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jollyhunter · 3 days ago

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A ONCE AND FUTURE THING

⋆˙⟡ Series Masterlist ⟡˙⋆

Pairing: Mark Meachum x Reader

Summary: DA Valwell deals his first strike to try and disrupt Special Agent Blythe’s task force. When you find out that Mark is on the team, you can’t understand why he won’t prioritize his health, and the time he has left. The pressure of his decisions—and yours—continue to mount on your relationship. Will it deal the final blow?

AN: Okay, I promised you guys some fluff. Now I’m here to deliver, before I break your hearts again later. 😘

Word Count: 7.4K

Tags/Warnings: [Set in 1x08 - bending time a little] 18+ only. Implied smut, medical angst (prognosis and cancer treatment), hurt/comfort, major fluff, and a wedding…

Posted on Patreon: 8/06/25

Series Playlist: YouTube || Spotify

Now Playing: “And So It Goes” by Billy Joel (YT)

"But if my silence made you leave, then that would be my worst mistake. So I will share this room with you, and you can have this heart to break."

Dr. Indira Rashid was just what Mark needed.

She was clear, concise, and didn’t try to bullshit him. But first, he had to go through his medical history and symptoms for the past year.

Some of them you knew: the headaches, his eyes being overly sensitive to the light, blurred vision, and occasionally forgetting things, like the word he wanted to say, or when you told him three times this appointment was at 7:15 a.m.

The doctor came into her office early for him thanks to Lisette; she and Indira were good friends. Once you mentioned that he was a police officer and a veteran, Indira made it a point to accommodate him. She listened intently while he explained what his doctor had recommended on treatment (or lack thereof), and what he was going through lately.

Some of his newer symptoms were a surprise to you.

“You’re blacking out?” you asked incredulously. “When?”

Mark’s lips pressed into a guilty line.

Your worry was overlayed by fear when you realized…if it didn’t happen at home, when he was with you, it had happened at work.

“It was quick,” he said. “Couldn’t have been more than a minute or two.”

You covered your mouth with your hand, otherwise you couldn’t be held responsible for what came out. There was a reason women lived longer than men: a lack of dick-wielding bravado that stopped them from seeking medical treatment.

Mark’s knee began an antsy bounce. Indira’s gaze flit perceptively between you and him, the room weighing with a tension that was liable to break through the linoleum.

“Those symptoms are consistent with a brain tumor,” Indira said. “I’m still waiting for the records from your previous doctor, but regardless, in order for me to confirm a glioblastoma, we’ll need to do some tests.”

“But I went through all that already. CT, MRI, the works,” he said.

“I’m sorry, but those scans are ten months old, right? We’ll need to redo them,” she said. “An MRI first, then a biopsy, depending on the results.”

Mark exhaled roughly in frustration. I don’t have fucking time for this was clear and sharp in his eyes, the words tucked just behind his teeth.

You tried to let go of your own upset, remembering that this wasn’t about you and everything he hadn’t told you. He was the one suffering.

“Mark,” you said gently, and with an imploring look.

Please, it said.

After a moment, he relented with a sigh. His shoulders loosened a fraction.

“Okay. What else?” he said.

You slipped your hand over his, swiping your thumb across his skin. He squeezed your hand back. The edge of your engagement ring caught his eye, reminding him why he was here.

The doctor explained what he already knew: that someone with this diagnosis had a survival rate measured in months, not years. Even with all his symptoms, she was frankly surprised that he was still as healthy and functional as he was, considering the stressful, active nature of his job, and the usual progression of the disease. He was strong enough to go through treatment, potentially.

“What’s the typical treatment plan?” you asked.

“Well, the problem with this form of cancer is that once it penetrates the brain, it’s aggressive, pervasive, and difficult to remove entirely, as I’m sure your first doctor told you,” she said. “The first step is usually surgery, followed by radiation and chemo.”

Mark took this all in with a face of stone, but not a muscle in his body moved. It only became more rigid.

“Is it worth it?” he asked.

Indira’s face was kind, but again, no bullshit. “That depends on you. Some patients gain a year, maybe two years, after treatment. But it typically does recur.”

You looked away. You tried to hide the way your eyes burned with unshed tears, the way your lips trembled, but Mark slipped his hand out of yours so he could pull you in closer. So far, Indira hadn’t told him anything he hadn’t heard before or looked up himself.

“However,” she said. “Here at UCLA, we’ve been in league with the Mayo Clinic on leading a new clinical study for glioblastoma multiforme patients. We’re investigating a new form of treatment called hypofractionated proton beam therapy. It’s shown promising results.”

You perked up immediately. “What’s that?”

Indira explained it in simple terms. Combining advanced imaging technology and a contrast-enhanced MRI, the doctor would be able to pinpoint the most active and aggressive areas of the tumor. Those were the first regions that would be targeted with radiation. Not only was it a shorter treatment plan—one to two weeks instead of the average three to six—it would preserve more healthy brain tissue than traditional methods.

The more she spoke, the harder Mark paid attention. He didn’t relax, not entirely, but he was listening. Her words managed to penetrate the echoes of his own raging screams, barely smothered by his force of will.

By the end of it, you were swiping tears from your cheeks like they were just flecks of dust fallen on your skin.

“How soon can we get him into the study?” you asked.

“Well, once we get through the initial scans, re-confirm the diagnosis and what stage the tumor may have advanced, we’ll see if he’s eligible for the study. If it all pans out, I’ll talk to my colleague and get the paperwork started,” Indira said. She looked to Mark. “But what would you like to do, Mark? How do you feel?”

She probably saw that he was reeling, needing a minute to process. You looked to him more patiently as well. You gave him the room to let him think, but you rubbed his thigh, back and forth, just reminding him you were there.

It was a support he still felt a bit guilty for, but couldn’t help but need.

“You said the results were promising. What does that actually look like?” he asked.

She nodded. “Good question. Some patients had their prognosis doubled, or more. Six months to twelve. A year to over two years. One patient, a forty-five-year-old woman, has been cancer free for fifteen months—as of yet with no sign of recurrence.”

You and Mark shared a look. It wasn’t perfect, but it was enough. It was hope.

The car ride into Downtown was quiet. Mark’s road rage didn’t even stir when a sixteen-wheeler tried to cut him off. You turned to him and studied his profile, his dark brows furrowed while his eyes held a thousand unnamed thoughts.

“I got us a date at the courthouse,” you said. “This Thursday.”

That earned his attention. It took him a second, but his expression lightened enough to return your smile.

“Thursday? Afternoon, right?”

“5:00 p.m. was the latest they had.”

Mark glanced over at you, at your hands smoothing down the navy slacks you wore for work. Your ring shined proudly on your left hand. He reached over and caught your nervous habit, steadying you as well as himself when he took your hand.

“You sure you wanna do it this way, quick and dry at the courthouse?” he asked. “I remember the first go around, you damn near blew a fuse trying to decide between plum and lavender. Satin or linen tablecloths? Matte or glossy invitations? If there should be flowers on the table with the centerpieces, or just looped through the chairs in little doily patterns? God knows I couldn’t keep up.”

You were grinning hard before he even finished his mini rant.

“First of all, it was marsala wine and creamy beige,” you said, leveling a finger at him. His smile grew. “Satin, of course. Matte invitations with a classy ribbon. And I’m sorry, but you can’t ever have enough flowers.”

You sighed with a tinge of nostalgia and regret. That wedding was going to be beautiful. You really did put your heart and soul into the planning, especially because your sister was next to no help at all, and Mark had been too busy at work to give more than a cursory glance and a thumbs up at the options you’d tried to present him with. In the end, it was just easier to do it all yourself.

Sarah had been your right-hand woman, executing all your delegated requests like the perfect Maid of Honor she should’ve been. Instead, you’d felt obligated to give that role to Rachel, despite the fact that she didn’t do much of anything but criticize your choices. She certainly had fun at the tastings though. She drank four cocktails before noon and washed it down with red velvet cake, all while complaining it was “too dry.”

Your mom had been a big help though. She had fun making all one hundred and twenty wedding favors by hand.

But in the end, where had all your planning gotten you? Where had all those pretty things gone? In the trash, along with hundreds and thousands in deposits lost.

You shook your head at the memory. Mark noticed, because he always did. His lips quirked wryly as his hand returned to the wheel.

“Sorry. I uh, still feel bad for how all that shook out,” he said. “You had to deal with all that by yourself, beginning to end.”

“It wasn’t your fault,” you said tightly. “It’s just another reason I’m going to tell people I’m an only child from now on.”

Mark’s lips tugged upward. “You’re really never going to talk to Rachel again? Gonna make for some awkward Thanksgivings.”

“That bitch can get fucked,” you muttered, squeezing his hand reflexively. “Which I’m sure she has.”

He chuckled deeply and brought your hand to his lips for a kiss. For someone with such a big heart, you also had a razor-edged mouth, no goddamn inches given once someone crossed you. But Mark thought he saw genuine remorse in your sister that day. Give it a few years and some intense groveling, and you might come around to forgiving her.

“Anyway, back to the present,” you said. “Honestly, I’m okay with the courthouse. What you’re dealing with at work, and all the rest of it…I just don’t want this to stress us out. I don’t want to waste time, and I definitely don’t want anything else to stop us from getting married.”

Mark nodded, offering you a smile. “Okay, baby. Then we’ll make it happen.”

You let out an unsteady breath, but you smiled over at him.

“Do you want to invite anyone from PD? Or your team on the case?” you asked. By now he’d told you a bit about everyone he was working with on the task force.

He thought about it for a moment, but he shook his head.

“Ehh. I don’t know if we’re there yet, you know? We haven’t known each other that long.”

“What about Finau? You’ve known him for years.”

Mark tilted his head at the idea. Finau was a family man, married with kids. He would probably understand why Mark wanted to do this now without having to answer too many probing questions. And by now he’d gotten over that whole, I almost shot you in the face thing.

“Yeah, maybe,” Mark said.

“And…Amber? You guys seem to be friends,” you said, but there was a note in your voice that Mark didn’t miss. He eyed you knowingly.

“Colleagues,” he corrected. “We’ve been partnered up a few times on this case, but I told you, it’s no more than that. So you can unclench your teeth there, sweetheart.”

Your jaw ticked when you realized he was right. You forced yourself to relax, crossing your arms over your seatbelt. Your office building was coming into view as he pulled into the plaza.

“Does she know the truth about you?” you asked.

“She knows something’s off, but no. You’re the only one who knows.”

Well, besides your mom, but she wasn’t going to tell anyone, let alone anyone who mattered. It hadn’t been easy to break her heart with that news though. She’d spent over an hour crying while trying to bake him cookies to distract herself. He’d appreciated the cookies (snickerdoodle was Lisette’s specialty). But he hated himself for the tears.

Always the tears.

“Mark,” you said, hesitating for just a second when he pulled to a stop in front of the federal building. “If you trust Amber or Finau, or even Blythe, you should tell them. Someone should have your back out there.”

Mark considered it, but he only nodded his response. You squeezed his arm before you grabbed up your purse and got out of the car.

“Thanks for the ride. I’ll see you tonight,” you said.

There was something about you leaving that made his chest tight. Anything could happen in the next eight to twelve hours. That was nothing new. But this time, it just hit him sideways. Any time he said goodbye to you could be his last.

"Hold up," he said.

He parked the Bronco where it sat and climbed out himself. Rounding the hood, he went over to you and brought you in by your shoulders. He claimed the opportunity of stealing a kiss, breathing in, lingering. Then he guided you into his arms.

It was more than a morning sendoff. It was thank you. It was everything he couldn’t bring himself to say in the blistering light of summer.

You hugged him back and savored the moment of grounding, the solidness of his body around yours, his natural scent mixing with aftershave, and a tap of the cologne you bought him last year for his birthday.

Neither of you noticed the silent click of a camera phone shutter.

Last week, Mark investigated the murder of four consulate security guards who got themselves blown up—in what he suspected was Vusovich’s home basement.

Which meant Belarusian ambassador, Consul General Astapov, knew more about Vusovich than his vehement denials to Blythe would suggest. So far Astapov had been…uncooperative. Blythe was still working on putting the pressure there from higher-ups.

But just a few days ago, Bell got them a lead that had Mark chomping at the bit to investigate: a truck parked just outside a federal building, tinted windows, no license plates, rewrapped with the U.S. Post Office blue and red emblem.

After it was cleared by the bomb squad, Mark took a look inside the truck and found it completely empty, save for a few cameras. It seemed to be Vusovich’s attempt at a dry run for his dirty bomb delivery.

So the team kept digging.

Today had Mark in the office after he dropped you off at work. He was continuing to look into Gallagher Freight, the company Vusovich had bought out and used to ferry his radioactive shipments. But again, these trucks could be rewrapped to look like any kind of shipment, from the U.S. postal service to a U-Haul, or even Roscoe’s chicken.

Bell and Shepherd were digging into VKN, the only known company they could tie Vusovich’s purchases to. It was Oliveras’s turn to grab lunch for the team. Mark put in his order for a spicy Italian sub (extra cheese), which left him and Finau sitting across from one another at their respective desks. They got to talking in between the mundane clicks of typing.

“Wait, what? You’re getting married?” Finau blinked like he was having a hard time matching Mark with the string of bullshit he just heard. “Like, again? To the same woman you left in the cold. You mean she actually took your ass back?”

“It’s a little more complicated than that, but yeah. I happen to be very charming,” Mark said, his brows raised with offense taken.

Finau snorted. “And persuasive, clearly.”

He went back to the research on his screen. He was a good multitasker.

Mark smiled and held his hands up in a what the fuck gesture.

“Come on, man. No congratulations? No champagne? Not gonna offer me one of those cigars you brought to the PD Christmas party last year?”

Finau’s mouth twitched at begrudging amusement.

“Congratulations,” came his flat reply.

“Thank you,” Mark nodded, but his expression evened out into something more serious. “I didn’t actually…you know, step out. It didn’t go down like that.”

For the first time, Finau paused in what he was doing. Maybe he heard the honesty in the other man’s voice. He looked over at Mark, thawing out a little.

“So what happened?”

“Like I said, it’s complicated. But we’re making it work.”

Finau considered that with a slow nod of his head. “Well, all right. Good for you, Meach.”

He sounded sincere that time.

“I gotta give it to you. You had balls going after the captain’s daughter,” he added.

Mark’s grin returned with a vengeance. He remembered the day he met you all too well. He’d caught glimpses of you before, popping in and out of the precinct to visit your dad, but he genuinely hadn’t known who you were until after he’d already gotten his hands on one of your prized Victoria Secrets—a lacy marsala wine. Perfect for his imagination later.

