the end of the bed but my eye caught the water outside. I slipped out onto a private balcony, the world so quite and loud with nature all at once.

“Double,” said Legend a minute later, nudging the glass into my hand. 

“Thanks,” I mumbled, sipping half it down in one go.

“I was expecting you to be pissed this whole time but you seem off, even for you. I can find a new girl-”

“The girls are fine. The blonde one with the tattoo is starting to get a bit clingy though.” Her blowjobs weren’t worth the inevitable blow up Countess would have. Easier to pay the girl to fuck off back to Omaha. She really should have married that farmer guy. He was clearly in love with her but she wanted the city, money. 

Stacy Carmichael. A lovely girl who wasn’t cut out for being a side piece. Girls like her deserved good guys. Sending her home with a threat to never come back was the kindest thing I could do for her. 

I wish I could find a way to send all the girls home, back to caring families, men who’d adore them. 

“Stacy,” I said after a beat, Legend’s stare on me but I wouldn’t face him. “Her name’s Stacy.”

“I figured. We’ll-”

“Did you know that if you snort a kilo of coke at once, you’ll forget all about how awful a human being you are? It’s a neat trick. One caveat, you lose your mind in the process. You don’t use logic or think. You throw a car through a building and kill a family accidentally without realizing until three days later. You fuck a girl and leave bruises on her skin where you held her too hard but were too focused on yourself to realize the whimpers weren’t the good kind. So you do the coke again to forget and around and around it goes.” 

Legend stayed silent, his eyes wandering out to watch the water. “Don’t rip my head from my body for saying this-”

“Careful.” Legend waited a moment before breathing deeply.

“No one does the amount of shit you do for the high of it. You got demons. I always knew that. I’ve seen you enthralled out of your mind at the orgies and the premieres-”

“Elated. Not enthralled. They mean different things.” He chuckled, leaning over the railing.

“I’m just saying, I’ve known you long enough and picked up the pieces enough to know that Soldier Boy is a wonderful guy to be when you don’t want to be yourself. Soldier Boy doesn’t know the difference between those words you just said but Benjamin Bancroft does.”

I turned my body towards him slowly, making sure Legend felt the threat in the air. No one said my full name aloud. No one. It took layers and layers and layers to uncover my real identity at Vought, so far down, only a handful of people even knew the truth anymore. The old fuck Harbone. That new kid they were grooming to take over for him, Stan Edgar. My father had, the miserable bastard. At least he’d died painfully a few years back. 

Someone had stabbed him to death in his bed. Gutted him like a fish. There’d been signs of torture Vought had said. Most likely they had ordered it done themselves. Harbone had gotten tired of my fathers shit. That I knew for sure from the way he’d bitch and moan about him. No, his death had been a happy day. I didn’t even go to the funeral. Not sure anyone had.

I had made sure to go piss on his grave though with a silent pray that he was rotting in hell.

I gazed out at the lake, my mind wandering back to one of the last time I could recall being me. Y/N had left in December ‘57. My mother became more and more withdrawn after that, her fire wilted away. I never found out what happened but I figured Griffin had finally told her about all the bad I’d done and that was the final straw.

“You shouldn’t come around anymore, Benjamin,” she whispered as I brought her a bouquet of flowers for Mother’s day in ‘58.

“I don’t understand-”

“You’re a killer. A monster. I’m ashamed to be your mother.” I shook my head, holding up my hand.

“Ma, I don’t-”

“You murder children. No wonder Y/N left you. Never grace this home again.”

A deep ache settled in my bones as she stormed off down the hallway. I didn’t bother to hide the way tears streamed down my face. My father had exited his study, no longer able to utter a single word but his gaze told the message clear enough.

Get out of my house you pathetic excuse for a man.

I’d dropped the flowers on the ground and never set foot in Bancroft Manor again, not until my mother’s funeral twenty years later. 

It took another two to realize I’d fallen for his trap. My mother’s insults weren’t true. She was trying to protect me, from what I didn’t know, maybe Griffin himself, but it was her last act of motherhood and I hated myself for doubting her for so long. But it was too late by then. The seeds of doubt had sprouted into demons and those demons demanded to be fed. 

Every. Single. Day.

“Benjamin Bancroft doesn’t exist. It’d be wise of you to not use that name again,” I said to Legend. I’ll admit, Legend had balls to face me, only a sliver of fear showing on his face. 

“Well, I sure as shit ain’t calling you Soldier Boy for the next three days. You’re not on the clock. Be who the fuck you want to.” He turned to leave, my hand catching his bicep. I could feel his pulse race under his skin. He knew how easy it’d be for me to snap it like a twig.

“The last time I was Ben, I had a girl. I fucked it all up.” 

“Make you a deal, then. You tell me about this girl and take that stick out of your ass this weekend and just be a regular dude. In exchange…I’ll get Stan Edgar off your back for the next month.”

“Three months and you got a deal.”

“Done. Now tell me about this girl.”

“I don’t know. Seems shady her running off like that,” Legend said around lunch. He was only three drinks in but no way in hell was I letting him behind a wheel. He was probably fine. I’d definitely be fine. But I actually kind of liked the kid when he wasn’t coming up with conspiracy theories about Y/N.

I’d done my digging. If my father had been involved in her disappearance, I would have found a trail. No, Y/N was gone. The last trace I had was she booked a train ticket to Ottawa and then nothing. As much as I wanted to hate her, I hoped she found someone that made her happy. Even if it was some fuckin’ Canadian.

“Yeah…I’m officially done with this conversation. Let’s head into town, grab a bite.” I stood up, not waiting for him to follow. Stumbling footsteps echoed behind me and by the time I’d driven into town about seven minutes later, he was grumbling about wanting a burger and fries.

“Such a child,” I grumbled, parking in a mostly filled lot outside of what appeared to be a hole in the wall burger place. Picnic tables with umbrellas filled the surrounding area. Girls in bikinis and crop tops, short shorts on nearly every one of them. Guys in swim trunks or polos and khaki shorts. 

“Oh, I’m so getting laid tonight,” said Legend, taking off to go harass a group of college co-eds. I shook my head but let a small smile slip out. The kid wasn’t even twenty five yet. I remembered what that was like. Only difference was he actually liked being a playboy and having non-comittal fucks. That was a guy that’d never marry and if he did, it wouldn’t last. Nothing wrong with being who you were.

I left him to his own devices and ordered a cheeseburger, fries and a chocolate milkshake cause fuck it. I fuckin’ loved milkshakes. Soldier Boy wouldn’t be caught dead with such a pansy ass drink but nobody knew who the fuck I was. My beard was trimmed but not grown out. No one had seen Soldier Boy as anything but clean shaven or with a light stubble before so no one would recognize me. A pair of raybans slid over my eyes and I looked like a wealthy father snagging a bite away from his family for a minute.

I’d sat down at a table in the back just to be sure, mid chew of a greasy, delicious bite when there was a small scuffle to my right. My head turned and I immediately froze.

A beautiful brunette, maybe late teens, no, more likely twenties with a body like that, was holding a guy by the balls, fury in her eyes.

“Touch my friend’s ass again, I’ll rip off your balls in your sleep and shove them up your dick. Now get the fuck out of here before I shove my fist up your ass.” The young guy ran off for the street, the girl huffing, wiping her hand on her bare leg. She tilted her head up to the sky, her crop top riding up, a large swath of skin showing her belly before her kelly green shorts came to hide most of her bright pink bikini bottoms.

I swallowed just as she turned to face me, her head cocking in familiarity. Shit, she didn’t recognize me, did-

“You got a problem with what just happened?” I shook my head, the girl stalking over, crossing her arms down at me. I noticed her green eyes, something so strikingly beautiful about her. She rivaled Y/N’s beauty yet…I felt no spark of attraction. Only a strange sense of pride over her putting that asshole in his place. Strange. I guess I wasn’t as fucked up as I thought I was. “You sure cause you look like one of those trust fund fathers that knows a guy who knows a guy and will try to make my life miserable cause so and so’s son kept harassing my friend and I stood up for her.”

I held up a hand, burger still in the other. “Nope. Only sad I didn’t get to see how shoving his balls up his dick would work.”

“Practically, it’s unlikely. It’d require a lot of patience and I’d rather just crush one of his dingle berries until it popped.” I snorted, covering my mouth with my hand. She smiled at that, picking up one of my fries and dipping it in my shake. “I like you. You like dick jokes.”

“Most men do,” I said, the girl surprisingly taking a seat across from me, picking up another fry. “You know I’m not really-”

“You sat there and watched. Didn’t come to help. I get some of your food for that,” she said, popping another fry in her mouth. I shook my head holding up a hand.