He fucking missed that little number too. You’d worn it on his first date with you. That night, he was responsible for its demise. Call it a crime of passion.

“What can I say? Couldn’t fucking help myself,” Mark smirked. But his eyes gentled a touch. “She’s just…I never met anyone like her, you know?”

Finau caught that look, and he read through the bravado to something raw and real and unmistakable.

“You sure you’re ready for what’s coming next?” Finau said.

Mark’s wistfulness fell back to hard reality. The amusement stamped right out of him.

Fuck no, Mark thought. His inner world had shadows encroaching on the corners when he thought about this morning’s appointment. More tests, more layers to the secrets he already had hidden, and probably a lot of hell on the horizon.

But that wasn’t really the question Finau was asking.

“Yeah,” Mark shrugged. “She’s basically moved in. Can’t be much different than what we’re doing now.”

Finau just laughed, a low, long chuckle that shook his entire barrel chest. Mark shot him a look, mostly amused.

“All right, Barry White. I sense that mockery comes from experience.”

Finau arched a wry brow. “You wanna know the secret to a long and happy marriage?”

Mark paused. “Actually, I do.”

Finau leaned in conspiringly.

“When you fuck up—and you will fuck up,” he said. Mark gave a wan smile.

“Oh, I’m familiar.”

“Own it. No bullshit. No excuses,” Finau said. “Don’t use flowers and shit to say you’re sorry. Give her those just because. Instead, make it up to her by doing the thing she’s been nagging you to do for weeks, but you thought you had better shit to do. Snake the drain. Wash her car. Clip your toenails. Whatever the hell it is.”

Mark processed all that with a slow nod and an intrigued quirk of his head.

“And when she fucks up, don’t be an asshole. You can be right and smug about it, or you can be married,” Finau leveled a pointed finger at him. “Follow my advice, young padawan, and guarantee, you’ll get more downtown action.”

Mark’s brows rose in interest. “Really?”

“Oh, yeah.”

Mark nodded in contemplation. This was some Dr. Phil shit he could get behind.

“You guys set a date yet?” Finau asked.

“Yeah. This Thursday, at the courthouse.”

Finau recoiled as if he caught a whiff of Bell’s old tuna sandwich in the fridge.

“What? Aw, hell nah, bro. My wife had her wedding planned out by the time she was ten years old, with or without me, and you think your girl’s good with that?”

“Look, believe me, I wish I could take her to Hawaii or something, but…obviously we don’t got that kinda time right now. Feels like we’ve waited long enough, you know?” Mark said. His eyes were heavy for a moment, but he forced it all back down behind an easy smile. “You’re welcome to come though. Bring the wife and the kids. We’ll have some more witnesses.”

Finau stroked his bearded chin in contemplation. “You know, I’m legally an officiant. I could perform the ceremony for you guys.”

Mark’s eyes widened. “Seriously?”

“Yeah, I did it for my cousin a couple years ago. His wife’s Catholic and he’s Jewish, so they figured, why not piss off both sides of the family and make it a nondenominational service.”

Mark grinned. “That’s pretty cool. So what, you’re ordained?”

Finau grinned and raised his hands up toward the heavens.

“Call me Pastor Luke.”

Mark had to laugh. “Well, all right. Thanks…but where would we do it, then?”

Finau withdrew his phone from his pocket. “You know what, let me get my wife on this. She knows half the event planners in the city.”

You knew your mom had good intentions when she encouraged you to do this, but you kind of wanted to bolt from the table. Starbucks was never not busy, even on a Monday afternoon.

Sarah walked into the coffee shop and soon found you in the back corner. She already looked happy to see you, even though guilt shone bright like tears in her eyes. She was one of your oldest friends since high school. Other than Mark, she knew you better than anyone.

“It’s good to see you,” she said, taking a seat across from you. “I’m…really happy you called.”

You nodded, swallowing past a lump of emotion in your throat. “It’s good to see you too. Look, I’m…I’m sorry I haven’t answered your calls or that many of your texts, but I read them all. I got all the messages. I just needed time to sort some things out, especially after that night at the club. It’s been fucking chaos, honestly.”

“That’s what your mom said,” Sarah nodded. “But I just wanted to say this now that we’re here…I’m so sorry. Me, Yesenia, Lauren. We didn’t support you the way you needed us to. They feel the same way too.”

You’d gotten a couple of texts from Yesenia and Lauren apologizing for the way they treated you, trying to pawn you off on the next warm male body who might be able to take your mind off of Mark. Sarah was the only one who actually tried to check on you and ask if you were okay though.

You reached out for her across the table. She grabbed your hand back with both of hers, and tears in her eyes. You had to blink past the sting yourself.

“As far as I’m concerned, you’re the only real friend I have,” you said. “That’s why I’m going to tell you something you can’t tell the others. Especially not Rachel.”

Her brows drew together in concern, but the moment you opened your mouth to explain, her face melted into shock.

“Mark took you home that night?”

“Aww, he stayed with you to make sure you were okay, and he brought you breakfast?”

“Wait, he didn’t sleep with her?”

And then the predictable question: “Do you believe him?”

“Yeah, I do,” you said wryly. “Rachel’s apparently hated me since we were kids, so there’s that ticket to bring to therapy.”

Sarah was understandably reeling, but she was smart. Memories were starting to connect in her brain, along with the exact kinds of questions you didn’t want her to ask.

“But if he didn’t sleep with her, why didn’t he try harder to convince you? He didn’t even try calling you again after we left Venice.”

“I didn’t let him,” you said ruefully. “I was stubborn and angry, and he thought I’d never believe him, thanks to those bullshit pictures. Then he went undercover for nine months.”

It was only half true, but it was enough. Sarah was convinced, and she was so very sad for you.

“But you two are back together now, right? Things are good—”

She cut herself off with a gasp that turned more than a few heads when you flashed her the very familiar ring on your left hand. She squealed. You smiled and laughed along with her.

She took your hand and admired it from all angles.

“Oh my God, this is like a goddamn movie,” she said, wiping her tears. “Have you set a date yet?”

“Thursday,” you smirked.

Sarah almost couldn’t compute. Her blue eyes went comically wide.

“Bitch, are you nuts? That’s in three days!” she exclaimed. It earned her quite a few more head turns and weird looks. You brought her down to earth with placating hands.

“Relax, we’re just going to go to the courthouse. I ordered the marriage license last week. But I would like to do things right this time,” you said with a smaller, truer smile. “Would you be my Maid of Honor?”

Sarah dissolved into tears all over again, which meant so did you. You two got up from the table and hugged it out, swaying like teenage girls. Your ensuing excitement had you two leaving Starbucks and heading down the street toward rows of boutiques and shops.

“Where are we going?” Sarah asked.

“For your first Maid of Honor duty, I need you to help me pick out the dress,” you said.

“What about the first—oh, yeeeah.” Her thoughtful frown turned into a grimace. You nodded in agreement.

“Yeah,” you sighed.

Your first dress had been a dream. It took you three months to find it, and not only had it fit you like a glove before alterations, but it had been everything you’d wanted since you were a little girl.

But that thing was the first casualty after your almost-marriage imploded.

All your rage had to go somewhere.

So that very night, Sarah and the rest of your friends had been your witnesses when you chopped up your dream with garden sheers, then burned the remains in a charcoal barbeque pit along with Mark’s favorite boots (the foolish man left them in your car while you were in Venice).

Of course you now deeply regretted that moment, but it was too late to cry over shredded lace.

“Let’s check out this one! I’ve always wanted to go in here,” you said, pointing to a wedding boutique you’d normally cast off as too expensive. Even if you weren’t going to have a real wedding, you still wanted to blow Mark’s mind (followed by the rest of him later).

WEDNESDAY

The marriage license came in the mail earlier than expected.

You were grinning like a madwoman when you recognized the city postage, but you almost didn’t want to open it without Mark. Instead, you tucked it in your big-ass everything purse, hoping it wouldn’t get lost in the trip between your apartment and his house.

First, you had a stop to make.

Mark thought you were lingerie shopping, pouting and blowing up your phone because you hadn’t waited to take him with you. He was on his way home from work.

You reminded him that the whole point of the wedding night was for him to be surprised.

Fine. I’ll take nudes as a consolation prize.

You snorted, seeing his text. You typed out a quick reply while you settled into your car.

Okay, I guess you deserve a little something. ��

Pending a quick Google search, you sent him a picture of a man’s hairy foot (of the puss-ridden athlete variety).

🤢 That’s not nice. Boner killer.

You’re driving, dummy. Don’t test me again, or next time it’ll be a dick pic.

Oh, yeah? And where’re you pulling that from exactly? You getting solicited by other dicks I don’t know about??

You snickered and decided to ignore him for now. Let him stew in his imagination.

You adjusted the rearview mirror of your car and noticed a guy in a silver sedan parked behind you in the garage. Usually Mrs. Jacobs’ red Mini Cooper occupied that space, but maybe it was someone trying to be slick and park closer to the elevators to bring their groceries in.

She’d complained to the HOA about it before, which was why there were signs on every level of the garage, informing non-residents that their vehicle would be towed if they weren’t using a guest space.

Sucks for that guy. He’s about to get slapped with a $250 fine.

You pulled out of the space, smirking when your phone started buzzing with more texts. What Mark didn’t know was, you’d already done all your shopping with Sarah yesterday, including finding your dress. Today, you had something else on the agenda.

It led you to a familiar bar in Downtown. You went through the effort of paying for parking, even though you knew you weren’t going to be here long. Walking in, you passed by the same spot where you threw up in the street last month.

You found Amber Oliveras already sitting at the bar counter, half a beer down. She nodded at you with a faint smile, twisting toward you in her seat. You took the one next to her.

“Hey, good to see you,” you said.

She rose a subtle brow. “Is it?”

You shot her a wry smile and flagged down the bartender for two shots of whiskey.

“Come on, you know me. I don’t hold a grudge,” you said.

The two of you shared a glance, and it only took that moment to have you both smirking. Then laughing. It started out slow, but it was one of those that fed off the other in a purely what the fuck even is this kind of moment in time.

You remembered when Amber cut out of college during junior year to join the Police Academy. You remembered when you used to complain about finding gobs of her dark hair clogged in the drain, and she’d get pissed about your makeup and face creams left strewn all over the bathroom counter.

Now you both were literally working for the government, if on polar ends of the spectrum. She risked her life every day. You were chained to a desk, organizing a more powerful man’s day. Sometimes you envied her. Other days you didn’t, like when you thought about Damon Drew.

“Look, maybe seeing you in an evening gown when I felt like a greasy gremlin took a few shots at my ego, but I know you and Mark were just doing your job,” you said. “I know about the team, the task force. Valwell got his nose whacked by his bosses for trying to break up the band, but he’s not going to forget how Blythe embarrassed him.”

Amber nodded. She’d already suspected you knew.

“Blythe can handle it. He’s been in this game a long time, knows how to throw his weight around.”

“I can see,” you said in amusement. When the whiskey came around, you and Amber knocked back your shot glasses in a companionable silence. She nodded her thanks for the drink.

“So you and Meachum, huh?” she said, with a huff of laughter. “Jesus, what’s that like?”

You shook your head and smiled wryly. “Look, I know what you probably think of me. But it’s—”

“Complicated?” she offered. “That’s what your man says too.”

With the smaller glass empty, she went back to sipping her beer. Her eyes softened a little though; she noticed your ring, shining even under the dim lighting.

“Really, it doesn’t matter what I think,” she said. “You and Meachum, that’s your business. I just…hope you’re happy.”

That hesitation, right before she met your gaze. You believed her.

You smiled. “I am. That’s why I need to ask you for a favor.”

Her brows rose. “Uh oh. I may clean up nice, but just so you know, I don’t do bridesmaid dresses.”

“Relax,” you chuckled. You reached out and laid a hand on her arm, over her leather jacket. “Look out for him out there. Please.”

It took her a moment, but she nodded.

“You got it.”

THURSDAY

When Mark told you about his idea for the change in venue, to say you were surprised would be an understatement. The man didn’t even know the difference between the cocktail hour and the reception, yet somehow he’d gotten an open spot for a “micro wedding” at the Ruth & Bancroft Garden and Nursery.

“You can never have enough flowers, right?” he’d grinned. He sipped a beer from his side of the living room sofa.

You’d smiled with tears in your eyes. Then you all but launched yourself at him, making him spill his beer, but getting your happy kisses all over his face. And you rode him nice and slow during an episode of Friends. (Ironically, it was The One Where Ross and Rachel…You Know.)

But today was more than a wedding.

Today, you knew you were in the middle of a new dream. The guest chairs were set up in a clearing of green grass overlooking a beautiful gazebo. You stepped out of it in a dress that clung to your form in white satin and delicate lace. Sarah had done your hair and makeup. Lisette had worked with the venue to put together your wedding bouquet. She held onto your arm both to support you, and to step in for your dad in giving you away.

What you would’ve given for him to be here.

You sucked in a shallow breath as you took it all in—from the soft golden lights in the hanging vines of tall trees, to the surrounding gardens bathed in the last rays of waning sunlight. There were beds of light purple desert willows and the gentle whites of St. Catherine’s Lace, brilliant red Coral Fountains and yellow-orange agave plants, along with too many others you couldn’t name.

You took in every face, some familiar and some new. Finau was your officiant, and his wife Amina and daughters were in the front row. Behind them were the other members of Mark’s team, Keyonte Bell, Evan Shepherd, and even Nathan Blythe, standing stoic but cordial when he offered you a nod. Shepherd had a bright smile and a little wave for you though. You smiled and waved back. You looked forward to meeting them later.

Then you finally looked ahead.

Sarah was there on the left as your Maid of Honor, and Amber stood with Mark as his “Best Woman.” Unlike you, Mark actually was an only child, and the closest friend he still had at the PD was probably Finau. So you’d swallowed what little remained of your jealousy and laughingly agreed to that idea too. No matter what she said, she totally rocked a bridesmaid dress.

But once you looked up, the only person you could see was Mark.

He was standing there under the arch threaded with more blooms, purple and white. His hands were folded in front of him while he wore a black suit and a tie the color of vintage wine. He’d trimmed up his beard, bought new shoes, looking like James Bond himself. But all you could focus on was the rare gentleness in his eyes and the smile across his lips. You didn’t even remember taking those last steps that brought you to him, but your soul crept back into your body long enough for you to take his offered hand.

You kissed your mom’s cheek, and she stroked yours with tears in her eyes. She did the same for Mark, parting from him with a motherly kiss on his cheek. He made sure to help her to her chair first, before he came back to you. A light breeze tousled his hair, kissed your lashes. But that wasn't what made your eyes sting.

You didn’t realize you were weeping until Mark swept the watery paths from your cheek. You felt overwhelmed, but in the best possible way. You smiled at him, and he returned it.

“Welcome, everyone, you can be seated,” Finau started. He gave you and Mark a smiling nod before he continued. “We know why we’re here. We’re here to celebrate a relationship that has endured. Marrying into law enforcement isn’t easy. My wife’ll tell you.”

That earned laughter from the small crowd, Amina included. Finau then focused on you and Mark.

“Neither of you are strangers to the demands of this kind of life, but the commitment you’re making today, to each other, is beautiful and admirable. Marriage is not a noun; it's a verb. It isn't something you get. It's something you do. It’s choosing the person standing in front of you, over and over. The decision you’ve made isn’t just today—it’s tomorrow, and the next.”

You squeezed Mark’s hands on reflex; mostly for the support, because that cresting wave of emotion was back, threatening to drown you. He held you steady, even though his own eyes were getting a bit misty too. Maybe his reasons were different than yours. Maybe they were the same.

“Do either of you have any personal vows you want to share?” Finau asked.

You and Mark both blinked in surprise. Vows?

“Oh, shit,” he muttered.

You frowned at him, your lips pursing. An idea seemed to spark in his eyes, sending off an alarm bell in your mind.

“Actually, yeah. I do,” he said.

This time, you squeezed his hands for a whole different reason. You leveled him with a warning look.

He gave you a reassuring one that said, Relax, I got this.

“You know I’m, uh, not very good at this sort of thing usually,” he started. His grin was infectious, even though you were still slightly nervous about whatever was going to come out of his mouth. You were certain he didn’t know either.

“When I met you, I got hit, literally and figuratively. Head-on collision. I thought I was playing it fast and loose, like I do everything else. But I didn’t know what the hell I was doing. I didn’t know how goddamn lucky I was…but I do now. I got a taste of what my life would be like without you, and I, uh…” His jaw worked. He blinked a little faster, working through his words.

“Let’s just say, I don’t want to go there again,” he said. “You’re the heart of you and me.”

You bit into your lip, not even caring anymore than you were probably smudging your lipstick, or that it was getting harder to breathe.

“So I promise to protect you and take care of you, for as long as you let me. For as long as I can,” he said, his eyes burning meaningfully with conviction when he slid the gold band on your finger. It fell into place against your engagement ring.

You steadied yourself with a calming breath, rubbing your thumbs along the back of his hands.

“I’m someone who likes lists, rules, order, sense,” you said with a laugh. “Checklists make you itch. You take rules as a challenge to beat, and you not only thrive in chaos, but you’re known to make some yourself.”

That got you a few knowing chuckles, and a grin from Mark.

“Opposites attract for a reason, right?” you said. “You get me out of my own head, out of my rigid lines, and I try to reel you back in when we go too far off road. But when my mouth gets me in trouble, you know when to back me up, or when to give me a reality check.”

“I try my best on that one,” he teased.

You smirked, but it soon softened. “The truth is, you’re the one person I let myself lean on. You’re strong enough to hold me when I can’t hold myself up anymore.”

It became hard to speak. Emotion threatened to choke you, but you managed to breathe past it.

“So I promise that you can lean on me too when you need to,” you said, meeting his eyes as you slid his ring onto his finger. “I’ve told you before that you’re the love of my life. I know you think that’s cheesy as hell, but it’s the truth. You’re the only one.”

Mark felt the new weight on his hand as he flexed and clenched his fingers, but all he could see was you.

“By the power vested in me by the state of California, I now pronounce you man and wife,” Finau declared. “You may now kiss the—uhh…”

Mark was a man who lacked patience at the best of times. You smiled into his lips while he held your face in his hands. You grabbed onto his suit jacket and pulled him in closer.

Finally.

Later that night, you and Mark made good use of a premier suite in an LA beachfront hotel. He told you to pick your favorite that had an opening, and don’t even look at the price.

You were swimming naked in Egyptian cotton sheets by the time he came back to join you from cleaning up in the bathroom. Though he wouldn’t tell you that he had to take two more useless pills to try and relieve the piercing, throbbing ache that radiated behind his right temple, the brittle stars in his eyes. Stress seemed to be a trigger for this ticking time bomb, and didn’t care if it was the good kind or not.

He stayed there longer than he wanted to, just holding onto the pristine granite counter like a lifeline. At least it was an upgrade from the cracked ceramic of his bathroom sink at home.

His head hung between his shoulders. Fuck. The word was an acidic mantra carving through his mind. He felt like pounding his head against the wall until he broke through the plaster, until his skull cracked open and the rot came pouring out.

Instead, he forced the shallow, shaky breaths through his nose. It took longer than usual for the edge of it to dull into a lesser throb. He blinked back the sting of tears. Frustration, desperation, fear, pain. Threads barely kept from unraveling.

When his lips stopped trembling, he let himself leave the bathroom. He slid back into bed with you and snuck his arms around your waist, waking you up from a doze. You smiled at the line of raspy kisses he was leaving down your neck, then tantalizingly down your shoulder.

“Round four?” he teased. His voice was tinged with grit, the remnants of strain.

You uttered a laugh that kept on going. You hung onto his arms, but you shook your head. Your pretty lingerie had lasted about halfway through round one, now strewn in a heap with his nice suit on the floor. The dress had miraculously stayed intact though. It hung from a hanger on the bathroom door.

“We gotta be careful, babe. You might just knock out my IUD,” you joked.

Mark smirked. “You still got that thing in?”

You scoffed. “Uh, yeah. What, you think I’ve been rolling the dice for the past month?”

He quirked his head, as if to say, that’s fair. He laid back on his side of the bed, but still kept an arm slung around your waist.

“Remind me when you got it?”

You huffed in amusement.

“About a month into us dating," you said. "I didn’t trust you with condoms.”

He smirked. “What, after the way we met, you thought I was gonna forget to suit up?”

“No. I thought, ‘One day, this man’s gonna fuck around and bust this flimsy piece of rubber wide open.’ Fucking wildman.”

He was practically wheezing by the end of your little explanation. He wiped an almost-tear of mirth from his eye, and his head rolled toward you.

“Would it really have been so bad if you’d gotten pregnant?” he said.

Your brows rose as high as your hairline. You shifted toward him onto your side, propping your head up with one hand. A small smile played on your lips as you tried to figure him out.

“All right, where’s your head at now?” you asked.

He hesitated, and that caught your attention too.

“Nowhere,” he said, shaking his head and rubbing at his eyes. He chuckled. “Nothin’. You wore me out. I’m just tired, talking shit.”

He’d regretted those words as soon as they came out of his mouth. Because yeah, it would’ve been that bad. It was enough that he was doing this to you, dragging you along with him on this hell ride. Let alone a kid.

“Mhmm.” Your free hand slid across his bare chest. “The last time we talked about kids, I was still planning the wedding. The first one, obviously. We were going to turn the third bedroom into a nursery…pending a fun-filled honeymoon.”

Your face slowly fell. Seeing the melancholy hiding behind his eyes, you tapped a gentle beat on his chest. You blinked back your tears, because if you let yourself succumb now, you wouldn’t stop.

“I’m sorry this is, uh, only for one night,” Mark said, clearing his throat. A purposeful change of subject that you kind of appreciated.

He grabbed your hand and squeezed. “You deserve a week—hell, a fucking month trip to Hawaii. Spain. Greece. Wherever you wanna go. You deserve the day you planned back then. Not—”

“Hey,” you interrupted. “It was your day too. And honestly? The plates, the flowers, all that shit. It doesn’t matter. If nothing else, I know that now.”

You held your hand to his cheek and guided his face toward you, prompting him to meet your eyes.

“Today and tonight,” you said. “For now, that’s all I need. The rest, we’ll figure out, okay?”

After a moment, he nodded in agreement. Tomorrow, and the next.

“Okay.”

AN: We're getting closer to the finish line on this series! (And those twists I warned you about before.) I'm thinking we've got about three more parts to this—or at least the "After" section. 😉 I might go back and fill in with some lighter times "Before" the events of Downgrade.

But until then, what did you think of Mark's second opinion? There might be a little hope for him yet. 💙 (For those who've seen 1x09: even with all the Mark suffering, there's a canon glimmer!!!) Plus, Finau coming in clutch here and reader finally having her one-on-one with Oliveras. 😆 Do you want more "screen time" between those two? I love Oliveras lol.

And finally, what did you think of the wedding? A little sappy, I know, but these two needed their happy moment, right? 😂💞

Especially since we're going deep in the next part...

Next Time in Hurt for Me:

You woke to the sound of hard thumps against the wall. They weren’t coming from the bedroom though. The bathroom door was ajar, the echoes reaching you like discordant notes.

You quickly slid out of bed and fumbled a little; you were a bit discombobulated with sleep clinging to your mind and limbs. Your belly tightened with a warning ache. Too much greasy pizza last night, probably. Or just the stress.

Your growing dread allowed you to ignore it for now. Using the wall as a guiding support for your steps, you eventually found Mark struggling under harsh lighting and sharp shadows.

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jollyhunter · 4 days ago

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Aha! See, that's one of the Goldie traits I can agree on! 😉

obviously

#jolly hunter yaps #sam winchester #lovely moots 💕#sorryitsmyfirstdayonearth

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jollyhunter · 4 days ago

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Ahhh thank you so much, dear!! (I'm lowkey proud of finding those Pyrenees/Beau gifs 🤣)

I'm usually not scared of any dog no matter the breed but even I got to admit, Ben would even make me a tiny bit 🤏 nervous. 😂

and I totally see the resemblances, lol. speaking of, I never thought about how many dog breeds actually somewhat resemble a german shepherd 🤔

My guess would be that just a lot of breeds have the German Shepherd (the "OG GSD" so to speak lol) as their common ancestor and they just kept some of the resembling traits whenever they crossbred them 🤔

No apologizing for yapping! I love the yaps! 💗

Oh my goodness! Skippy's such a cute boy!!! 😭💗💗💗 (I'm so sorry to hear that he's crossed the rainbow bridge! I hope he had a wonderful life, that sweet little soul 🧡)

⋆ ˚｡⋆ My HEADCANON for…

"What dog breed are they?" 🐶

❀ Dean Winchester | Soldier Boy / Ben | Beau Arlen | Mark Meachum ❀

Bonus: Sam Winchester & Bucky Barnes (requested by @sorryitsmyfirstdayonearth , thank you lovely! 😏)

⋆ ˚｡⋆ J / NOTES The ones who know me, know I love animals and LOVE dogs, therefore, I have always pictured the boys as different dog breeds lol. This is just how I see them in my head when I think of their different personalities, but we all have different headcanons, right? That being said, I’d love to hear your take on it. What dogs do you guys connect with them? 😄

Main Masterlist ❀ Taglist

DEAN WINCHESTER is a German Shepherd

Did we expect anything else? This is almost canon by now and I couldn't agree more.

The loyalness, the confidence, the courage, the way he's very 'handler oriented' (hello, John) - it all makes him the "perfect little soldier" (quite literally, too). He's clever, strong willed and independent, as well as extremely stubborn, he's prone to aggressive behaviour if negleted (hello John, again). Fiercely protective of the ones he considers family and even though he can be very playful, he's able to turn dead serious at the drop of a hat. Don't be fooled by his cute head tilts, because he won't hold back from putting his life on the line for his loved ones.

SOLDIER BOY / BEN is a Cane Corso

Oh Ben... he reminds me of a large dog in every sense.

Dominant and assertive, basically no social skills lol, but he's also super loyal and can be very affectionate and bond deeply with his family if socialised well (and not traumatized like our man), protective / overprotective to the degree it can be possessive even, definitely a demanding guy, often misunderstood for his bad reputation, and the way he carries himself - proud, broad shouldered and with an athletic build - it all screams "I don't roll over, so get the fuck out of my way."

BEAU ARLEN is a Great Pyrenees

Okay, okay hear me out on this. I know Beau's the ultimate Golden Retriever on first sight and I thought the same at first, but I always felt like a Goldie lacks the fierce protectiveness of Beau.

Like many dogs he's loyal, but what makes him stand out is the way he's known for being very gentle and affectionate (especially with children!), bonds strongly with his family and is very protective of them and their home. He's overall affable with others, stays calm and composed, is independent (he lives alone in his own camper) but also stubborn, wards off predetors and tends to be territorial (sheriff material right there).

And - I kid you not, I swear I had no idea about these gifs, they popped up when I was looking for a nice picture, but I consider it a sign 🤣 - so, if any of that didn't convince you yet:

MARK MEACHUM is a Rottweiler

The moment Mark showed up for the first time on Countdown, he gave me Rotti vibes! (Yup, my inspiration for Gunpoint 😆)

The cocky and gruff attitude, the yapping and silent attention seeking by being annoying (or charming!), the sudden outbursts (he can turn real dangerous at the drop of a hat), the persistence, recklessness and yet how he carries himself with a certain calm and confident attitude, the loyalty and typical "rough and dangerous looking on the outside, soft and caring on the inside". Also, did you know that Rottweiler are more prone to developing a head tu-

and I mean, look, they've got the same expression 🫴

BONUS:

SAM WINCHESTER is an Australian Kelpie

First off, I'm probably putting myself in the line of fire here for writing for Sam as an avid Dean-coded girl LOL, but please just bear with me for a moment before you yell "He's a Golden Retriever" and point a finger my way.

I know, and I agree, Sam does have some Goldie traits but he's also got a lot of others which a Goldie typically lacks. (Have we watched the same guy getting frisky? He's dominant and bity and ravenous - not exactly Golden Retriever). I thought about him for a while and was torn between Border Collie and Kelpie, but eventually picked the latter.

Now let me try and backup that claim with all the humble Sam-knowledge I have.

He's highly intelligent and an exceptionally quick learner, he needs mental challenges and outdoor activities in order to thrive (Sam who either spends his time in the library or gets up at the crack of dawn for jogging, right?). He's loyal, but also an independent thinker (unlike Dean, he questions John's orders), as well as alert and watchful (light sleeper). He's also affectionate and wants to form strong bonds with his family of which he's very protective and likes to spend time with. In addition, like most herding dogs and Retrievers, he's more likely to develop a ball *cough* demon blood *cough* additction.

BUCKY BARNES is a Belgian Malinois

Might be a classic but to me it's just the perfect match.