“Wait a second, kiddo. You looked like you had that handled all on your own. I would have stepped in if he tried something.” She eyed me, taking a sip of my milkshake. “Seriously?”

“I believe you oddly enough.” She munched the fry slower, eyeing me up and down. “Still, chivalry and all that.”

“Like you wouldn’t have gotten in my face for trying to help and spouted off something about respecting women and that you don’t need a man to solve your problems?” She smirked, shrugging to herself. 

“That easy to read?”

“You just remind me of an ex is all.” She hummed, tilting her head. “Do you need something or are you just going to keep helping yourself to my lunch?”

“You dress like you’d be an asshole but…I don’t know. I think you just like pretending to be one.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because if you were an ass, you’d be flirting with me. Instead you’re more, I don’t know, like a dad.” I barked out a laugh, shaking my head. “You kinda totally are with the kiddo, not batting an eye about that guy...I think you’re secretly a good dude, Mr. Milkshake.”

“Yeah, there’s a long list of people that would disagree with you,” I half-joked. She just hummed, standing and taking one more fry, dipping it in the milkshake.

“I don’t know,” she drawled. “I’ve never heard of a bad guy liking milkshakes before.” She turned to leave, waving over her shoulder at me. “Thanks for the food, stranger.”

In a blink, she rounded the corner of the building and I heard her laugh with a pair of female voices. It was like an echo of the past. Why did I know that sound? I didn’t-

“No. No,” said Legend. I blinked, glancing up and finding him sitting down with a burger and soda. “No chicks this weekend for you.” I rolled my eyes, lightly kicking him under the table, earning a yelp from him. “You could have broken my leg, jackass!”

“If I wanted to break your bones, you’d know it.” The laugh was gone by the time my ears tuned back in, something nagging at the back of my mind, something I couldn’t quite grab hold of. Y/N drifted back into focus and I couldn’t help the pit in my stomach that formed.

She’d be so disappointed in who I was. If she’d left me before I became this version of Soldier Boy then how I was now? Pure unadulterated shame. 

Legend watched me closely, too nervous to outright call out my sudden sullen face. He was fun to fuck around with and he was the closest thing I had to a friend but he wasn’t actually one. I knew the difference. 

Charlie had never been afraid of me. It took a bit for him to stop seeing me as Mr. Bancroft, years of professionalism for the upper class ingrained deep within. But when he had relaxed, he relaxed. He taught me more about how to be a man than my father ever had. Kindness and restraint came from places of strength. Women didn’t always need a protector. Sometimes all they wanted was someone to have their back while they fought their own fight. It was a partnership, in every regard. 

Even sweet as sunshine and batshit crazy Betty…I missed that girl and her veiled threats if I ever hurt Y/N. I missed how the threats disappeared when Y/N left us all behind and Betty had sobbed into my chest, asking if she did something wrong. 

I should have moved to Connecticut with them even if Y/N had left us all. I hadn’t seen or heard from them in nearly twenty three years. I missed my friends. I missed Y/N. 

I missed being Ben.

“Do me a favor,” I said, taking a fry and dipping it in my milkshake like that young woman had, “For the weekend, can we pretend I’m not Soldier Boy. Just…just call me Ben.”

Legend waited a beat then nodded. “Okay. So what do you want to do today, Ben?”

2025

“Maybe it was her at the lake,” you said a few moments after Ben had finished his story. He shrugged. “You do realize that what you just told me, all of it, only makes me adore you more, right?”

“I just have a morally gray heart, not a pitch black one,” he chuckled.

“No one has a pure white heart. I’m okay with the gray.” Ben kissed the top of your head, breathing deeply. The floor creaked, both your heads lifting to find Mabel standing at the doorway to the kitchen. 

Her hair was down, face sleepy but freshly washed. The cut on her cheek was healed, a few damp strands of hair brushing her face. She awkwardly tucked her hair behind her ear, a large washed out gray shirt on her frame with the word Metallica in bold letters across the front. A pair of fleece light pink shorts peeked out from the bottom, Mabel tugging her shirt down nervously.

“Sorry,” she whispered. You shook your head, Ben scooting you both over before he waved his hand. She stared, Ben rolling his eyes.

“Your butt. Over here.” She swallowed, silently walking over to the other side of the chaise. She lowered her head, sighing quietly. 

“I’m sorry I-” Ben took her wrist in his hand, tugging her down to the spot he’d created. She landed with a light huff, body trapped between the corner of the couch and his own. His arm curled around her shoulders, forcing her to lay down on his far side. She blinked her green eyes in confusion, a sprinkle of freckles across her nose catching your attention. He closed his eyes, keeping her tucked against his side. “I betrayed you by knocking you guys out and going without you. A-And I selfishly told you to come into my head so I could have some childish fantasy and-”

His hand slipped over her mouth, shushing her gently. She glanced at you, worry in her eyes.

“Don’t apologize for protecting us. But now you let us do the protecting, okay?” She nodded after a moment, Ben’s hand sliding to her shoulder.

“But-” The hand went back, Mabel sighing under it.

“She gets that inability to shut her trap from you, dear,” he grumbled, still laying there with eyes shut and a smile on his face. You smacked his chest, Ben chuckling. 

“Liar,” you mumbled, reaching a hand over his chest, laying it on her back. “No apologies. No buts. Just let your father have his cuddle time. He loves cuddles. In fact-”

A heavy hand slid over you mouth, Ben sighing contently. “Can’t believe a word out of her mouth, kid. Compulsive liar. Real shame. At least she’s pretty.”

You rolled your eyes, Ben grinning ear to ear. His hands moved away, sliding down to your waist and Mabel’s shoulder, holding you against each of his sides. You let your own eyes drift closed, feeling the heat radiate from his body.

“You don’t have to-” She let out an annoyed huff, one of your eyes popping open to see Ben’s hand back.

“You’re right. I don’t have to do anything. Nothing at all.” He tipped his head down, pressing a kiss to her temple. “Do me a favor and stop being a fuckin’ dumbass, kid.”

“Old man,” she grumbled, a tiny smile on her face as she burrowed against him.

“Fuckin’ kids these days.” You smiled up at him, Ben smiling right back at you.

Love you, you mouthed. He nodded, rubbing your back. 

You stayed quiet, the room still for a long moment. The sky remained dark, rain never ceasing from crashing down around you, even as you watched the clock tick to seven and then eight. You inched out of Ben’s grasp, his other arm holding a snoring Mabel to his chest.

“What do I do?” he whispered. You stood there, committing the moment to memory.

“Stay,” you whispered against his ear, pressing a gentle kiss to his lips. “I think we have a problem though.” He raised his brow in concern. “You’re way too good at this dad thing. I’m already behind.”

“I cussed at our kid.”

“That’s how you say you love someone,” you said, kissing him again. “I’m going to try and make you coffee. Fingers crossed I don’t burn the house down.”

“There’s a lot of buttons on that machine.”

“Guys,” grumbled Mabel, sitting up, her hair sticking up wildly. She shook her head out. “Come on. First lesson of the twenty first century for you both. How to use a Nespresso because we’re a bougie family. Actually we’re not but…well, I don’t know. Point being, you don’t make coffee like you used to.”

“What did she just say?” you asked, Mabel rolling off the couch, padding into the kitchen. 

“No idea,” Ben yawned, standing with a stretch. He tossed his arm over your shoulders, wandering into the kitchen after Mabel. She held up a pair of mugs, setting one covered in pink bunnies under the machine.

“Water. Button. Mug, Turn. Capsule. Close. Magic Coffee. Unturn. Empty Capsule. Done.” You watched her do the first cup before setting it aside, waving for you to do the next one. “Yeah, like that. Just close the lid.”

She absentmindedly handed the pink bunny mug to Ben while she helped you with yours, Ben pouting. “You want me to drink out of this?”

“I made that in the fourth grade,” Mabel said without looking back at him. You glanced over your shoulder, Ben taking a sip. “Is he still standing? Or did the pink bunnies take down Solider Boy?”

You giggled, Ben rolling his eyes. “Still standing. He likes a splash of cream in his coffee is all.”

“In the fridge. Oh wait.” She grabbed some container looking object nearby, took out a carton of what you thought was milk maybe but it had the word almond on it. She poured it in the container, it made a whirring noise, then she took Ben’s mug and poured some foamy milk substance over top. “Latte. Don’t say I never did nothing for you.”

She poured the rest over your coffee, you and Ben sipping on your drinks, eyebrows raised. “Wow. This tastes like it came from a cafe.”

She turned her attention to Ben, a humming approval leaving his lips. “S’good.” He took another sip before settling it in her hands. He grabbed your hips, sitting you up on the counter top, smirking as he turned the burner on the stove nearby. “Get me out some eggs, cheese, whatever vegetables you got and butter.”