He, too, is extremely intelligent and a quick leaner, on top of it, he's super versatile (herding, protection work, law enforcement, search and rescue, and even therapy - okay, maybe Bucky's not the best example for the last one, but he tries lol). He's loyal and devoted, but also wary and vigilant of strangers, he's got a strong work ethic but a strong prey drive when not managed well (The Winter Soldier likes to peak through every now and then). He's the perfect military partner as he's resilient (physically and mentally), athletic with a lot of energy and got a fierce bite he's not afraid to use.

...The face fur pattern also reminds me of the Winter Soldier (Raccoon Eyes 😛)

Disclaimer: Images are taken from pinterest.

J/NOTES Well, this was a lot of fun! Let me know if you'd be interested in others 😄

Dean, Soldier Boy, Beau and Mark Tag List (1):

@lamentationsofalonelypotato @ambiguous-avery @bettystonewell @maddie0101 @supernotnatural2005 @zepskies @waynes-multiverse @my-stories-vault @chevroletdean @aylacavebear

@youdontknowe @ladysparkles78 @v1v1-3 @123passwort @lillied31 @amethyst-bunny @alixxhere @royaler1999 @jc-winchester @lyarr24

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#look at sweet skippy!!!#i <3 your feedbacks sm #wvffles #jensen ackles characters #jolly's headcanons

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jollyhunter · 5 days ago

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This was so wholesome!! 🫶

moonbathing | D.Winchester

Dean Winchester x mermaid!reader ♡ Supernatural ♡ 0.2k ♡ Ao3 ♡ masterlist

written for @ambiguous-avery's Summer Snapshot Challenge. my first piece of writing in a WHILE and even though it's short, I'm really proud of it.

tags. established dean x mermaid!reader, midnight beach vibes, mentions of drowning, softness, kissing, the personification of the ocean, nicknames (sweetheart, pretty girl)

Under the moonlight and the touch of his hands, what she feels the most is grateful.

He’s already been to the beach this morning with Sam, felt the caress of the water against his skin. She would’ve come with, but the risk was too big.

One drop of water on her, and she would’ve been fished out on a public beach. Not ideal.

But he’d gone out of his way to find a secluded spot near the rocks, to take her down to the beach in the middle of the night, to jump in after her when she’d leaped into the water.

It’s moments like this when she’s struck by the fact that she loves him.

The waves kiss her shoulders and his fingers trace the spot where her skin meets her scales, and theres a deep, primal part of her that wants to drag him down to the deep with her and kiss him senseless.

But then again, she does prefer him breathing.

“Happy, sweetheart?” he asks with that stupid goofy smirk, and she flicks her tail to splash it right off his face. God, that moonlit face.

“Very.” She sighs. “Thank you, Dean.” She traces her blue finger over his lip, practically purring when he grabs ahold of her hand and kisses her palm.

“Anything for you, pretty girl.”

join my taglist!

#jolly's recs #summersnapshotchallenge2025 #supernatural #dean winchester #dean winchester x reader #dean winchester x mermaid!reader #dean winchester fluff #soft!dean winchester #supernatural x reader

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jollyhunter · 5 days ago

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Liane I LOVE this so much!!! Thank you for running with it because wow- these are surprisingly accurate!? (And dang you sure are fast!)

The Abyssinian cat for Dean? I'm shocked - that's him in every aspect!! "Apparently they are one of the silliest cats of the bunch." Even his goofy side! The gifs with him knocking down stuff always have me in tears - he really is like a cat-dog 🤣🤣

"Bengals are human-made and did not develop naturally. Just like Alec is basically one of Manticore's projects"

I don't know much about Alec (my knowledge is limited to fics I've read about him and some random wiki searches out of curiousity), but this is such a clever pick!!

Beau and the Bobtail cat fit so well - the docile and cuddly personality ahhhwww🥰

OkAY BUT THE SAVANNAH CAT FOR BEN!? GENIUS. (Even the gif you picked fits so well lol)

"Ben is 50% free-spirited beast and 50% product of Compound-V."

LMAO don't tell him that - he thinks he's 100% American Hero and 200% the one with the biggest dick. 🤣

"I read that it takes about 5 years until a Siberian matures and it reminded me of Dean trying his best to let Sam stay a kid for as long as possible."

You just had to throw some angst in there didn't you. 😭 (The match is so cute though 💗)

Cas and the Birma cat sure share that 'holy' look, even the fur pattern and their eyes 🥰

These are all purrrrfect, Liane! The amount of research you put into this, the detail and facts, I love all your picks!! 😍

🐱 Cat Breed Headcanons ── ✮⋆˙

CHARACTERS: Dean Winchester, Alec McDowell, Beau Arlen, Soldier Boy (Ben) BONUS CHARACTERS: Sam Winchester, Castiel GENRE: Fluff NOTES & WARNINGS: None, just take this with a grain of salt as I have very little knowledge of cat breeds. I did some research, though! A/N: After @jollyhunter came up with headcanons for "What Dog Breed Are They?" my cat-lady senses started tingling. Ty for this idea, Jolly! <3 Again, I don't know much about cat breeds. But that just makes it more interesting. I'm curious to hear your thoughts!! I know even less about Beau to be honest, but I had an idea that is based purely on vibes, lol. CREDIT & LINKS: request here ──〃★ join the taglist ──〃★ dividers by @cafekitsune

──[DEAN WINCHESTER] Abyssinian Cat 🐈

In general, I want everyone to take the following into consideration: Orange cat, one braincell, oral fixation and will eat/chew on pretty much everything, constantly knocks stuff down, little piece of shit (affectionately)!

Now for the specifics: Abyssinians have a short, dense coat, often ginger or brown-ish, and their eyes are usually green-gold. Check. They are often described as "dog-like" because you can teach them tricks and train them. They're very active and even sleep less than other cat breeds (remind you of someone?). Loyal as they are, they prefer companionship, because if left unsupervised their boredom might lead to destructive behavior. They hate being lonely. Apparently they are one of the silliest cats of the bunch.

Also, look at this for further proof:

I can't find the full gif, but in the second one he's knocking down Rowena's purse, lmao. I can't with him.

──[ALEC MCDOWELL] Bengal 🐈‍⬛

The breed resembling a mixture of leopard, jaguar, and ocelot. "Wild cat domesticated into a loving pet"-energy with a very affectionate soul. They're highly intelligent and very distinct. One of a kind. Bengals are human-made and did not develop naturally. Just like Alec is basically one of Manticore's projects, though he stays true to himself (and that's enough angst for this one).

Bengals are very curious by default and love to explore. They're agile and energetic. Alec's adventurous and adaptable personality aligns nicely here. As does his extroverted side. He's charismatic and outgoing. Bengals too are very social animals, definitely not shy.

──[BEAU ARLEN] American Bobtail 🐾

American Bobtails are often referred to as the "Golden Retrievers" of cats because of their loyal, lowkey clingy and playful personality. Their rugged appearance and the short stubby tail give them a wild look, but they're very docile and cuddly. American Bobtails enjoy spending time with their human, making them the perfect chill companion. Especially for families. They have an athletic, muscular build, but are more on the laid-back side.

Now, again, I don't know much about Beau, but I keep seeing people describe him as the chipper sunshine-type. The somewhat shaggy aesthetic paired with the sweet personality of an American Bobtail reminded me of him immediately.

──[SOLDIER BOY] Savannah Cat 🐆

Walk with me through my thought process: High maintenance cat, barely domesticated and on the wilder side, notorious yapper, luxurious taste, apex predator... Savannah Cat. The type of breed that borders on illegal to keep at home (and in some states it is not allowed to own a Savannah). The closest to wild beast that a "pet" can get. Savannahs are very energetic and have a high life-expectancy. Their large and lean appearance can make them quite intimidating, though there's a very loyal personality behind the growls and hisses. Their aura definitely demands attention.

Ben is 50% free-spirited beast and 50% product of Compound-V. They definitely tried to tame him, but it's not an easy task to say the least. He's absolutely a star among others, striking in strength and appearance. He's absolutely extra like that.

BONUS: [SAM WINCHESTER] Siberian Cat

The Siberian is another breed whose personality is often compared to that of a dog. They're great for families, very friendly and smart enough to solve some puzzles. Their coat is long and soft and for a house cat they're pretty large in size.

I read that it takes about 5 years until a Siberian matures and it reminded me of Dean trying his best to let Sam stay a kid for as long as possible. They're also famous for their adorable expressions, look at that face.

BONUS: [CASTIEL] Birman Cat

The color scheme is on point, is it not? Even the fur matches the shirt + trenchcoat. The Birman Cat is blue-eyed and gentle. This breed is not very vocal, but all the more loyal and friendly. They follow their owners around, seemingly wanting to support them. They're also called "Sacred Cats of Burma" and considered to be a companion of the Kittah priests in Tibet:

This is the legend of the Sacred Birman Cat: they have the brilliant blue eyes of the goddess, the golden hue that reflected from both their master and the golden statue of the goddess and with dark brown as a symbol of the impurity of the earth: the wicked murder of the priest but with white feet as a symbol of the purity of the soul. (Source)

TAGLISTS PART 1:

Want to join the taglist? Fill out this FORM Want to be removed? Send a DM Not sure if you're on the taglist? Check here

Dean Winchester Taglist:

@alwaysdaydreamingoffiction @alexxavicry @ambiguous-avery @angelicjackles @bejeweledinterludes2

@berryblues46 @blueschevy @bohoooitsme @calibootsgirl @cassieriddle713

@castielscaplan @charliesangel67 @chronic-fangirl-222 @deanswifeyy @edajcheel

@emma1998sblog @emmy21842 @foxyjwls007 @hot-and-confused @idjit-central

@jackles010378 @jollyhunter @justwhisperingfantasies @kimxwinchester @ladykitana90

@ladysparkles78 @lessons-of-red @lunaleah @lyarr24 @mahi-wayy

@mccartneyqp @midnight--raine @mooselvrr @multiversefanfics @riteofpassage77

@spacecowgirl126 @spn-reader @spookyfunhottub @soullessambs @sunnyteume

@supernotnatural2005 @that-stanford-girlie @thetorturedintrovert @waynes-multiverse @whichwitchwanda

@whormotional @whump-loverz @winchester-whiskey @wvffles @zepskies

#jolly's recs #supernatural headcanons #dark angel headcanons #big sky headcanons #the boys headcanons #dean winchester headcanons #sam winchester headcanons #castiel headcanons #alec mcdowell headcanons #soldier boy headcanons #beau arlen headcanons #chevroletdean #lovely moots 💕

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jollyhunter · 5 days ago

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LMAO Those husky gifs took me out!! You're so riiight!! The second one really doooes look like Sam when he's done with Dean 🤣

Thank you, Avery!! Also for the sassy addition! 😉🧡🧡🧡

⋆ ˚｡⋆ My HEADCANON for…

"What dog breed are they?" 🐶

❀ Dean Winchester | Soldier Boy / Ben | Beau Arlen | Mark Meachum ❀

Bonus: Sam Winchester & Bucky Barnes (requested by @sorryitsmyfirstdayonearth , thank you lovely! 😏)

Main Masterlist ❀ Taglist

DEAN WINCHESTER is a German Shepherd

Did we expect anything else? This is almost canon by now and I couldn't agree more.

SOLDIER BOY / BEN is a Cane Corso

Oh Ben... he reminds me of a large dog in every sense.

BEAU ARLEN is a Great Pyrenees

Okay, okay hear me out on this. I know Beau's the ultimate Golden Retriever on first sight and I thought the same at first, but I always felt like a Goldie lacks the fierce protectiveness of Beau.

And - I kid you not, I swear I had no idea about these gifs, they popped up when I was looking for a nice picture, but I consider it a sign 🤣 - so, if any of that didn't convince you yet:

MARK MEACHUM is a Rottweiler

The moment Mark showed up for the first time on Countdown, he gave me Rotti vibes! (Yup, my inspiration for Gunpoint 😆)

and I mean, look, they've got the same expression 🫴

BONUS:

SAM WINCHESTER is an Australian Kelpie

Now let me try and backup that claim with all the humble Sam-knowledge I have.

BUCKY BARNES is a Belgian Malinois

Might be a classic but to me it's just the perfect match.

...The face fur pattern also reminds me of the Winter Soldier (Raccoon Eyes 😛)

Disclaimer: Images are taken from pinterest.

J/NOTES Well, this was a lot of fun! Let me know if you'd be interested in others 😄

Dean, Soldier Boy, Beau and Mark Tag List (1):

@lamentationsofalonelypotato @ambiguous-avery @bettystonewell @maddie0101 @supernotnatural2005 @zepskies @waynes-multiverse @my-stories-vault @chevroletdean @aylacavebear

@youdontknowe @ladysparkles78 @v1v1-3 @123passwort @lillied31 @amethyst-bunny @alixxhere @royaler1999 @jc-winchester @lyarr24

@writtenbyhollywood @ralilda @mostlymarvelgirl @deansimpalababy @globetrotter28 @suckitands33 @spnaquakindgdom @champagnepoets @salemslostwitch @livya99

@multiversefanfics @toxicfataldestiny @sunnys-struggles @kimxwinchester @carliebear23 @alexxavicry @ladykitana90 @woaheasytig3r @velvetparkerx @cupidluvzz

@pressedwater @lori19 @theelephantroom4 @tinysnacklefan @deans-baby-momma @thebestqueenoftheworld @ultimatecin73 @fleurenoir @n-o-p-e-never

#i <3 your feedback sm #jolly's headcanons #jensen ackles characters #lovely moots 💕#ambiguous avery

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jollyhunter · 6 days ago

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Ahhhh thank you so much!! 🧡 I was (still am tbh lol) very anxious about this first chapter / first series. But your feedback is really encouraging to me 🫂

you have such a beauutiful way of writing, your descriptions are so vivid I feel really immersed in the story 💓💓 (the reading nook?? I wouldn’t want to leave either lol)

Thank you again!! You’re making me so happy 😭💗💗💗 And the reading nook is something I’ve always wanted myself lol! Girl living our dream life out there 😂

those witsec agents are asshats seriously, like where is the genuine compassion? :/ she got put through the damn ringer like be nice to her damn it 😩🥺

They absolutely are! It’s like she’s just a pawn to them 😔

while I do feel bad that she passed out, their re-meeting made me melt, shotgun and all 🫠💓 (did mark seriously pick her lock?🤣)

Yayyy - and despite the fact that poor Mark just triggered her PTSD reeeeal bad 😂 (more like busted it down 🤣 love that you thought of that detail lol!!)