“Why?” Mabel asked. Ben tapped her nose as he went past her, already opening the refrigerator door.

“I told you already. I’m making you two breakfast. Problem with that?” She shook her head, biting her bottom lip as he went to stove, turning a burner. A funny look washed over her and your chest felt lighter. 

“No,” she said softly, eyes watching his back with the fascination only a child could for a parent, like they were watching their superhero in action. This one moment of normalcy meant everything to her. And you’d be lying if it didn’t mean the world to you too.

A/N: Read the final part here!

A/N: So much cute family vibes here! What do you think about Ben's trip down memory lane and having run into Mabel when they were both younger? Who's also cheering that Vought took out Griffin (makes sense why he was so terrified of Liberty in Hell, huh)? How do you think Ben and reader will adapt to being parents now that the danger has passed?

[spnwoman]

Awwww all the major feels here!! Loved this chapter to bits! Lots of family bonding happening for them all now!! 😁❤️❤️❤️

[luci-in-trenchcoats]

All Too Well (Part 18) - A Soul Worth Saving

Summary: The reader and Ben wake up in a quiet townhouse, post showdown with Homelander. But what actually happened?...

Masterlist

Pairing: Soldier Boy/Ben x reader

Word Count: 6,300ish

Warnings: spoilers through S4, language, violence, smut, captivity, mention of torture/miscarriage/parental abuse, supes vs. humans, death, illness, adultery, threats of violence against a child, attempted murder/murder, vigilantism, mention of drug use/drinking/WW2 violence and more

A/N: How does one kill the most powerful supe on the planet? Hm...Please enjoy and let me know what you think!

2025

You wearily opened your eyes, the first thing in your vision Ben’s green orbs fluttering open. You laid on something soft, eyes drifting past him. A dresser was against a wall beside a closed door. Another door was ajar, the interior dark but you could make out the edge of a tub inside. Ben sat up, tucking you closer in the same motion. Thunder boomed overheard and lightning flashes filled the dim room, exposing that you were in a nicely decorated, large bedroom.

“Was wondering if you two were ever going to wake up.” You both jumped back in bed, Ben’s arm in front of you as Blake leaned against an open doorframe. “I see where Mabel gets her moronic instincts from.”

“Goddammit. We need to go,” said Ben, already flying out of bed, taking you with him. 

“Ben, it’s nighttime,” you whispered, Ben swallowing thickly before taking your hand and dragging you towards the door with him. “It’s been hours.”

“Calm down,” Blake ordered, his voice washing over your brain, making it feel fuzzy and forgetful. You blinked slowly, Ben shaking his head out, hand pressed to his temple. “You going to be chill or do I have to put you both down for a nap again?”

“Mabel-”

“Is right down the hall.” You stepped past him, taking Ben with you before you quickly opened her bedroom door. She was snoring lightly on her bed, passed out cold in her suit. There was a healing cut on her cheek and her hair looked messy but her feet were bare, dangling off the end of the bed as she slept soundly. Blake slipped in behind you, rolling his eyes as she snored loudly before cooing softly. “The she-beast is fine, just needs a power nap to recharge.”

“What about your parents? Are they alright?” Ben asked. For the first time, you watched Blake’s face soften towards Ben, a small smile there.

“They’re fine. Asleep in their room upstairs. Long day for them.” Ben padded over on bare feet to Mabel’s bed, dropping his chest plate to the ground gently as he went. Carefully, he sat down on the bed beside her, tentatively running a hand over her head. He stroked a finger just under her cut, the skin red and irritated. 

“She looks peaceful,” Ben mumbled, removing her hair from the tie, gently letting it lay across her back.

“Don’t be angry with her when she wakes.” Ben stiffened but didn’t look back at Blake, instead focusing on pushing Mabel’s long brown hair over her shoulder, out of her face. “She knew you two would try to do this on your own to protect her. Don’t feel too bad about being outsmarted. She saw inside your heads, knows how you think. She already had this plan in place last night by the time you two left. The rest of us just played along until we could keep you safe.”

“Because she would have done it on her own if you hadn’t helped.” Ben finally tore his gaze away from Mabel’s face, eyes narrowed back at Blake. “You don’t like me.”

Blake crossed his arms, glancing at the ceiling. “She adored you growing up. Had a poster of you up in her room, her college dorm, first apartment. She was just waiting until she got a little older, then she was going to reach out to you. She saw the version of you the world did. The big hero. See, I’ve known you were a killer since I was a kid and could talk to the dead. So no, I didn’t like a liar like you. She was devastated when Vought said you died on a mission in the eighties. She thought, at least her parents were finally together. First time I ever talked to Griffin was when I went looking for you in hell.”

“Sorry to disappoint,” deadpanned Ben. Blake let out a dry laugh, wandering over to Mabel’s window seat, a flash of lightning brightening the night sky.

“Hey, we all fuck up in our twenties, right?” Blake sat down on the seat, gripping the edge with his large hands, head lowered. “Let’s just say…my first trip to hell was…enlightening. I couldn’t find you so I searched the other places and then I realized, I couldn’t find either of you which meant you were alive.”

“You never told her about us,” you said, sitting down on the end of the bed, resting a hand on Ben’s thigh. Blake shook his head. “Why?”

“Same reason you two wanted to go take on Homelander alone without her. Protect her. Anyone powerful enough to capture you…I’d never let them get their hands on her. So imagine my surprise when I come home from class yesterday to find you standing in the kitchen.”

“Was she angry when you told her you’d always known?” you asked softly, Blake raising his head wearily. He nodded. “That’s why she was crying so hard when I came upstairs yesterday.”

“Part of it, yeah. She was pissed but understood why I lied. Your memories…” Ben shifted when Mabel moved in her sleep, curling up against his leg, cheek resting against it. Blake closed his eyes, getting to his feet. “It probably sounds like bullshit but I am sorry. If I’d said something sooner, maybe we could have rescued you both. Neither of you deserved that level of suffering.”

“You’re a good brother to her. She’s safe. That’s what’s important,” Ben cut him off with, Blake nodding once after a beat. “You should check on your parents, see if they need anything.”

Blake made it all the way to the bedroom door before he stilled, a sorrow smile appearing on his face. “You can see her memories too, Y/N. Just like opening a door she said.” You didn’t know what that meant but nodded. “Ben?” 

“What?”

“This morning you asked if when you die, you and Y/N end up together? Just…you don’t have to be afraid of that.” Ben opened his mouth, Blake rolling his eyes. “You’re going to the good one, okay? The dead have a way of seeing whats happened and knowing things. They forgive you. Except for Rodger Ellis. He’s still pissed as hell in hell.”

“Go take care of you parents, kid,” said Ben without looking at him but you heard the lightness in his voice. The gift Blake had just given him. His soul wasn’t damned after all. Now he just had to learn to believe that.

His footsteps echoed down the hall and then up another flight of stairs, leaving you and Ben alone. His hand rested on Mabel’s relaxed back, rising and falling with her breaths. 

“I can remember again, what happened the night you left…were taken,” he whispered, smiling when you offered him one. He stroked Mabel’s back, a heavy sigh slipping past his lips. “I guess we can’t be too upset she went at Homelander alone. She’s always been our little protector it seems.”

“I couldn’t remember her,” you whispered, Ben pouting at you. “I remember you showed up at the Manor to protect me but…I couldn’t remember after that or her. What kind of mother doesn’t remember-”

“Stop.” His voice was quiet but firm. He shook his head. “We had no way of knowing. They drugged us.”

“Compound T.” He nodded.

“Compound T. They must have shot you up with it the whole time you were pregnant or some shit. I’ve never heard of it before or since…unless that’s what Homelander discovered, thought would make him immortal.” Mabel grumbled in her sleep, fidgeting uncomfortably before she whimpered softly. Ben shifted back on the bed, pulling her up some to lay against his side, her head resting in his lap. She seemed to relax again, snoring quietly. 

“Here,” you said, grabbing a blanket from a corner chair and draping it over Mabel’s body. You smiled at them both, Ben raising an eyebrow. “You’re a natural with her.”

“I wouldn’t go that far.” Still, he sat with his arm over her body, eyes downcast at her prone form. “I can’t be what she wants me to be. I mean, how many times have I tried to push you away the past two days? How many times did I when we were young before all this shit? I’ll just ruin her like I did you if I stay.”

“You still think you’re the monster,” you whispered. He shrugged, rubbing his thumb along her jaw. “Okay. Fine. You win. You’re the bad guy.”

His eyes flicked up, solemn orbs looking back. “Glad you finally got on board-”

You leaned down, grasping his jaw in your hand, pressing your lips to his. A quiet whimper rose up from his throat, confusion welling in those green eyes when you broke away, only just a mere centimeter apart.