I feel for her, and i’m glad mark’s there with her now 🤎🤎 i’m already attached, can’t wait to see where this leads !!💕💕:)

Let’s hope he can help her 😉 I hope you’ll enjoy the journey with those two! Thank you again so much for your kind feedback, dear 🤗💗

New Life, Old Herbs & Same Bullet

Main Masterlist ❀ Mark Meachum Masterlist

⋆ ˚｡⋆ PAIRING Mark Meachum x fem!Reader

⋆ ˚｡⋆ SERIES SUMMARY After years of undercover work as an LAPD Detective, you're ready to leave your past behind, make a fresh start in the countryside and move on from the demons that still haunt you at night. However, your old life soon catches up with you, and the annoyingly charming LAPD Detective assigned to protect you isn't making things any easier.

WARNING / TAGS Kinda tainted Fluff? with heavy underlying Angst Rural farmhouse vibe | Cozy, Angsty, Cozy, ANGSTY | Reader is in the WitSec program* | Reader is scarred by her last undercover case (no graphic descriptions) | Reader is dealing with PTSD / trauma | Detailed descriptions of panic attack and blacking out | mention of a dead fish? | Language | Mark likes to call Reader "Sunshine" | Kind of a dash of enemies to lovers vibe? | Mark and reader have a rough start lol | Mark might be a bit OOC (consider this my personal take on him from what I’ve seen so far!) | No use of Y/N. English isn't my native language. *It is by no means meant to be fully realistic, so please be lenient! 😉

⋆ ˚｡⋆ WORDS ~7k

⋆ ˚｡⋆ J / NOTES This first chapter is for @zepskies Summer Writing Challenge and her wonderful color prompt! Thank you so much for the beautiful colors! 🧡 I feel like after my first Enemies with Benefits Mark smut, Gunpoint, I had to repent lol, so here’s some bittersweet fluff with lots of angst mixed into it! 😘

Series Masterlist ❀ Taglist

You've always been one to smile even when it's wet and broken. Or when it was busted, and the rest of your face looked like Pollock's hand had slipped across it.

Other than that, you won't take much with you from your time undercover.

Knowing the ingredients of different drugs down to the ounce or being able to spot a mule in a crowd or learning the routines of human traffickers like you're one of them is not going to help you in the countryside.

There is one unspoken rule you've learned the hard way, though, and that one you definitely won't forget:

Always make sure you play well with the mob.

So that's what you do.

Different place, different mob, different murder. Same job.

This time, though, the sweet sound of windchimes sings across your weathered porch and a gentle breeze brushes the hair from your face. The jingling dances with the tall grass and flowers that pool around your bare ankles as you step through them.

You crouch beside the old maple tree, reach into the basket at your side and swat away a couple of flies. Unroll the newspaper across your lap. The stench of something putrid and rancid curls into your nose. Luckily, there's not much you haven't learned to stomach.

It's just one of the many things that going undercover teaches you – how to bury your gag reflex and smile like it's all just another Tuesday.

Dead, hollow eyes stare back at you once you continue to place the body down on a small slab of rock, its surface covered by a tablecloth of moss – today's offering.

Let's see how they like this...

You wipe your fingers on the crumpled paper, adjust your flowy dress, and pick up your basket before you step back some feet. Then wait.

Sure enough, the mob comes.

Crows announce their feast with excited caws before they come swooping down beside the lonely tree at the edge of the wheat field, where you've laid out the leftovers of a fish. You watch how the family merrily chatters away, the adults keeping lookout, while a pair of younglings peck at your offering.

"You like that, huh?" you call over to them, chuckling to yourself as one of them tilts its head and ruffles its feathers in response.

Mob happy. Mission complete.

Over the course of the last summer month, you've grown quite close with your new mob. They've learned your routine and you've learned to read their calls. They make great alarms, actually. They will caw loudly and cuss out any intruder with a foreign face from a mile away. Especially useful when you're living all alone Pippi Longstocking-style at the end of a dusty road somewhere off the brim of Oregon.

There are no neighbours.

Except for Miss Jenkins, whose husband either died long before you moved here or is being held hostage in her basement. And who should live far enough away that she shouldn't be able to appear on your porch spontaneously, like she's just been spawned there, yet she manages to do so at least once a week.

To "check in on you" as she likes to put it. Nosy old woman...

Otherwise, you're positive that there are no neighbours for miles who'd hear you scream.

Not the happy screams either – God, you haven't had those in a while. Heard enough of the others.

Some still ring in your ears whenever you lay in your bed at night and count the cracks in the timber that's supporting your ceiling or when you hear a fox screech somewhere in the woods behind your house, its cry blood-curdlingly similar to the agonising cries of a woman who's being brutally tortured for hours on end.

But all in all, you love it here.

You tiptoe back through the field that leads up to the gates of your garden. The gate creaks shut behind you, just like the four steps up to your back porch groan when you climb them – everything in this house seems to have its own voice, and isn't afraid to use it.

You're sure you'll get used to it, eventually. You say, and remember the many times the howling wind has startled you awake when the shutters clatter and the old wood creaks in the middle of the damn night.

Your gaze sweeps across your porch. The small wooden table, worn down by generations but spruced up by an olive green tablecloth with floral print, is readied nicely for your guests. The floor on the other hand is – once again – littered with leaves of the nearby maple tree.

Not that you'd mind, but you had a different use for them, than leaving them to rot on the porch.

You grab the broom from the corner and get to work.

Unlike others, you don't swipe the dead leaves off your porch, but into a nice heap for you to collect them once you are done. Their beautiful auburn-harvest colours will make a great addition to the décor and the candles in your living room. With every rhythmic swipe across the floorboards, your mind begins to wander to the months ahead and how you're going to spend them in your new home.

Soon, autumn will beckon you to huddle up inside with fresh pumpkin spice tea warming your palms, its hot steam cupping your cheeks like a pair of hands and a fuzzy blanket hugging you from behind while you watch the flames twirl and flicker inside your fireplace from the corner of your favourite couch.

Some may think of autumn as a dark and depressing time of the year. And sure, things die and sink back into the mud while thick fog gobbles up any leftovers. But to you, there's something oddly tranquillising about the way life is slowly forced to move inside.

It reminds you of your childhood, the family gatherings you'd groaned at back then, the warm laughter and the gossiping of aunts and grannies while your mother was cooking in the kitchen and decorated the house with the smell of roasted turkey and mashed sweet potatoes. Just like the sound of crackling fire and the scents of pumpkin and cinnamon spices which you hope will soon fill your own home with life.

There's just something about the warmth and safety of this season's forced proximity that harbours a certain coziness and sense of belonging, reminding you of the good old days, before you'd willingly rolled yourself in the mud and done whatever it took to make an undercover mission a success.

Autumn may call many things to an end, but it in your mind, also allows you to finally focus on the things which are important, the ones which stay. Which make a house, a home.

My home. You smile proudly.

Then give the neatly cleaned floor a once over, hands on your hips, satisfied with your work.

Once in your kitchen, you set the basket with the pile of leaves down in the corner next to the stove.

I'll take care of those later…

For now, you'll be occupied with the chopping of dried herbs you've got hanging from the ceiling. You carefully pick them down one by one and begin to spread the bunches out on your counter. The smell of thyme, rosemary and peppermint fill the warm kitchen once you begin to chop them into small pieces – for your own tea mixes.

Some of their mossy green colours remind you of that guy who'd busted you free from your last undercover gone wrong.

His charming smirk and confident attitude had left an impression on you which you still can't quite make sense of. It's been almost a whole year, and you can still feel his intense eyes searching you for any major injuries, how they'd flickered between bourbon whiskey and emerald green when the artificial light of the warehouse bounced off his sun freckled cheeks and his lips twitched into a befuddled chuckle once he'd noticed that despite looking like you'd been thrown into a blender, you'd smiled.

He probably thought you'd either been coked up or you were just generally off your rocker.

"You still with me, sunshine?" Something tingles in your chest at the memory of the deep timbre of his voice and the warm feeling of his hand patting your cheek. Head tilted up. Eyes searching yours. Deep and intense.

I didn't even get to ask him for his name.

You push the thought aside. He's part of a life that's in your past. It's probably for the best this way. And yet…

Gratefully, you're snapped out of your thoughts when you hear the familiar sputter of a car draw up to your house and kill its engines once it's parked in front of your entrance.

You've been expecting them, the guys of WitSec, but they're a little early as always. You can't help but groan to yourself with a roll of your eyes.

Not for much longer… two more days and I'm done. Just gotta make my statement and that's it. You remind yourself.

You open your kitchen window to gesture to the backside of your house. "Go to the back! I'll be with you in a minute!" One of them responds with a grunt and the other with a lazy wave of his hand.

Charming as always.

You go back to finish chop up the last bit for the tea you'd prepared, while you feel your fingers curl tighter around the knife's handle.

Whenever you have to face them, it takes all of your energy to keep smiling.

Their presence is like a constant reminder of all those months you spent in fear, of the countless times you were relocated across half of the US, and of them watching you the entire time.

The clack-clack-clack on the carving board comes to a halt. Hands slightly shaking. You take a couple of deep breaths, steady yourself and wait for the tremors in your hands to fade.

But your mind keeps going.

Every step of yours had been meticulously planned, monitored and executed. No friends. No family. No freedom. You wanted to talk to your mum? The Marshal would overview any form of communication. Invite your old best friend for a coffee? Ask the Marshal (he said no). Flirt with the cute guy who was visiting his mother next door every Wednesday? The Marshal had his résumé at hand before you could even ask him for his name. Step outside? Ask the Marshal.

You couldn't even get a damn muffin in the local bakery without his permission.

Undercover work destroyed your sense of self. But witness protection had successfully finished the job.

It was the price for your safety, as you'd been told countless times. One you'd agreed on. And effectively made you to their pawn.

Even now it manages to make your jaw clench.

I didn't choose this. Not really. They called it a choice. But it wasn't.

Because worst was, that you had let them rule your life – or what was left of it – and still the fear of someone sneaking up to you and throw a bag over your head, would follow you around like a constant shadow. Each and every night was spent all alone in bed, in complete isolation, drenched in sweat, eyes glued to the shadows moving under the door, expecting one of Chavez' men to kick it down any moment and drag you out by your hair.

For over eight goddamn months.

It was hell.

The nightmares and panic attacks ruled your life until last month, when they finally caught Rick Chavez and his right-hand man, Jackson Walker, and you were finally given back your own life.

Now they're just waiting for your statement to finish the case. Once and for all.

Two more days.

When you step out onto the porch, U.S. Marshal William Bailey and agent Thomas Rhodes are already waiting at your table like two vultures. You set down the pot of tea between the two, but don't take a seat.

Play nice now. You force that perfect lovely smile like you'd learned to.

"I made pie," you say, thumbing towards your kitchen, "I'll go get some."

From the corner of your kitchen window, you keep an eye on them while you cut three slices of your freshly baked apple pie. Not too big. Just enough to keep their mouths occupied.

You watch from behind the curtain how Rhodes' knee bobs up and down. He looks like he's a good 10 years younger than Bailey. Perhaps in his early 30s, as fidgety as a Border Collie surrounded by sheep (and you have no doubt that he's just as agile as one). His left hand rakes back his ash-blond slicked hair, making his British suit crease around his chest and expose the shoulder holster slung over his pinstriped vest, matching his suit and clad trousers.

He glances your way, checking what takes you this long – you quickly look back down and continue to prepare everything... in slow motion.

Rhodes then shifts his focus back to his partner.

His hand drops down with a frustrated huff, just to continue with his fingers tapping the tablecloth while he fishes a cigarette package from his chest pocket with his other hand.

"Did ya know, that a hawk can pick a dove right outta the sky?" he asks out of nowhere, words drawled across his tongue with an undeniable thick British accent he must've adopted from his mother. His blue eyes flicker to Bailey just to check on his attention before they return to the cigarette he's twirling in his hands.

Bailey tilts his head to the sky. Pauses.

The marine blue suit hugging his broader frame, rides up on his forearms as he folds his hands behind his short inky locks that curl around his palms. His dark brown skin shimmers with a cool, silver undertone in the patches of mid-day light. The sun has made it past the leaves of the trees by this time of the day, its shadows playfully dancing on the white porch.

Bailey smacks his lips. Then replies slowly.

"Sounds like a load of bullshit to me."

"Yeah, you bet your bollocks, I'm tellin' ya-" Rhodes runs a hand down his neatly trimmed brown chevron moustache before he tucks the blunt between his lips and continues halfway muffled "- just swoops down and grabs it mid-air. The poor dove don't stand a bloody chance. Smashes its bones to bits, like a bloody shotgun blast." He flicks his lighter on, smoulders the end of the stick and takes a drag. "Nature's right brutal."

Bailey rolls his eyes lazily and mumbles with a huff through his nose. "You watch too many movies, man. Makes you all antsy."

"Oi, if you spent less time watching them kiddie shows and more time feedin' that brain of yours some good ol' David Attenborough, you wouldn't be nappin' every bleedin' evenin' in a food coma now, would ya?"

"You leave Rick 'n Morty out of this. You're just miffed 'cause I usually get the bigger slice of pie."

"Now that is bollocks," Rhodes snaps at Bailey in defence.

An amused snort escapes you, luckily out of ear shut.

They continue their bickering, when all of a sudden the ringing of a phone cuts through their conversation. Moments later, Bailey's and Rhodes' voices take on a serious note when the younger of the two calls out for you.

You can feel how the air has shifted the moment you step back outside and onto the porch. Rhodes' heel is nervously tapping against a loose floorboard, even faster than before, cigarette stubbed out on the plate. Even the Marshal, who's usually got the air of a Buddha, seems tense, his expression gone uncharacteristically stern.

"We just got a call from WitSec," The Marshal starts and your own muscles begin to coil up more with every second that passes as he goes to explain how Molly – the one handling your case at WitSec – had just been talking to them about the latest developments in the Chavez-case.

You nod but you don't listen.

The voices of your tormentors are getting louder, more intrusive. They still sit in the back of your mind, like a relentless ugly weed which just keeps pestering you whenever you think you've finally gotten rid of it.

"Oh you think you're so clever you little bitch, hm?" "Once I get my hands on y-"

Okay – stop. Breathe. I am save. I am doing fine. I am in the here and now.

You shake off the uninvited memory of their threats. Instead shift your focus to the presence. Feel the cotton under your fingers as you wrap them in the fabric of your dress. Breath the fresh late summer air.

Now, life is goo-

"Jackson Walker's free."

Your thoughts come to a screeching halt.

The world stops. Your heart stumbles, then slams hard against your ribs.

Not him. Not again.

You feel the scars flare up, even though you shouldn't be able to feel them anymore – the bruises he and his men left, the sound of boots on concrete, the smell of gasoline in the dark.

You taste blood.

"W-what?" is all you manage.

You feel the twist of a knife between your ribs when Rhodes goes on with an explanation that has your guts curl inwards.

"That bloody bastard's greased the right palms, and now we've got two of our key witnesses pulling out their testimony, and the court's on hold for another three weeks," he grumbles, "We're back to square fuckin' one, for Christ's sake."

Someone must've pulled the ground open underneath your feet, because you feel like you're in a free-fall, hurtling down into the open jaws of a wolf.

Your world, peaceful and perfect one moment, comes crashing down like a deer shot through the flank.

"But- but… what about-?"

"Chavez's still in custody. But with his guard dog off the leash it's only a matter of time 'till he rounds up the rest of the witnesses and soon that bastard's back on the street."

Your breath gets stuck in your throat. Mind still struggling to process the information that Jackson Walker is free. Unrestrained. Out there. As they speak.

You startle when both of the men are suddenly on their feet and Bailey pulls out his phone, apparently readying it to make some calls.

"We'll have to relocate you, stat."

His annoucement slams down like a guillotine.

Your chest tightens. Lungs cave in. You remember what it felt like to be shoved in the trunk, bleeding out and praying they'd just shoot you already. And now they're telling you to vanish again? To start over? To lose this home too?

No. Not again.

You’d rather die here, in a place that feels like an actual life.

"No."

Their heads both snap up to stare at you.

"What did she just say?" Rhodes asks in disbelief. Bailey shakes his head like you'd told them a stupid joke, "We're just trying to protect you. Or would you rather have Chavez' men have another go at you?"

You swallow. Hard. Eyes narrowed. Determination flaring up inside you.

Not your pawn anymore.

"You're not protecting me," you hiss, "You're burying me alive." Bailey and Rhodes share a look, clearly taken aback at your sudden sharp tone. "If he finds me, he finds me. But I’m not running anymore."

Rhodes' upper lip twitches his moustache. Dangerously.

The next moment he backs you up against the railing with two quick steps that send tremors through the floorboards under your feet and rattle the mismatched floral dishware on the table next to you. You stumble a step backwards until you knock into the railing with your hips.

Air thick. Breath caught in your throat. Lips tight.

"Now you listen to me, –" he says your last name with a clear edge to it, "I won't let ya fuck this up. As long as you're in witness protection, you play by our rules."

The way he stares you down with piercing cold eyes has you flinch and instinctively lean further back, the railing digging into your back.

The Marshal seems to take note of your discomfort, because he reaches out to give Rhodes a pat to the shoulder which has him take a few steps back. One fist subtly curled into a fist.

It allows you to let out the breath you'd been holding.

"Three weeks. That's all I need. I'll give you your statement. Just let me have this," you try to reason with them. Or maybe you're more like pleading now.

Rhodes is not done with putting you in place, though. Each and every word he spits your way makes your throat tighten up more.

"You signed a bloody agreement. We keep you alive and "- he waves a finger your way -" you make that statement. A bit hard when you're dead, innit? If you decide to jeopardise our plans, I'll personally have you relocated to one of WitSec's secret bunkers. If I have to, by force. So, it's either that, or you're on your own, dove." The Marshal cocks an eyebrow at that last threat but doesn't contradict him.

Instead he steps up next to Rhodes and drawls in a calm but final tone.

"So, what's it gonna be, dear?"

Three days later.

You're sat in the cold dirt between the bushes in your garden. Collecting herbs. Or you would be, if it wasn't for the fact that you keep replaying the same discussion over and over in your head as if it would change anything. The same twig of rosemary hanging loosely between your fingers for the past ten minutes.

"In that case, I'm leaving," you'd snapped at them. "I told you. I'm done. Now get the hell off my land." You'd even grabbed for the broom to send them fleeing off your porch.

Rhodes was swearing like an English sailor, hands going everywhere except your way. "You really willin' to throw yourself to the bloody wolves?" he'd barked, outraged as he ducked under a swing of your broom, and Bailey'd continued, "Don't be so stupid, are you going to throw all of this away now?" he was afraid you'd chicken out, now that the deal was off.

But, "I'm making that damn statement. But this time, I'm doing it on my terms." had effectively shut them both up.

You're free now to do as you please. At least on paper.

Which feels great.

But your nightmares are back ten-fold. So are the panic attacks.

You finally snap the twig of rosemary off and rub it between your fingers, then bring it up to your nose. The smell usually has a calming effect on you. But even rosemary had a hard time now to calm your mind.

For the past three days it has been a complete mess.

Thoughts spiralling more often than not. Questions, doubts and what-if scenarios tearing at your sanity without a break.

Maybe they were right – maybe I am being stubborn, maybe I am throwing myself to the wolves –

You should hazard the consequences of your deeds when you were undercover, shouldn't you? Your doubt puts all your energy into the efforts to grind down your determination and make you question your decision.

Over and over and over.

You drop the twig into the basket to the other herbs before your fingers instinctively go to curl into the fabrics of your soft coloured dress. Your boots digging further into the dirt.

"This is my home now. I don't need them. I'm safe here."

You keep repeating those words out loud like a mantra.

And it works, as your attention begins to shift to your surrounding and your senses finally seem to return to the here and now; Bathing in the late summer sun, watching how the clouds slowly swim across the roof of your house, just like the day you'd walked up to it for the first time.

They had told you it wasn't much.

Little did they know that this new life is the closest you've ever come to a home. Sure, the circumstances couldn't be more wicked, but the little Victorian house that's got the clutter-stuffed flair of the Weasley's Burrow wrapped up in a cottagecore look, couldn't care less, and neither could you.

The house you've been given, stands tall, unwilling to yield to the force of time. Like a grandmother; ancient, slightly hunched-over and wrinkled with a lifetime of stories and defeated battles but still refusing to let go of life and become one with the dirt. You're convinced she has witnessed countless families come and go, you've seen how their weight dented the stairs and their children's youth is still carved into the door frames of your kitchen.

She has watched the seasons take over and get driven back again, like the relentless ebb and flow of the ocean, as the roots of nature keep wafting up against her walls, weathering the painted wood down and cracking its walls of white and honey dipped colours open.

But to you, every blemish only adds to her charming beauty.

You gladly exchanged the skyline of Los Angeles for the crowns of the forest, snaking along the border of vast fields of wildflowers, their colours spangling the golden wheat fields like the floral patterns on the wallpapers in your bedroom, and the lush green grass pulled up to your front porch like a fluffy blanket.

Instead of constantly watching your back for the shadows that follow you home, you can watch how daisies, large balls of lavender and bushes of those cute little pink flowerets jostle for the best sun spot.

It's a tad bit chilly by now – but the sun warms your exposed skin enough to keep the goosebumps at bay and to tingle the back of your neck like the gentle kiss of a bearded lover. When a twig from behind you, grazes the nape of your ne –

"Get to your fuckin' knees."

You freeze.

A shiver runs down your back at the intrusive voice scratching at the inside of your head and the feeling of a cool muzzle grazing the nape of your neck.

The taste of copper fills your mouth.

No.

No I will not. Fuck you, Jack. You wrangle him back into the hole he once again slipped free from.

Take a deep breath. Then let out a long exhale.

Slow. In... Out. That's it.

You shift your focus to your hands. Ignore the slight tremble…

No more cold unforgiving steel under your finger pads or crusty crimson clinging to your fingernails no matter how much you'd rub them with acetone. Your fingers now curl around the handle of a cute little basket like they always use in those Easter commercials to collect their eggs.

Now focus on your ears… your nose…

You can hear the distant clucking of your chickens, roaming freely around what's yours and what nature offers you with generous hands. The wind, rustling of leaves. Chirping of birds. Crows singing. The untamed flora and fauna fills your senses with the smell of the woods. The scent of spices like thyme, rosemary, basil and citrus hang over your garden, and whenever the wind is just right, a swift waft of floral rose hits your nose.

You let out a long exhale.

That's it… just keep going. Just keep going. I'm alive. I'm ali-

The distant friendly chattering of the crows suddenly turns loud and alarmed. Your head snaps up, scrambling to your feet simultaneously.

Moments later, sputtering and groaning cuts through the idyllic atmosphere as tires comb through the dirt road and pull a flag of dust behind them.

You watch a vehicle emerge from the forest.

Not the Marshal's.

It grows bigger and bigger and your hands on the basket unconsciously tighten more and more.

From one moment to the next, your spine has gone rigid. Your pulse is hammering in your ears. And your throat is closing up like an invisible rope has been draped over your head with the intention to lead you up to your porch and get you hanged by the braces of your own home.

You're snapped out of your petrified state as the sound of the car draws up to your front porch and the basket from your hands hits the ground.

If you weren't feeling the adrenaline rush right now, you'd probably be scared of how quickly your muscle memory kicked in.

You don't even remember when you'd grabbed the shotgun next to your front door, or when you'd thrown said door open, gun cocked and finger on the trigger, eyes zeroing in on the car and the person stepping out of it.

When your eyes lock, he smiles – until he notices the gun.

"Jesus – fuck – Hold on! Hold on!" the guy yells over the frame of his car's door where he dived down for cover.

You stop at the first step of your front porch and bark back. Voice tight, yet sharp.

"Who the hell are you? What do you want?"

After a beat, when no shot's being fired, he dares to perk his head out, both his hands coming up slowly in a placating gesture.

"I'm coming out – don't fuckin' shoot me, okay?" - he slowly steps out of his cover, a strand of his dark brown hair fallen into his face, his hands still raised, waving them slowly - "Not a threat, see? It's me. LAPD detective Mark Meachum, reme–"

"Stay back!" you cut him off. He pauses and when your elbow moves he instinctively ducks his head, palms facing your way again. Voice raising. "We know each other! I'm the guy who busted you out!"

The guy who…?

You freeze. Gun still trained on him. Finger hovering over the trigger.

Mark doesn't flinch. Just. Smiles. "Remember me, sunshine..?" And of course you do. That charming bastard with the green eyes.

Who'd not only saved your life, but somehow managed to get stuck in the back of your mind ever since.

"You – … Why – how do you know about my location?" you sputter.

"Mind takin' that out of my face first..?" Mark jerks his chin at you, hinting at the barrel that's still aimed at him.

Right. You lower the shotgun, then nod back at him. "You didn't answer my question. What are you doing here?"

"I'm here on chief Norman's order," your eyes widen and he quickly clarifies, "Don't worry, no one knows about it."

"It's good to see you're okay," he comments and the way the corner of his lips pull into a soft smile sparks the memory of when you'd met him for the first and last time.

He hasn't changed one bit. Except for that patch on his temple... I wonder who decked him.

His beard's still full and dark around his sharp jaws, hair swept back with a stray strand hanging into his face, toned chest hidden beneath his grey shirt and smooth black leather jacket lining his broad shoulders, his bow legs bouncing and tugging at his jeans in all the right ways with every step he takes towards you.

Mark stops at the lowest step, head tipped back to meet your eyes. He looks as charming as ever – until a crease forms between his eyebrows and he manages to crush every positive memory of his in just two seconds.

"The better question is, why the hell did you leave WitSec? Are you out of your goddamn mind?"

Maybe he's not as nice and as charming as I remember him.

"What?" you almost scoff at his offending tone.

"You heard me," and he just adds to your irritation when his tone grows more pointed, "You're aware that the guy who almost killed you and did god knows what to you, is walking free and tracking you down as we speak, right?"

You blink at him, confusion still written all over your face until your patience finally snaps and your hands begin to tighten around the handle of your shotgun.

"What's it to you?" you snap back, "I don't want your damn help," or your patronizing attitude.

Mark's expression darkens and he crosses his arms in front of his chest. "I wasn't asking." He scoffs.

"Neither am I," you retort, "I told them. I'm staying. End of story." He rolls his eyes at your words and you feel the sudden urge to add a patch to his other temple.

"Are you even listening? Chavez wants you dead – or worse for fucks sake!" he yells back, voice raised to make up for the height difference between you two right now.

You want to bite back but you find your voice stuck in the back of your throat at the mention of your old tormentor's name. It's enough to send a shiver up your spine. Stomach twisting into knots. Chest tight and aching.

With just the right words, he successfully managed to tip over the first domino of the walls you had so carefully build inside your mind to keep the anxiety and panic at bay.

Without realising it, you spin on your feet and find your legs carrying you away. Away from him. From his annoying tone. His infuriating attitude. His eyes which bore into you every time they lock with yours.

"Where the fuck do you think you're goin'?" he calls after you in annoyance and moments later you can hear his boots thump up the stairs, "Hey – hold on, don't be so goddamn stubborn – At least hear me out!"

You don't stop, neither do you turn to snap back at him. Mark stares at your back as you march across the porch and into your house where he stops in his tracks when you slam the door into his face.

Who does he think he is? Why the hell does he even care? I told them I was done. That I'll stay here. And I'm not letting anyone take this away from me and lock me up again.

Screw him. Screw WitSec. Screw all of 'em.

Mark now faces your door, stunned. He scoffs. Shakes his head and rakes his hair back with both of his hands before he barks after you once more.

"I'm not gonna leave! Just so you know!"

Your hands are shaking – your grip on the counter's vice-like, weight braced against it, forehead pressed against the cupboard next to the pans hanging from their metal hooks, as you force the air down to your lungs.

I'm okay. Everything's okay. I'm fine – I'm –

"Fuck!" you curse out loud.

But your voice cracks. Like somebody had just choked you and your cords are still strangled and the air's still thin. Getting thinner.

"Now get a grip of yourself," you scold yourself and it does nothing to smoothen the tremors in every breath you take and to the way your muscles are coiled up like a spring.

Their voices lick at the back of your mind. Again.

Their threats ring in your ears. Graze the back of your skull with cold steel and wrap their long fingers around your throat. Pressuring. Speeding up your heart and cutting off your airway.

"Should've listened to them, doll." "You know what we do with cops like you, hmm?" "We'll take our time and-"

Shut up.

Ignore it.

You try your best to block out the fear that's clawing its way up your spine. The flashes of memories that cross your inner eyes.

Just ignore it.

Your chest starts to feel constricted, left side stinging like a blade's twisting your heart whenever your lungs try and fail to expand.

You can feel your control slipping. Fast. Too fast.