“You don’t know you the way I do, Benjamin,” you whispered. He swallowed, breathing shallowly. You tilted your lips against his again, cupping his cheeks in both hands. “You can deny it all you want but you’re smitten with her. She’s got your heart already. So go ahead and keep thinking you’re bad because we will tell you over and over and over until someday we get it through that thick skull. We don’t need you to be perfect or sunshiny or fake. I’ll wait, however long it takes. However long it takes for you to have some peace again. I’ll fight that voice in your head that says you don’t deserve it for as long as I have to. End of story.”

“You’re the only reason I didn’t turn out like my father. Like Homelander,” he whispered. You shook your head.

“You’re not like Griffin or that fucked up brother of yours because you’ve got a good soul. It was always there. All I did was make it so you don’t have to do this alone.” You kissed his forehead, Ben’s head landing in the crook of your neck.

His lips parted, a fresh of breath air ghosting your skin. “I’ve always been terrified of having kids, being like him,” he whispered. “I didn’t want girls especially. I’d fuck up a girl so much and the world already was going to try to fuck her over just for existing. I saw what it did when we were younger and it’s still not perfect.” He inhaled against your skin, wrapping one arm around your back, pulling you to sit on the edge of the bed beside him. “But she is perfect and I will fuck up her life like I did yours.”

“I don’t think you have much of a choice, bud. She’s stronger than you. She’ll just make you be her dad one way or the other.” You smirked against his temple, Ben letting out a choked laugh. “I think she wants us to look in her head, Benjamin.”

“You think you can do it too?” You bit your bottom lip.

“She seems to think so.” You placed a hand on her cheek, touching your other to Ben’s. You paused, blinking at Ben. “Wait. Back at Bancroft Manor. I hit someone with my knife but I blacked out. Who…”

Ben smirked, his eyes lighting up. “Ah, that was you.” You cocked your head, Ben humming. “I woke up at the office in New York late. When I found the note at the townhouse the next day, I was confused. I called Charlie and Betty and was pretty out of it. I remember calling the manor to see if you’d for some reason gone to see my mother while I was out of town. Fran answered, said there’d been an accident, gas explosion or something.” His lip quirked up. “My mother thankfully was visiting a friend out of town but my father was home. He uh…”

Ben started to chuckle, grinning hard as he looked up at you. “They claimed shrapnel in the explosion severed his vocal cords. He never spoke again. He nearly died. You have no idea how happy I was to never have to hear a word from his mouth again. Looks like you got the last word.”

“You couldn’t help yourself with that one, could you?” He just smirked, pulling you closer to him. You closed your eyes, trying to focus. “Hopefully I don’t screw this up. I’ve never waltzed into someone’s head before.”

“Just…go with your gut.” You exhaled a few times, a heavy sensation like falling asleep washing over you. You blinked open your eyes, Ben standing beside you, hand in yours as you stood together in a billowly, breezy field. 

“This is…not what I was expecting.”

“I know this place,” Ben breathed out. He spun around with you, your feet nearly tripping along the way. You turned and saw a house up on a hill on the other side of the road, trees around in the distance, Ben’s hand nearly crushing yours. “That’s the house Charlie bought. Ours was…”

He nodded down the road, your eyes fixated on a bright white home not too far away surrounded by a beautiful yard with colorful flowers planted out front.

“Which house do we go in?” you whispered. He shrugged, looking between them.

“Maybe that-”

“What are you doing here?” You turned on your heels, a small girl no more than four with long brown hair, hair tied back with a blue ribbon stood before you. She wore a tank top and a pair of boys shorts, her feet bare and most of her body was covered in a thin layer of dirt.

“I’m getting serious flashbacks to you stealing my play clothes,” teased Ben quietly, the little girl lifting her chin, crossing her arms at him. “Are you Mabel Bancroft?”

“Of course I’m Mabel. You two are supposed to be looking for a door, not popping into my nice, relaxing, childhood dream.” Okay. Apparently you were dealing with grownup Mabel in a toddler’s body. Ben scoffed, eyeing her suspiciously. “Be glad it wasn’t a sex dream, pops. I’d make your fuckin’ orgies look like Sunday school.”

“Jesus fuck. Watch the mouth, especially when you look like that,” he said as you wiped a hand over your face. She rolled her little eyes, walking up to you, craning her neck to look upwards.

“I wanted you to like, I don’t know, go pop in a few memories or something, see I’m telling the truth about loving you. Instead you wound up here, in my dream,” she said with a shake of her head. “Beginner move, mom.”

“Oh, I’m sorry I’m not as well versed at entering minds as you,” you said, catching a sliver of a smile on her face. “Did you want us to leave?”

“No,” she sighed. “I guess I’ll take you there. But next time, remember doors. If you guys had been ten minutes ago…think I would have traumatized dad more than the Russians.”

Ben shot you a look of pure “what the fuck?” before she quickly grabbed his free hand, tugging you both along through the tall wheat fields. “You’re a little bossy, you know that, kid?” he informed her. She just laughed in response.

“I need my rest after oh, I don’t know, saving the world? Lot of power to do what I just did.” She guided you away from both houses and deeper into the field, walking you down the hill where a door awaited at the bottom. “Can I trust you two to go on your own now or do you need more literal hand holding?”

Ben let go of your hand, bending down and scoping Mabel up, holding her at eye level with him. 

“You done being a little shit?” She just grinned, reaching out and wrapping her arms around his neck, pulling him against her body. 

“Never. Now shut up and give me a minute, dad.” He held her small form, closing his eyes after a beat, squeezing her to him. “I knew it.”

“Knew what?”

“You’re a big old softie deep down.” He scoffed again but didn’t hide his smile from you, your heart warming at the sight of them. 

“Let your mother have a turn,” he murmured, handing her off to you. She was heavier than you expected but then it clicked for you, realization dawning over Ben’s face. “This was your dream. Getting to be a little girl with us.”

“No idea what you’re talking about,” she said, burrowing into your neck, just like Ben would.

“You brought us here on purpose, rascal.” He gently yanked on the end of her hair, Mabel wearing a devilish grin when she popped her head up. “Troublemaker.”

“I need to sleep for a long time. It took a lot of energy to…” she took a deep breath, closing her eyes. “You’ll see on the news when you wake up but the part you won’t see…I didn’t kill him. I just took away his powers…and dropped him on an island no one has or ever will set foot on. I told him that was the only way I could let him live.”

“I think you gave kindness to a man that didn’t deserve it and that’s a very admirable thing to pull off,” you said. She stared at Ben, his face blank. “Don’t you think, Benjamin?”

“I think she’s lying.” She stiffened in your arms, Ben crossing his own at Mabel. “You think I don’t know what I look like when I lie? When she does?” He stepped closer, staring her down, her breath hitching. “That’s why you wanted us to come in your head. You wanted to show us and us to tell you aren’t a monster for what you did.”

“How’d you know that?” she asked quietly. He scooped her out of your arms, tucking her on his hip, sighing gently.

“Whatever you did…you protected people by doing it. Don’t ever be ashamed of it.” He set her down on the ground, ruffling her hair. “Now go rest and let us see what you brought us here for.”

“I should go with you.” He put a hand on her back, spinning her back up the hill. “I can explain-”

“You don’t owe us an explanation. Go,” he ordered, her head whipping over her shoulder, tears welling in her eyes.

“Please don’t leave the townhouse before I wake up if you change your mind on that. Please. Let me explain if…” She didn’t notice the tear that fell down her face, her cheeks turning red.

You and Ben shared a look, your hand clasping his as he squatted down. “Do you like omelets?"

“Yeah?” She shook her head. “What-”

“Well when you wake up, I’ll make you and your mother some omelets. How’s that sound? And you cut that explanation bullshit, you hear?” Mabel raised her eyebrow at you, a soft smile on your face. You nodded, Mabel matching it back at her father. He patted her bottom, shooing her up the hill, Mabel glancing back when she got to the top. 

“She looks beautiful like that,” you whispered, Ben nodding. “No matter what we see-”

“I don’t want to lose anymore time with her,” he admitted quietly, barely a whisper above the wind. “I want…I want to start living our lives again…with our daughter, whatever that looks like.”

“Then let’s find out the truth.”

You stepped through the door, a bright light filling your vision. Each of you had to shield your eyes, dropping your arms when it faded away, a familiar setting before you.

“This is the apartment they gave me at Vought,” you said, eyes catching on Homelander standing by the large glass window, rain pelting down like bullets against it. 

“Rough day?” you and Ben spun around, Mabel walking right through you, a ghost of fear and trepidation filling your nerves. 

“Who the fuck are you?” sighed Homelander, narrowing his eyes. “Why are you dressed like a knockoff Soldier Boy?”

Mabel stopped just a few feet away, keeping her distance from Homelander. “Are you okay?”

“Again, who the fuck are you? Actually, just fuck off unless you want to die in the next ten seconds.” She lifted her head, forcing her body to stay relaxed despite all the nerves coursing through it.

“Mabel Bancroft. We share a relative in common if you hadn’t guessed yet,” she said, indicating down at her body. Homelander frowned, looking her up and down.

“You must be one of Soldier Boy’s strays,” he mused. “Figured the manwhore had at least one kid running around out there.

“Something like that. I heard he’s back in town.” Homelander hummed, cocking his head.

“He’s reconnecting with my mother, somewhere. Probably fucking in an alley for all I know. They can’t keep their eyes off each other.” He cocked his head as he stared her down. “You’re a supe,” he surmised. Mabel nodded, Homelander taking a few careful steps towards her. “So you snuck into Vought to what, meet our dear old dad at least? Is that why your heart is pounding so fast?”

“That…and I’m finally meeting my big brother,” she lied, choking out the last word. She wiped at her face, clearing her throat. All the while, Homelander’s demeanor softened, ever so slightly, as he bought the show. “I…I don’t expect anything but…I know how they’ve been treating us supes and my mother passed recently and…I figured the worst that would happen is you tell me to fuck off which you already have.”

“Sorry. I’m not in the mood to share a parent. The humans won’t be a problem for much longer. I’d tell you to hide away somewhere until it blows over but…you seem needy. I won’t have my parents attention diverted to a byproduct of one of his bitches.” His eyes glowed red for a millisecond before they were directed at Mabel and lasers shot out. She was faster though, Homelander groaning when the laser shot off a shield she’d created and bounced back at his chest. He growled, trying to step forward but freezing in place. “The fuck are you doing?” he snarled.

“Good god, I gave you a fucking chance just now. I gave you a chance to be good and open,” Mabel said, hands clenched by her sides, stepping closer to Homelander. She drifted up to be eye level with him, her eyes welling with tears. “Why’d you have to try and kill me just now?”

“You know exactly why. This ain’t going to be a sibling act.” He threw his fist out, Mabel flinching but the bubble shield she’d surrounded him in held firm. He looked around himself, quirking his lip up. “Cute trick. Wonder how long it’ll last.”

“So you’d kill a sibling, just like that?” His lip ticked up, a dark smile washing over his face. He had no remorse whatsoever over that fact. Mabel took a shaky breath. “Soldier Boy, he isn’t your father. He’s your half-brother. You feel like killing him now?”

Homelander cocked his head, laser eyes flashing again. Mabel’s fist squeezed harder, Homelander catching the movement. “He told me himself. Nice try-”

“He only thought he was. You share the same evil asshole father. Have you ever seen a picture of him?” She reached into the bag slung over her shoulders, holding up her phone. Homelander stared at the screen, a picture of Griffin from his younger days there, a spitting image of Homelander himself.

“That man’s my father?” he whispered.

“Yes. Liberty was your mother.” His eyes flared red, his fist smacking the bubble, Mabel wobbling in the air. 

“At least you’re an honest little bitch now,” he grit out. He pushed hard on the bubble, Mabel holding steady as he tried to break through. “Fine. I’ll kill them all. Soldier Boy. That woman. You. Who gives a fuck? I don’t need anyone.”

“I can take your powers away. You can be normal-” 

“Normal? Normal?! Id’ rather slit my own throat than be one of those pathetic humans.” He spit out. Mabel shook her head.

“But you are a human too. You don’t have to be this-” Homelander flew at the shield around him, jostling Mabel so hard she fell to the ground, a cut forming on her cheek from the force. He breathed hard, her head shaking. “Don’t make me do this to you. Please.”

“You know what? I won’t kill you my little niece. You’re strong and young. I can use that. Nice and young and fertile.” Ben stormed over to Homelander, swinging a fist but phasing right through him.

“I hope she rips his spine out,” he growled, breathing hard as you joined him. “He wanted to make her a…a…a baby making machine.”

“Believe me, Ben. I know.” You and Ben both fought off the building rage inside. It slowly faded as you watched Mabel realize there was nothing left to save in Homelander, her chest glowing a faint red you recognized. You stepped back with Ben, a trickle of red light softly exiting her chest and form a ball around Homelander. “How is she doing that?”

“I have no idea,” he mumbled. “I didn’t know you could…” Homelander’s eyes were wild, barking out a laugh.

“Need to drop your little shield to let those power zapping ones in. Think you’re quick enough?” Homelander laughed as Mabel shook her head. “So what’s the plan, kid? Just die? Take away my powers and I’ll go right to that drawer over there and shoot up more V.”

“Have you ever heard of Compound T?” He eyes flared wide. 

“How the fuck do you know about Compound T?” Mabel pulled a black syringe out from her bag, ditching the backpack on the ground. “Don’t you fucking dare inject yourself or so help me, making a fleet of my babies would be a damn blessing compared to what I’ll do.”

“It was created by Vought himself,” she said as she ignored him, holding her chin high. “His first failed iteration of Compound V. Now someone with the original V in their blood, it wouldn’t kill them but it would put them in a little coma, make them forget things.”

“What the hell are are you talking about? It makes you immort-”

Mabel cocked her head, the syringe flying through the sphere of the bubble, settling right against Homelander’s neck. He tried to move but she held his body still, the red light wrapping around his appendages like rope.

“Compound T has a few flaws you see. It can make a supe stronger, that’s true.” She floated over to his face, sneering down at it, the first flicker of real concern in his eyes. “Go ahead. Try your laser eyes.”

He snarled, eyes wide for a moment before they welled with fear, Homelander staring in disbelief as he tried and failed to make them shoot out. Mabel wiped away the red light from her body, swiping out his feet from under him as she caught the syringe.

“See, I got Compound T in-vitro after already being the biological child of Soldier Boy, original Compound V formula survivor. Oh buddy, you think you’re the most powerful supe?” She placed a foot on his chest, her eyes completely black, a dark smile on her face. “I could have killed you a hundred times over the years.”

“So why fucking wait,” Homelander snapped, trying desperately to push her boot off but it wouldn’t budget.

“Because I was afraid of you. Afraid to stand up. But you see my parents, they would have lost to you. Still, they were going to come here and try to stop you. The really fucked up part is my dad thinks he’s evil.” Mabel slid her boot down to Homelander’s thigh, holding him firmly in place. “He’s better than me.”

She held up the Compound T, twiddling it in her fingers. Mabel squatted down over Homelander, his hands doing nothing to hold her off as she held the needle to his throat.

“Do you know what Compound T does to people without original Compound V in their blood?” she laughed, your skin crawling. She pressed the plunger down, black streaks lighting up Homelander’s veins. “I hope you enjoy every minute of this before you rot in hell with your psychopath father.”

“What the hell…” He gasped and she let him roll to his side, curling up in a tight ball. He twitched on the floor, grunting quietly.

“Some people die instantly. Unfortunately for you,” she said, caressing his cheek, “Seems God isn’t letting you off the hook so easily. Your body will become paralyzed.” His body slowly relaxed, Mabel rolling him to his back, Homelander staring up, lips parted. “If I do nothing, eventually your heart will slow. Your lungs will stop. It’ll be like falling asleep. Now I know what you’re thinking. How did my mom survive? How did I? I’ve got original V in my blood thanks to dad and mom? Mom had original V in her blood thanks to that whole me growing in her thing.”

She grabbed his suit, yanking him upright, Homelander limp in her hold, his head lolling to the side. “Most of all though, I’m sure your curious about why you aren’t getting the benefit of Compound T like I did. After all, you had a parent with original compound V in their blood, just like me. Doesn’t make sense why you are getting the benefit, right? Except it does. Because I just depowered you and you didn’t even know it.”

“Bitch,” he gurgled, glaring at her, all that he could do.

“The worst part about all of this is you know how wrong you are about all of this, all you’ve done, and you don’t care at all. You’re just like your father. I hope you enjoy each other’s company” She dragged his body over to the window, Homelander breathing hard, Mabel lifting her chin. “Goodbye John. I sincerely hope you find a way to find peace someday.”

She flung her arm to the right, glass shattering. Rain hit the marble floor, the thunder spilling in from outside. Wind whipped her hair around, drenching both their bodies. Mabel turned, holding Homelander out over the ground hundreds of feet below. 

Her hand released the suit, Homelander dropping like a stone down. You and Ben ran over, peering over the edge. Screams were your only confirmation of his impact as Mabel had turned back into the apartment, going over to a couch and pressing a hand against it. Her body shook before she managed to walk to the backpack, picking up her discarded phone. She tapped the front of it, holding it to her ear.