The beats of your heart hammer in your ears, your breath now ragged as the world begins to spin and your vision grows blurry, unfocused. Black.

When your eyes snap open, dazed and confused, first thing you feel is the soft bedding of your cushions against your back. The shelf hoarding books sits across from you, the heavy curtain with its floral patterns brushes your shoulder and some dust particles swirl through the god rays that shine through the window you're leaned against.

Your eyes drift off, follow the rows of books about random household skills like cooking, sewing, gardening and whatever your predecessors had left you here and you liked to thumb through in the afternoons with a nice cup of black tea with milk and a plate of freshly baked cinnamon rolls while getting cozy in the corner of your very own reading nook.

You loved this spot, but.

This is definitely not where I was last.

Your focus is drawn to the adjacent hallway when you hear steps coming up the wooden stairs, each of them groaning and creaking in protest, closely followed by a gruff voice.

"Hey there. You feelin' okay?"

You. You hiss internally, jaw clenching subtly.

Mark rounds the railing of the stairs and walks up to you where he sets down two mugs onto the tiny round coffee table and slides into the single chair next to it, keeping a respectable distance to you, but still close enough to reach for your arms if he felt need.

"You okay?" Mark asks again.

"What…" you groan, mind still spinning. You rub your head, feeling a small bump there that has you stifle a hiss.

Damnit, I must've blacked out.

"I... I'm fine, yeah…" you mumble under your breath, eyes averting his and trying your best to ignore the way they've taken on a vibrant sage green, matching the paint of the inside of your nook, and the way his hair's dark in the shadow but oh so soft with a shimmer of chocolate brown in the streak of light casted across his face.

You try very hard to not notice any of that.

But the way Mark's eyes are on you this entire time isn't helping either.

"Must've been the low blood pressure, that's all," you add the blatant lie, eyes still anywhere else but meeting his.

Can't he laser-eye something else?? I'm not a paper target on a shooting range!

Mark's eyebrows raise and he leans to the side to capture your wandering gaze. Damnit.

"Blood pressure, huh?" he probes, "That happen often?"

You persistently ignore the faint tingling in your stomach when your eyes lock.

"Yeah, on occasion." You shrug it off.

There's a moment of awkward silence. The air feels like it's going to shift any moment between you two, although you're not sure what direction.

Neither whether you want to find out. So you make sure it goes out the damn window where it belongs.

"Well, now that you've seen that I'm fine, you're welcome to get lost."

He cocks his head, then chuckles lightly. "Yeah, that's not gonna happen, sunny."

Excuse me? You blink at him for a moment.

"This is trespassing," you comment pointedly.

For a split second, his lips twitch into a smug smirk.

Is he enjoying this entire situation?

"Denial of assistance," he counters with a half-hearted shrug. "Had to make sure you didn’t get sniped on my watch." He reaches over to the coffee table next to you and grabs one of the hot mugs and then pushes it into your hands. You look down at your favourite mug with its cute cat paw prints and flower petals on it, surprised and frankly a bit befuddled.

"Felt weird to carry a lady to her bedroom without offering her a drink first," he quips with a flirtatious smile and then gestures with his chin at the pillow nest you've ensconced yourself in, "Plus, this funny granny closet looked much more cozy."

"It's a reading nook!" You correct him and aim to playfully kick him in the shin but he's faster.

Mark grabs you by the ankle and holds your leg back down to the cushions with such speed and smooth precision that you have no doubt that, despite your training, he could disarm and pin you down in a flash if things ever got heated.

Your heart skips a beat at the unexpected contact.

You'd expect the reason to be panic. Muscles tense and ready for the fight-or-flight instincts to kick in. But what happens instead throws you off entirely.

Something inside you is burning up as you feel the warmth of his hand on your bare skin, calloused finger pads rubbing against the inside of your ankle as his large palm wraps around it and fits perfectly there like a grounding weight, and something more which sends a shiver right to your – whoa okay hold your damn horses, woman. It's just a hand for Pete's sake.

When your eyes meet, Mark's voice suddenly drops a notch. Eyebrows pulled low. Voice edgy.

"You want me to detain you for assault on a LAPD detective, young lady?" You swallow. Mind gone on a fritz.

A teensy-weensy voice somewhere inside you pipes up "Hell-fucking-yeah" – but it never makes it to your conscious mind which thankfully is out of order right now.

After a beat, his serious face cracks and the familiar amusement and mischief is twinkling in his green eyes again as he leans in, teasing in a charming tone.

"Just fuckin' with ya."

Mark pats your leg once before he pulls his hand back to his knee.

All casual and smug.

Like he's done this a million times before, to every woman colleague, or newbie, or pretty front desk secretary... or helplessly lonely ex detective who'd willingly exchanged bullets for stainless steel tea infusers.

Wow… Ass.

Mark doesn't miss a single cue.

His intense eyes watch you closely before he slowly leans back into his chair, arms crossing in front of his chest. The corner of his lips suddenly pulled into a frown.

"Quitting the program was a really dumb move." Your jaw clenches at his lecturing tone while he continues with a "But-" which you cut short right there.

"I don't care what you all think, I said I won't –" This time he interrupts you. His voice raised enough to make you suck in a sharp breath.

"Just– " Mark rubs his temple with a frustrated groan "– let me finish my damn point, yeah?"

Your hands tighten around your mug, eyes dropped to the steam that's still wafting up into your face to avert his stern look. Its warm smell of cinnamon spices caresses your nose and you inhale it deeply while you close your eyes for a moment, allowing the scent to ground you.

"Fine," you mumble. Not really convincing, but he takes what he gets.

"But. I'm not here to drag you away," he watches how your head perks up at his words and his voice softens in response, "Look – I'm not gonna sugar-coat it. Things aren't looking very peachy. We lost eyes on Walker and we have no idea what he's up to, but it goes without saying that he's gunning for you until you've made that statement of yours. And–" Mark taps the coffee table once to get your attention, "that's the only reason why I'm here."

Your eyes drift back down to the tea between your fingers. Blinking at it as you take in his words.

"So…" you begin in a more neutral voice, "You've been assigned to be my bodyguard, is that it?"

Mark nods, then flashes a lopsided smirk in an attempt to lighten the mood. "Minus the love story."

You don't laugh.

Is this whole thing a fucking joke to him?

"Do I have a saying in this?" you ask, tone flat. Mark huffs through his nose and rakes his hair back.

"Nope." He tips his head to the side to meet your eyes again.

"Great," you scoff softly, your fingers tighten around the mug to the degree you can feel the stinging heat bite at your skin. "So I've got a watch dog latched to my ankle for the next three weeks."

With a sardonic smile, Mark rubs his forehead, causing your molars to grind together.

"Guess you better get used to me. I can be fun, though, promise."

J / Note: Pheew, I hope this wasn't all too bad for my first chapter. The setup took more words than anticipated, but from now on we'll focus on those two. 🤭

Please let me know what you think and whether you're interested in more, I appreciate all of your support so much! 🧡

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@deansimpalababy @globetrotter28 @suckitands33 @my-stories-vault @spnaquakindgdom @tinysnacklefan @deans-baby-momma

@bettystonewell @ladysparkles78 @hayah84

↬ Let me know if you'd like to be tagged for anything I post for the universe of Gunpowder Tea! ♡

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jollyhunter · 6 days ago

Text

Horror is one thing, but being forced to live bad smut?

(Sam Winchester x female reader x Dean Winchester)

Summary One of Chuck’s new works is leaked online. Sam, Dean and you read it, unaware that it contains some explicit content. CWs Sexual tension. Threesomes. Me trying my hand at flowery romance prose. Supernatural books by Carver Edlund. 18+. 4.2k words. AN This is technically a sequel to There's Sam girls and Dean girls but both can be read on their own. Thank you to @zyra-7 for accidentally reminding me I wrote this. 😄

Sam x reader x Dean masterlist ⏐ SPN masterlist

Chuck sits down at his desk.

He has a raging headache, enough painkillers in his hand to kill a small family of elephants and a glass as well as a bottle of whiskey.

It’s two AM, but this can’t wait.

He rubs his hands over his face and then pops two of the painkillers, washes them down with a big gulp of whiskey.

He feels fried, like someone made him lick a million batteries. But this is what he does.

He gets the visions, he feels like shit and then he writes.

He takes another sip of the whiskey and then puts his fingers on the keyboard.

You get back to motel just as the sun is going down.

As you enter the room, you stand still, stretch your arms over your head, hearing an audible pop in your shoulders. Just as you’re dropping your hands Dean’s crowding in behind you.

“Can you move?” he says, voice annoyed. “There’s other people here.”

You stumble forward, sitting down on the bed closest to the door as Dean and then Sam walk into the room after you. Dean drops his bag where he stands and walks directly to the mini fridge.

“Dude,” Sam sighs, nearly stumbling over the discarded bag. He picks it up and puts it to the side, along with the one he is carrying over his shoulder. Meanwhile, you lay back on the bed.

“Oh my God, I just want to sleep for a year,” you groan.

You hear the fizz of Dean opening a bottle of beer, and then he says: “Those better not be outside clothes you are rubbing all over my bed.” You push yourself up on your elbows and shoot him an annoyed look.

“You wear shoes to bed,” you tell him.

Dean raises his hands. “Yeah, but that’s my dirt.”

Sam meanwhile has gone to the mini fridge, taking two beers from it and hands you one. You take it with a nod, open it.

“It’s all the same dirt, Dean,” Sam says, before sinking down on a chair around the small dining table that’s stockpiled with old books, police reports and Sam’s laptop, which he is now opening. You roll your head, hoping to get some of the tension out.

“It’s still my bed,” Dean says.

“That,” Sam says, actually raising one finger in the air, “is only because you always refuse to take the couch.”

You suppress the urge to roll your eyes. The three of you always get a room with two beds and a couch, because there’s rarely a three bed option. You’re supposed to rotate who gets the couch, but Dean has been flat-out refusing to sleep there, while Sam, being the perfect gentleman that he is, always offers you the second bed. The issue is that he is so tall that usually about half of him is hanging off it. With you being much shorter, you’ve volunteered to sleep on the couch.

It’s not much worse than the cheap beds, but Sam has been bending over backwards because he feels bad, while Dean has only suggested, several times and always with a lecherous grin, that you can sleep in his bed. With him in it.

So you know that Dean is about to say that he deserves to have the bed because he is the oldest out of the three of you, and Sam will make a joke about him being geriatric. You don’t need to hear it again so you push yourself up, placing the beer bottle on the night stand.

“I’m gonna take a shower,” you say, stretching again. “I think some of that ectoplasm got on me.”

“Need any help scrubbing your back?” Dean grins.

“Wouldn’t want you to overexert yourself,” you deadpan and you’re about to walk towards the bathroom door when Sam says: “Holy crap.”

You and Dean both turn to him.

“What is it?” Dean asks. Sam is staring at the screen of his laptop.

“Uhm,” he says.

“Not a full sentence, Samuel,” you say, but he’s making you nervous. His mouth is actually hanging open and he’s frowning.

“What?” Dean says, voice a little more intense when Sam still doesn’t say anything. He finally blinks a few times, and then looks over the top of his screen at you two.

“So,” he says, “I have some crawlers installed to look for cases, weird occurrences and some other stuff. And it looks like someone just got ahold of an excerpt from Carver Edlund’s newest book and posted it.”

You feel your pulse picking up. Oh no. The last time you had any contact with Carver Edlund’s – Chuck’s – work, Sam and Dean might have found out that you have been fantasizing about them. Together. With you.

They’ve only just stopped teasing you about it. You can’t deal with this again.

“Let me see,” Dean says, pulling Sam’s laptop towards him and staring at the screen. His eyes go back and forth while he’s reading and then he raises his eyebrows.

“Oh wow,” he says.

“Guys,” you say, a sliver of panic traveling up your spine. “I really need you to use your words.” Dean also blinks and throws you a look.

“It’s fine,” he says, and you have no idea what fine means in this context.

“It’s just,” Dean continues. “It’s the case we just worked.”

Oh, okay. That’s not so bad. A little sigh leaves you as you sit on Dean’s bed again and take a big sip of your beer.

“Yeah,” Dean confirms as he keeps reading, “it just says how we arrive at the house and are creeping down the hallway.”

Then he grins, runs his hand over his mouth and says: “Listen to this.”

They moved in tandem, practiced, precise. Deadly. A triad of such immense skill and danger that any creature of the night would do well do run back to its dwelling when it saw them coming. The two men were fine specimen, tall, handsome and strong. Their hands had slain many, their brute power like a force of nature. The woman with them completed them. As beautiful as a sunset, as fierce as an Amazon. She was a practiced fighter, but where the brothers were steel, she was water. Where they were a deep cut, she was the balm that repaired the skin.

“Amazon?” you ask, eyebrows raised. “Like Wonder Woman?”

“They’re actually from Greek mythology,” Sam explains, because of course he would know something like that. “They were these super strong female worriers.”

“I like Wonder Woman,” Dean mutters, still staring at the screen.

“Okay,” you conclude, “so this is like a marketing thing, right? They pretend to accidentally release a chapter like a teaser just before they start selling the book, so everyone gets excited. Right?” Sam still looks worried.

“Maybe,” he says. “But still, I mean this is about us. Chuck hasn’t been wrong about anything so far. So maybe we don’t ignore this."

He’s right, even though you hate that he is. If Chuck is writing stuff it’s probably things that will actually happen to Sam and Dean and, by association, to you. Simply ignoring it could be dangerous, could make you miss out on important information.

But that doesn’t mean you’re any less worried about Chuck taking another deep dive into your hippocampus, revealing all the very not-PG things going on there.

“Dean,” you say, and he seems to be still reading, “what does it say? Is it just the case?”

Dean nods, slowly. “I think so.” And then he reads again.

The vampires were strong, but our heroes were stronger. Two of their blood-sucking ranks lay slain before they had even realized what was happening to them. Sam attacked a third one, his soft hair going into his face, but not hiding the cold killer instinct in his eyes. Dean, always eager to prove himself, attacked two monsters at the same time, letting his violent nature out to play as his green eyes sparkled with joy. All while our Amazon took on the remaining creature, raising her axe and wielding it like an instrument. While the two men were both taller and broader than her, she was not inferior to them in her ability to wreak destruction.

“Jesus,” you say, now also frowning. “We sound like goddamn psychopaths.” Dean has a look of disgust on his face.

“I don’t have anything to prove!” he snaps at the laptop.

“Guys, guys,” Sam says, trying to placate you both. “Weird paranormal, romance novels, remember? They deal in hyperbole.”