“He’s dead,” she said quietly, eyes closed. Her hand rested on her hip, a heavy sigh slipping out her wobbling pink lips. “Are you guys okay?”

“Yeah, sweetheart,” Betty responded softly. “Charlie took care of Deep and Noir. I got Sister Sage. That Firecracker girl…she helped us, wants out of all of this. You’ll never believe it either. Starlight showed up as we were wrapping up.”

“Way to make us do all the hard stuff,” Mabel said dryly. “Is she…she has that tall lanky boyfriend right?”

“Don’t try to steal her man,” Betty teased, Mabel quirking her lip up as silent tears ran down her face. “They’re on their way up.”

“I’m so tired,” she whispered, sitting on the armchair of the couch, palm against her thigh helping her stay upright. “I don’t know that I can fight again.”

“We’re not looking for a fight.” Mabel’s head spun towards the door to the apartment, two figures walking around the corner, a young blonde woman and a taller guy.

“That’s the cum guzzler and the sparky bitch that got me locked away again,” growled Ben. He tensed, your hand resting on his arm. “We made a deal to get rid of Homelander and those fuckers betrayed me. They-”

“This is Mabel’s memory. They don’t hurt her,” you reassured him although you were more leery if they truly had gone back on their word to Ben.

“I’m Annie, that’s Hughie,” said the blonde. “You’re the reason Homelander is a pile of guts on the street right now?”

“Suppose I am.” Mabel forced herself to her feet, wiping at her face with the back of her partially gloved hand. 

“You don’t want to take over Vought.” Mabel shook her head. “Why kill him now?”

“He was going to kill my family when he found out the truth. He thought my dad was his dad but…it doesn’t matter. I don’t care what you do. Just try to fix the world. Please.” Annie glanced at Hughie, a gentle look on his face that made you relax.

“Soldier Boy’s your dad, isn’t he,” he said. Mabel nodded. “You look just like him. Well, not just like him. Not saying you look like a guy or unless you like looking like a guy then-”

“Stop talking, Hughie,” said Annie, Mabel wearily watching her. “Your dad tried to kill me you know. Kill a lot of our friends.”

“I know. But he made a deal with you people, a deal he would have honored. Tried to honor, before your friend changed his mind. You see a monster. I see a guy with PTSD who’s been abandoned, betrayed, over and over and over and then you guys did it to him again. He acted out of fear…and then you locked him up again. I think you’re good people, really. Try for a moment to see his side of things. Please let it end with Homelander. Let me and my family just go in peace. Please.”

“If we refuse, are you going to drop me off a building too?” asked Annie, not malice in her voice but something…softer, inquisitive. 

“I’d take away your powers.” Mabel blinked away fresh tears, swallowing thickly. “Don’t make me do that to you.”

“You’re asking us to trust that Soldier Boy won’t come hunt us down. He has this track record of doing that.” 

“I’m not asking you to trust him. I’m asking you trust me, the person that just killed your problem for you. The person that’ll turn all this over to you without a second glance back. I know you won’t fuck everyone over.” Mabel steadied herself, her face hardening so fast it took you and Ben both aback. “I just killed my own uncle. I will kill my father if took one step out of line if that’s what it takes to make sure nothing like this happens again. But you burn this whole thing down. Burn it all the fuck down. Because if I get a whiff that shady shit is happening from you?”

Mabel got into Annie’s face, a confidence to her that made the other woman step back. “I killed the supposedly most powerful supe in the world with just a scratch to show for it. I won’t even break a sweat destroying you if you try to take power like he did. Do we have an understanding?”

“As long as you understand if Soldier Boy-” 

“Get off that fucking high horse of yours. You’re down here in the dirt with the rest of us. At least I’m not pretending I don’t have blood on my hands,” Mabel snapped. Hughie’s breathing picked up, Annie furrowing her brow. “My dad won’t bother you. Now get over the fact I’m stronger than you, say you agree and leave it at that.”

“Annie,” Hughie murmured. “I don’t think he’ll come after us. Just say you’re cool with it.”

“There’s nothing you can say to make me believe you,” said Annie. Mabel laughed dryly, running a hand over her head, one on her hip. “I’m sorry but he has proven that he’ll come after people. He needs to go back on ice.”

“Fear is a bad counselor,” Mabel said, Annie’s face distorting in confusion. “French proverb. If you let fear dictate your decisions, you may come to regret those choices.”

“He’ll attack us. He hates us.”

“If you attack him unprompted, I’ll consider it an act of war,” said Mabel. Her eyes flickered to Hughie, his own eyes glaring at Annie. “Your boyfriend looks like he’s on my side.”

“We can’t trust-”

“Then don’t. Mutually assured destruction. That’s what is on the table if you think about attacking him. Or should I follow your lead and deal with you right now?” Mabel’s eye twitched, Annie’s glowing back. 

“Annie, stop.” Hughie grabbed her shoulder, her eyes dimming as he spun her towards him. “Stop. Homelander is dead. We can fix things. Soldier Boy isn’t going to come looking for us.”

“How do you know that? How do you know he won’t change his mind?”

“Because that couple downstairs would have killed us if he was really out for revenge. We’re not the bad guys. We can’t act like it and just kill him because you’re afraid. That’s not us.”

“Fine,” she said quietly, Mabel nodding. “Why do you trust us?”

“You annoy me, no offense.” She gazed at Hughie, a gentleness to her face. “But he doesn’t have powers and yet he still came here, to try and save the world. That’s a good man and I can trust that. I just hope someday you can believe me when I say my father was going to come here to do the same thing.”

“Why-”

“The non-bullshit answer? I stopped them, made them take a long nap…all because I just got them and I’m terrified of losing them. Someone took me away from them. So don’t take them away again.” 

“Just…” Annie reached into a backpack she had, tossing a black ski mask at Mabel. “Put that on. Don’t let anyone see who you are.”

“Thank you,” she said, grabbing her own bag, quickly walking past them. “Annie?”

She glanced back. 

“You have no idea how lucky you are to have someone that would walk into hell with you by your side.” 

A/N: Read Part 19 here!

A/N: Oh man, they really did it! What did you think of Mabel having a plan behind her parents back? Of Ben and Blake seeming to resolve their issues? Of the reader using Mabel's mind trick to see what happened? Of that cute little family moment and Mabel's fears of her parents thinking she wasn't good for killing Homelander the way she did? What do you think will happen next? 👀

[spnwoman]

Wowzaaa! What a incredible chapter!! Awww Ben definitely loves his girl and he’s being a great dad! Going in her dream was really neat! And wow!! She did it! She got him!!! Way to go Mabel! She is definitely very very strong with her powers! This was an exciting intense chapter!!

[luci-in-trenchcoats]

All Too Well (Part 17) - December 12, 1957

Summary: The reader arrives at Bancroft Manor on the night of December 12th where she'll finally learn just how evil Griffin Bancroft truly is...

Masterlist

Pairing: Soldier Boy/Ben x reader

Word Count: 3,800ish

Warnings: spoilers through S4, language, violence, smut, captivity, mention of torture/miscarriage/parental abuse, supes vs. humans, death, illness, adultery, threats of violence against a child, attempted murder/murder, vigilantism, mention of drug use/drinking/WW2 violence and more

A/N: Here she finally is! This is one of my absolute favorite parts for good reason! Please enjoy and let me know what you think!

1957 - December 12th - 8pm

Snow came down hard by the time you arrived at Bancroft Manor. You ducked out of the car and under the covered front area, not surprised that no one answered when you rang the bell. You weren’t exactly a welcome guest by Griffin’s standards.

You entered the first set of doors and then the other pair, wiping your snow covered boots off on the front rug. The house felt quieter than normal as you removed your coat and scarf. “Louella?”

It was darker than usual in the manor, only some of the lights on. A figure stood from the living room, the glow of the fireplace casting him in shadows.

“Y/N,” said Griffin. You hummed, ignoring him as you tossed your belongings over the closest banister, not caring to tidy them away in a coat closet. 

“Is Louella upstairs?” He sighed, wiping a hand over his face.

“I told her you were on your way but she smoked one of Fran’s…herbal supplements and fell asleep. I’m assuming she’ll wake shortly.” You rolled your eyes, reaching for your coat. Griffin strode over fast, blocking you from retrieving it. “Stay a few minutes. If she doesn’t wake soon, she can meet you tomorrow at the townhouse. Alright?”

You sighed, checking the grandfather clock nearby. It was only a few minutes after eight. “Fine.”

Griffin carried a glass of his favorite whiskey in hand, crossing the foyer back to the threshold of the family room. He kept his back to you, casting a long shadow into the dim foyer. “I’m sure you wonder why Louella won’t leave me.”

“It’s not hard to understand. She loves a version of you from when you were young and she doesn’t give up that he’ll come back. It’s naive of her but…we don’t pick who we fall for.” Griffin was silent, swallowing around the liquor surely burning his throat.

“Her family had ties to ore manufacturing. Not Bancroft wealth but she came from money. My father saw an opportunity.” You stepped into the threshold, Griffin’s unfocused gaze on the flickering flames. “I courted her as instructed, a perfect gentleman. Her father was suspicious but when she fell pregnant with Benjamin, we hastily put together a wedding to protect her honor. It’s different now. Back then, that kind of scandal could have lost her father deals. My father had influence.”

“Let me guess, your father took control of Louella’s fathers company.” Griffin hummed, taking another sip.

“We let him have a healthy amount of live off of but Bancroft Industries took over the ore business. It exploded our business having the raw product under our control. Louella never found out any of this. Her father attempted to tell her when a crisis of conscience struck but we took care of that. Scandal is easily covered up. By that point, Benjamin was a toddler and Louella would never leave me. She still loved me back then. Now she loves a ghost of a memory.”

“Did you ever…love her?” He shook his head. You glanced down. “Why care if she goes then?”

“Image is everything. The Bancroft family will stay in power, no matter the cost. She understands this.”

“That’s why you hate Ben.” He turned his head, yours raising to meet it. “You sacrificed a life you wanted, finding someone you actually loved, all because you were ordered to. Ben wouldn’t follow your orders.”

“He was always too weak. I hoped he could change but I wasn’t home enough. Louella was much softer than my mother. Delia babied him. You…you he was obsessed with. When Delia brought you home, he would sneak into the staff quarters and read you his books, sing you lullabies. I simply thought he was curious about a baby and wanted a sibling. Louella had complications and we knew having more children would have been difficult. I figured he’d grow bored of you when he got older.”

Griffin chuckled to himself, looking you up and down. “I got that one wrong, didn’t I.”

“You used to love him, at some point.” He shrugged, your gut churning.

“I think we use that word differently. I don’t think I felt it the way you did…he did. I knew I’d lost him forever when I discovered he’d planned on asking you to marry him, run away with you while you went to university. He would always pick you over this family.”

“So you threatened to kill me if he didn’t break my heart.”

“Little brat cut you out but then he had to go and become that freak of nature. S’hard to discipline when he can punch a hole through your chest.” You looked back over your shoulder, understanding the stillness to the house. 

“Louella’s not here. Or the staff. Are they?” He shook his head. “So why am I?”

“The amount of money he makes for Vought, the projections, the plans for the company…he’s not allowed to quit. Soldier Boy doesn’t get to quit.” He lifted his chin, finishing off the glass before setting it down on an end table. You caught movement outside, a pair of men coming in through the back doors. Your eyes flicked back to Griffin as you stepped back into the foyer, Griffin slowly matching the steps. 

A quick glance over your shoulder revealed two more men entering the front door, blocking your path. Two more came from the direction of his office, another two from down the far hallway. A figure rounded the landing nearby and took the steps down, a regretful look in his eyes. Harbone.

Which meant Ben wasn’t with him in New York and this was a trap. One you’d walked right into.

A cold rush washed over your body, a prickly edge to the world suddenly. Griffin’s lip ticked up darkly, your heart clenching.

You were going to die tonight. You were sure of it. The only question was how painful the journey to death would be. The way Griffin eyed you up and down made you fight back your gag reflex, bile coating the back of your teeth as you forced it back down. You wouldn’t be able to get him, he’d never get in a fight himself, but at least maybe you could take out of few of these bastards on the way.

Griffin laughed when you pulled out Ben’s knife from the waistband of your jeans, flipping the handle around, holding it ready for a fight. “Told you we needed the extra men. Bitch doesn’t know when to lay down and accept the facts.”

“I won’t be the only person with blood spilled tonight.” Your gaze flickered to Harbone, his face the most weary in the room. “You drop to your knees and suck his dick when Griffin wants too? Looks like you’ve lost control of your company already.”

“There’s only one deal I can make you that keeps you alive and unharmed,” said Harbone. Griffin leveled a lethal glare his direction but Harbone shrugged him off. “Leave Ben. Tonight. My offer from The Champagne Room is still on the table.”

“Marry you? I’d rather slit my own throat than marry a snake.” Harbone sighed, daring to step closer to you, the armed men nearby sharing nervous glances. 

“Soldier Boy isn’t allowed to quit. He’s too valuable an asset for the moment.” You furrowed your brows, white knuckling the blade. 

“For the moment?” Griffin’s smirk caught your attention, every hair on your body raised. “What in the hell does that mean?”

“It means Louella can’t produce other children but I sure as hell can. My son is the only man on earth to survive the original trials.  We’ll just make another. Only this one won’t be such a disappointment.”

“Wait. Wait, what…” Your head was throbbing, Griffin making a face something akin to mock sadness. 

“Soldier Boy is only valuable until he’s not. He’s already proven how disloyal he is. When my next son is born, this one with a strong mother like Liberty, he will not be raised with weakness. There will be no you to ruin him. He’ll be a perfect replacement.”

“You’re going to kill Ben?” you whispered, Harbone’s eyes showing a flicker of reluctance. “He’ll tear you all to shreds.”

“No, he won’t. He’ll be well and truly broken by then. His team will be large enough to overpower him.” Harbone raised his chin. 

“Y-you’re all monsters! He’s made you fortunes.” Your gaze went to Griffin, his face bored. “He’s your flesh and blood and you want to kill him!”

“Silly girl, I had my own parents killed. You think I give a shit about him?” Ice filled your veins, Griffin laughing. “If it were up to me, I’d leave your mutilated corpse in his bed for daring to defy me. I told him years ago what would happen if he pursued you.” He stepped up beside one of the men in suits, cocking his head. “A man fulfills his promises.”

“He’ll look for me.” You shifted your weight back on your foot, Harbone breathing deeply.

“No. He won’t.” He pulled an envelope from the breast pocket of his blazer. He set it down over on the front table, spinning back to face you. “It’s a letter.”

“No shit,” you spat back, heart spiking when one of the suited men took a step towards you.

“It’s from you. You call him an unlovable monster, a stain on society…a worthless war machine the world would be better off without. You explain to him that you went along with it all and then crushed him just as he did to you when you were younger. This was your plan all along. To break him and let him know you’ve been planning your revenge for years.”

“He’ll never believe it,” you proclaimed, Griffin crossing his arms, laughing that evil fucking laugh. “There’s no way-”

“Sweetheart, they took your clothes and belongings out of the townhouse the moment you left. That letter is already on the kitchen counter. By all appearances, you’ve already left him. He won’t look when he finds your shredded wedding dress on the bed.”

The pounding in your ears grew louder, Griffin saying something you couldn’t hear. Every fiber of your being felt that fear. Fear for yourself. Fear for Ben. How long would they let him live? How long would he think you betrayed him? 

Why wasn’t your love meant for this lifetime?

The thought hit you like a freight train. Your future was gone in a blink of an eye. But would he still want you in whatever came after this life? Or had Griffin ruined that too? Would you find each other? Was death the only place you’d be allowed to finally be at peace with one another?

The fear disappeared like that as you came to accept your fate, your breath steady and slow as you noticed the men in the room sharing concerned looks. You were dying tonight. But at the very least, you could send Griffin Bancroft to hell along the way. 

It was the last dream you’d ever have in life. Protect Benjamin from his father one final time.

“You want me? Come and fuckin’ get me,” you snarled. Griffin nodded, two men approaching you, one from the front, the other the back. The one behind you tried to grab your arm but didn’t anticipate you dropping low. He screamed as you slid the strong metal against the back of his knee, severing the tendons. The other man froze, not expecting the brutality in which you jammed the knife into the man’s neck. Blood gushed out, covering your hand and clothes, the whole room deadly silent. 

You struck forward while the other man was paralyzed in awe, ramming it under his ribs, both of you shocked at how smooth it ripped through flesh and cut bone. He dropped like a sack at you feet, both bodies pooling blood. Griffin was a good ten feet back behind one of his henchmen, your eyes locked on his.

“Be a man, let’s settle this right here and now. Or are you too much of a pussy?” Harbone stepped back from the action as well, nodding his head.

“Forget plan A. Kill her,” said Harbone.

“No!” Griffin’s face filled with it’s usual rage, fists clenched. “I only want her to die when she’s begging for it!”

The front door opened behind you, your body tensing for reinforcements. All your vision saw was a flash of gold before a body hit the ground. A thud and something rolled off near the front table, your eyes tracking to the body and realizing it no longer had a head attached. To the right of it, familiar brown boots with red and then green pants. A chest plate. A shield dripping blood. 

Ben’s green eyes were wild with rage when he took in the scene before him, finally settling on you. He stared at the blood, at the knife, at the bodies. You swore you saw him smile for a half a second before he approached you.

“You’re supposed to be in-” One look in Ben’s direction had Harbone snapping his jaw shut.

“You think you’re the only one with spies? I’m going to cut out your tongue and make you choke on it you bastard.” Ben slowly turned his body, facing his father head on, all of Griffin’s men skirting to the edges of the room. “Now, the things I’m going to do to you father…that’ll get me a one way trip to hell but it’ll be worth it you pitiful excuse for a human being. I’ve always known they forgot to put a soul in you. Only an odious man like you would want to kill the brightest light in this miserably dark world that I have ever known.”

“She made you weak.”

“She saved my soul,” snapped back Ben, his eyes so dark you shivered. “You tried to take her from me. My reason for existing. The one person I never had to earn love from. My goddamn wife. My everything. All to make some more damn money, keep your pointless power.”

“I-“

“I’m done, Griffin. I’m not afraid of you anymore.” Ben took a predatory step in front of you, cocking his head at his father. Griffin looked proud almost, head up despite the fear in his eyes. “Aren’t you finally happy, daddy?” Ben laughed out the words, the air sharp with tension so thick, a single twitch would send Ben into a murderous rage. “You always wanted a ruthless killer for a son. Here I am. Why don’t I show you first hand what I’m capable of.”

“You sure you want to do that in front of you precious little fiancé?” Ben glanced back at you, finding a smirk on your face as you held up your knife. 

“You want to carve him up with mine or yours, honey?” you asked. Ben’s dark eyes flashed with lust before he turned back, a cruel smile on his face. He unsheathed his knife, fingers flexing around the dark grip, an eagles head carved into the bottom. Griffin’s eyes landed on the shiny blade for less than a second before he was making a break for it down the hall.

Ben’s hand shot out, Griffin’s guttural shout reverberating off the walls as he slammed into the door jam, a knife sticking clean out of the back of his shoulder. Wide eyes stared at Ben, Griffin trying to rip the knife out but failing to reach it. 

“Plan T! Plan T!” Harbone shouted. Griffin’s men seemed to remember their loyalty as they decided to move in. Most went for Ben but one came at you, your eyes drifting up to the balcony on the second floor, the family portrait a backdrop to the man wearing a gas mask and pointing a weapon directly at Ben. He couldn’t get shot, he was impenetrable. What were they up to?

The man fired once and missed, hitting the man whose punch you’d dodged. You both froze at the draining vial sticking out of this thigh, a black liquid inside. He hit the ground instantly, dead and still as you realized it was a dart in his body.

The man on the balcony had reloaded, aiming directly for Ben again. A scream brought your attention to Harbone pulling the blade out of Griffin’s back, blood pouring from the wound. Griffin locked eyes with you, stealing the knife from Harbone, eye twitching. 

“Y/N!” Ben shouted, too busy holding back the other men as Griffin lunged across the foyer for you. You skin pulsed, pebbling up, ears focused on the pull of the trigger releasing another dart in the air. Time felt like it slowed, yours eyes tracking the path of the dart, headed directly for the column of Ben’s throat. You saw the glint of the metal, same material as the blades were, enough to piece his skin and send whatever toxin was in the vial into his veins.

If he got hit, he was at best going to be out cold and likely locked away to be killed later. At worst, he’d drop dead to the ground before you and Griffin duked it out. You’d never reach Ben in time but you could try.

But sprinting for Ben is not what you did. Your step turned into your feet leaving the ground, the pulsing in your skin growing, everyone in the room freezing in place, including Ben as you drifted up a good ten feet off the ground. The pulsing grew and grew and then…

You hit the floor as the room exploded around you. 

The man on the second floor crashed back into the portrait, both he and it tumbling over the railings edge and landing on a few men Ben had been fighting. Griffin had flown back against the couch into the living room, Harbone limp and prone near the base of the stairs. One of the stragglers Ben had fought was hanging from the chandelier like some sick pinata, arms at odd angles. 

You got to your hands and knees as Ben brushed off a piece of portrait that’d knocked him down, his breaths heavy and wide as he took you in. You shook, sitting back on your heels, staring at your shaking hands.

“You can fly,” he whispered, a strange lightness to him. He quickly crawled over, taking your hands in his. “How?”

“I-I don’t know. I don’t have powers. I don’t…” You put a hand on your stomach, breath hitching. “Ben. I’m late.”

“What?”

“I’m late. I should have gotten my period a week ago,” you whispered. Ben’s eyebrows shot up, both of you putting hands on your abdomen. “Do you think I’m…did I just tap into our baby’s powers?”

“We’re having a baby? A superpowered baby?” he breathed out. You nodded, his blood stained hands on your face pulling you into a deep kiss. Your head was moving a million miles an hour. Too much was happening. Your body felt tingly and sharp, like it’d finally woken up, a surge of power rushing through you. “You saved mommy and daddy, little one.”

His fingers tickled over your stomach when crunching glass echoed to your right, Harbone on his feet and clutching his left side. “S-She’s pregnant? With a supe? This is unbelievable! A natural born supe…power development while in-vitro would result in exponential…”

Ben stood up, eye twitching, stalking to Harbone as he shuffled backwards. “First you try to kill my pregnant wife-”

“You’re not actually married-” Ben barked out a laugh that would make even the devil’s skin crawl.

“And now you want to take my baby from me too? My wife? My baby? You people never-” Ben grunted, a dart lodging in his neck on the right side. 

“No!” You scrambled to your feet, a shooter from down the hall appearing, Ben stumbling before he was falling backwards. You barely caught him on the way down, desperately ripping the dart out but it was too late. He was already unconscious, looking almost peaceful in your arms. Thank god at least he wasn’t dead.

You searched for that pulsing feeling in your veins again but it wasn’t there, panic washing over you. Harbone gave you a pitying look when Griffin grunted, limping into the foyer, knife hanging from his hand. 

“Soldier Boy secured. Seems we were right and original V protected him from Compound T. We’ll give him something to ensure he doesn’t remember the last several hours,” said Harbone.

“Good. Tell him he went on a mission last night and took a knock to the head. Have him wake up at Vought in New York. By the time he gets back to Philly, this will all be cleaned up,” Griffin growled. He pointed the knife at you, smiling with glee. “What’s the matter, kid? Can’t get it up again?”

“Wait,” said Harbone, your heart in your throat as two more men came into the foyer, both holding dart guns. 

“I’m slaughtering the bitch-”

“She’s pregnant.” Griffin froze in his tracks, breathing hard in the still room. “Let me keep her alive. We can use the child, learn from it. Shit, we can replace Soldier Boy on a much faster timeline than we originally thought. And after she has the kid, then I’ll kill her. Okay?”

Griffin narrowed his eyes, blood streaked down the side of his face. He pointed the knife at you, a chuckle rising from his throat. “Kill her? No, no. I want you to keep her alive. Take that baby and we’ll replace this pussy ass bitch of a son of mine but her…no I want us to use this development. Vought has a living guinea pig to test on.”

You slid out from under Ben, holding up your knife, one of the men with a dart gun pointing right at you. “Go right ahead and shoot her. She’s got the V in her blood. She won’t die.” Griffin smiled, waving a hand, waiting for you to do something. Fuck, fuck, why couldn’t you do anything this time?

A sharp prick landed in your arm and you knew there was a vial of that Compound T spilling into your body. You had maybe five seconds before you passed out. 

“You’re not getting my baby, assholes.” With that, you threw the knife as hard as you could, eyes falling closed, a gasp and gurgle the last things that registered before you hit the ground and the world went dark.

A/N: Read Part 18 here!

A/N: AAAAAAHHHHH. SO MUCH HAPPENED. Did you think Griffin was truly that twisted to try and get rid of reader like that? What about that fight scene? Ben coming in and standing up to daddy? Or the reader's powers and being pregnant with Mabel and her saving her parents even back in the day? Or what about that pesky Compound T? Wonder if that will come back into play 👀

[spnwoman]

WOW WOW WOW!! This part had me freaking out! Oh my gosh first of all I knew Griffin had something going on when she first walked in that door, boy I’ll say he is an evil s.o.b!! I loved how she held her own and yay so glad Ben showed up!! And it was the perfect time for her pregnancy to come to light and powers! I absolutely loved that! Griffin and Harbone 😠 ohhhh they better get theirs lol….this Compound T now that’s definitely interesting!! I can see why this one was ur favourite! So much happened and so much information I absolutely loved it!!