“Easy for you to say,” Dean replies, annoyed and angry. “With your soft hair and stupid eyes.” Sam drops the hands he’s just raised.

“I didn’t write this, you know?” he snaps back at Dean. You take another big sip of your beer. This is ridiculous.

“Just— hey!” you say, because Dean and Sam are still throwing insults at each other. They look at you after you repeat yourself. You point at the laptop. “Just skip to the end so we can be done with this, please?”

Dean grumbles something and also takes a sip of his beer. You throw Sam an incredulous look which he returns with a shrug while Dean keeps skimming the text, his lips slightly moving. It’s intensely quiet for a minute, a minute that drags on forever.

“I think that’s it,” Dean finally says and exhales. “It just ends with us getting to the motel.” Silently you thank every entity you’ve ever heard of.

Dean turns the laptop back to Sam, then scratches the back of his head. Sam turns the laptop towards himself, throwing a quick look at the text, before his eyebrows are knotted again and he’s leaning in. Your heart can’t take it. What the hell is it now?

“There’s a second page,” Sam says with almost no intonation and you throw all those entities a big old middle finger. Dean sort of leans over while Sam taps at something. You’re seconds away from going over there and ripping the damn laptop from them and simply reading it yourself.

Sam is reading now and then, because that’s just the kind of luck you have, his eyes go wide and he blushes. He actually blushes and while it’s one of your favorite things to see you also know that this can’t be a good sign.

“Uh, uhm,” he says, and Dean says: “What?” before turning the laptop a little bit his way again.

He reads for a second and then his eyebrows raise and you actually think you see the shadow of a grin pass over his face quickly. You know that grin too well.

That’s it. You can’t sit here and keep wondering, so you get up, grab the laptop by its screen, which is usually one of the few things that make Sam lose his shit. But this time he doesn’t complain, just vigorously avoids making eye contact with you. Dean’s also being worryingly quiet, so you expect the worst to greet you as you set the laptop down in front of you and start reading.

Their bodies were heated from the hunt, and their muscles sore when they returned to their nightly domicile. They chatted idly, falling into easy banter, but while their mouths pretended this would be an evening like any other, their bodies knew it would not be. The Amazon felt the tension in her body the most, her delicate limbs stretching in the hope to be rid of it. But it was not stretching that her body needed, although it allowed Sam and Dean to gaze at her, to let their eyes wander over her curves, her dips, all the parts they wished to explore. She had a very different need that only these two could fulfil.

Your ass meets the chair loudly but it can be barely heard over you going: “What in the world?”

You don’t dare look up at Sam and Dean. Really, this should be perfect. Finally you can get them back for all the teasing about what Chuck wrote about you lusting after them, because now they’re the ones in the limelight.

But something is stopping you. Something like the intense heat building in your core. Sam and Dean. Watching you. Wanting you.

You need to lick your lips because it suddenly feels very warm in the room.

“Well?” Dean says, and it almost makes you flinch. You look up and there they are, the two real-life and much better versions of what you’re reading.

“Well, what?” you ask, realizing with a shock that you sound a little breathless. Sam inclines his head.

“How does it continue?” he asks. You look back at the laptop and, feeling like an idiot, start reading out loud.

When she went to clean herself of the sweat and blood of battle, both brothers’ eyes stayed on her. She left the door slightly ajar, unclear whether by accident or in providence. What she knew was that she was tired of waiting, tired of playing games. Both brothers had their hearts closely locked against love, but she intended to burst them both wide open. Funnily it wasn’t Dean, the brazen one, who followed her first but Sam, for he bore a deep, uncontainable lust and once that part of him was pierced he could not stop himself. Dean’s heart had been broken too many times and he protected it like a small animal, but soon he followed his brother, knowing that he was lost already. She only hesitated shortly when she noticed them, already undressed, the water pouring over her silky skin. As she watched the two most beautiful men she knew undress in front of her, her chest rising and falling, her hands ran over her own body in anticipation of their touch. They came to her at the same time and her hands met both of their strong jaws in synchronicity. Sam stood behind her, letting her lean against him, while Dean approached her from the front, looking into her eyes. Then he bent down to kiss her, carefully as if he was worried he might scare her away. But soon, their kiss turned passionately and as his brother held her he started—

“Jesus Christ,” you spit, as you push the laptop away from you, pushing a couple of books at the other end of the table off it.

Your face is burning hot and if you weren’t worried about drawing more attention to it, you would hide it in your hands. Actually, now that you’re paying attention to it, your whole body feels hot, especially…

Well, especially between your legs. You swallow and the arousal is similar to panic, or the other way around.

You look at the table because that’s how far you’re trusting your eyes to go. If you look at Sam and Dean now you’re pretty sure you’ll combust. You also notice that you’re breathing heavily, the shit cherry on this ice cream cake of doom.

But also, also, Sam and Dean, in the shower, with you? It’s… it’s…

“Is that where it stops?” you hear Dean say. His voice sounds weird and although you don’t want to, you need to look up at him. He’s looking at the back of the laptop screen and then he’s looking up at your face. His face is tense and there is something in his eyes that you can’t really place.

Your arms have gone over your chest, crossed there, and reluctantly you untangle one, reaching forward to the laptop, and without looking at the words, scroll down.

Nope, there’s a bunch more.

You press your lips together and shake your head.

“In that case,” you hear Sam, and you look up at him as well. “Maybe you should keep reading,” he finishes. His jaw is clenched and his eyes narrowed.

You look back and forth between them, unsure where to settle.

You should just say no, should just stop this here, not risk any more awkwardness infecting your friendship. It should be such an easy decision, but it’s not. Not with the way Sam and Dean are looking at you.

Shit, this is weird. Because even if you stop now, maybe something already has irrevocably changed between you.

Go big or go home, you think and drag the laptop back closer to yourself.

But soon, their kiss turned passionately and as his brother held her he started touching her body, getting to know how her skin felt under his hands. Hands that had done unspeakable things and were about to do more of them, but in a very different fashion. While her hands wandered up to hold Sam and to be held by him, Dean dropped to his knees, as would a knight before his queen, and allowed his mouth to do the exploring instead of his hands. He found her most holy spot quickly and, tasting of her nectar, knowing the taste would be with him until the day he died, began his work on her. It was a good thing Sam was holding her, because soon her pleasure was making her writhe in his arms as she reached up to him to have him kiss her, her deep moans captured by Sam’s lips. Dean brought her to her climax soon, her screams of pleasure echoing off the walls. Sam, too hungry to wait any longer, entered her then, her back still pressed against him, and she shut her eyes at the girth of him. Dean, meanwhile, having tasted her and wanting more, stood in front of her while she returned his touches from earlier, looking deep into his eyes. At least until Sam turned her face to his when he approached his own release, pulsing deep within her, taking her with him to her peak as she pressed her forehead against his. She fell to her knees then, not out of weakness, but out of the wish to satiate Dean, looking up at him as she took all of him, drank of him as if he was a cool spring and she a weary traveler. Clean and spent, they all fell into bed together, her limbs entangled with both men, neither of them willing to be far from her ever again.

Outside a car door closes. There’s voices and then a door slamming. Someone somewhere is watching TV, something with a laugh track.

You can hear all this because it is deadly quiet in the room. No, not totally.

You can hear Sam and Dean breathe and you know you’re sucking down air too.

Dean’s beer is empty and usually he would have gotten up to get another one, but now he doesn’t. You look up at them and they both meet your gaze, first one then the other.

Before either of them can ask if there’s more you scroll down to the last few paragraphs and read the rest.

Sam and the Amazon awoke a few hours later, their bodies already searching each other out before they had fully come back from the land of dreams. He kissed and touched her, getting her ready for him before she straddled him, her hands going into his soft locks as they both sought out the other’s pleasure, her lips never leaving his for longer than necessary. Soon she was calling his name as they collapsed together, their passion spent violently. As if by a sixth sense, she allowed herself to fall backwards, and just as she knew there were Dean’s arms waiting for her. Having been woken by her sounds, he finally took his fill of her, spearing her over and over again until tears of love and lust were covering her face. Despite his urgent love-making he kissed them off her face before he was brought to his own fall. Again, they fell asleep entangled. Many nights of theirs would be spent like this, even though they didn’t know it yet. Her hungry for both brothers who were as hungry for her, if not more. All three believing they were insatiable, but finding that it was only without each other that this was the case. Now that they had formed this bond, they could finally find repletion for the first time in their lives.

“That’s it,” you say, and you close the laptop.

Whoever was watching TV next door has apparently gone to bed, because you can’t hear the program anymore.

“So,” you say, tapping your fingers on the table in front of you. “Looks like Chuck has become a porn peddler.”

Sam breathes out of his nose, what might be a half-formed chuckle. Dean runs his hand over his face.

“I mean if this is what’s gonna happen…” He shrugs, looks for the words. “I mean, is there a point in fighting it?” You look up at him. “You really think this is going to happen?”

Dean shrugs. “Chuck hasn’t been wrong so far,” he points out.

You look at Sam, hoping he will have some explanation ready about how all this is just a big misunderstanding. Or, alternatively, and you would prefer this one much more, agree with Dean, allowing you to drop the sceptic’s act and get in on this.

“Dean’s right,” he says, almost giving you an apologetic look. “He’s the real deal.”

“So what then?” you ask, but most of the fight has already gone out of you. “We just get in the shower and bang because we read about it on a forum?” Sam makes a face, but can’t help but smile.

“I’m sure we’re not the first to ever do that,” he finally says.

“What are you worried about?” Dean asks you then, his tone soft. “I mean it sounds… like not a bad time, right?” You look back at him.

“Easy for you to say,” you mumble. “You’re not the one getting speared.”

Dean chuckles, and because he does, you and Sam do too. It’s just too much of a relief, not having to pretend that you don’t want this.

You look at them again, first at Sam and then at Dean, and really, that answers all the questions you still had.

Chuck’s hands go off the keyboard, and he leans back, draining the final sip in his glass.

He’s pretty sure he’s just heard the first birds sing so the sun must be about to go up, but that’s fine. It’s done.

He sends the chapter out to some contacts, a couple of them who he knows to be unreliable, asking them if they can give him feedback.

He doesn’t really need feedback, since the story is what the story is, but he’s sure one of them at least will leak it somewhere, meaning the Winchesters will find it, read his vision.

It’s funny, because this is the first time there seems to be a conditional on what he sees – they need to read this for it to happen.

Chuck doesn’t enjoy writing sex scenes, especially not when they involve people he actually knows, but he knows that if he didn’t, you and the brothers would never get a move on. Would never get to the point where you finally do the things you want to do. Finally admit your feelings for each other.

He scratches at his eyes and they’re itchy from staring at the screen all night. It’s worth it, though, he thinks as he smiles to himself.

Those boys deserve some happiness.

“Oh my God,” you pant as Dean pulls himself out of you.

He doesn’t go far, lies down close to you, breathing heavily.

“You need anything?” Sam asks, as he lays down on your other side.

You shake your head because you’re not sure you can answer.

“Just, just you two,” you finally manage to say.

Your eyes flutter open, immediately wanting to close again from the several intense orgasms you’ve just had.

First with Sam, all slow and passionately as you kept kissing him and then Dean, fucking you like there’s no tomorrow.

Legs? Gone. It doesn’t matter. They’re a small price to pay.

You wrap one arm around Dean’s shoulder, the other one crawling over Sam’s chest as you hum.

“You look happy,” Dean observes with a cheeky smile on his face and you grin at him.

“Probably because I am,” you reply.

Sam takes the hand you have running over him and gives it a kiss.

“So, do we need to talk about this, or…?” he asks and you and Dean answer at the same time: “No.”

“At least not right now,” you say, then add: “Cause I’m about to pass out.” Dean chuckles, proudly, and Sam smiles down at you.

You’re about to say something else, but you’re pretty sure you actually do pass out then. For the blink of an eye you fight it, not wanting what this is to end, just wanting more and more and more of it, of them.

But then the warmth of the knowledge of what Chuck wrote comes over you.

Many nights of theirs would be spent like this.

Personally, you can’t wait.

#jolly's tbr #sam winchester x you x dean winchester #sam winchester x reader x dean winchester #sam winchester x you #sam winchester x reader #dean winchester x you #dean winchester x reader #dean winchester #spn #supernatural #lovely moots 💕#sorryitsmyfirstdayonearth

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jollyhunter · 6 days ago

Text

Sell your soul to save the life of one of the boys? Or one of the boys selling theirs to save yours? Someone's gonna die no matter how this plays out, isn't there?

Is it after Dean has done the same for him? If so, he'll enter a straight up villain arc. He's familiar with the consequences in this scenario and there's no way he'll let you go through what his brother had to endure.

This hit hard... The before or after season 3 is such a good point! The fact that they'd know what you'd face downstairs and what it did to Dean, makes this so much worse 😭

If you'd ask him (good luck on trying to get him to talk), he'll probably say something along the lines of "It's not my first rodeo, I know how to deal with it this time."

Noooo Dean that's not how it works 😭😭 Maybe they could pull a Devil's Bridge deal and outsmart a crossroad demon? No? 🥹🐐

sold souls headcanons (req.) ── ✮⋆˙

CHARACTER / PAIRING: Sam x Reader, Dean x Reader (separately, can be read as romantic or platonic, depending on how you wish to interpret these) GENRE: Angst NOTES & WARNINGS: Impending doom, obviously implied (future) character death, hurt/comfort, mourning A/N: Thanks to @castielscaplan for requesting this. First of all, I freakin' love "how would character A react" requests!!! Keep 'em coming, please. Secondly, I'll do this one in two ways, as in: "How would Reader react to Character selling their soul and how would Character react to Reader selling their soul?" I hope it makes sense, lmao. CREDIT & LINKS: Supernatural Masterlist ──〃★ request here ──〃★ join the taglist ──〃★ dividers by @cafekitsune

Sam selling his soul for you:

He's convinced he can cheat death. Some loophole in the contract, a cunning way to sneak his way out of it, whatever it takes.

It doesn't matter at that pressing moment anyway. Bringing you back has priority, the rest he can deal with later.

At first he doesn't want to tell you, but he knows you'll find out one way or another. It's during a random conversation when he brings it up casually, explaining to you what happened and how you're off the hook.

Sam's not the type to sugarcoat, but he's also confident enough to brush it off, like it's no big deal. You're not sure if he's being cocky or stupid.

"Don't worry, I'll take care of it. What matters is that you're back."

You beg to differ. Of course you do. He's not serious enough about it and no matter how many times he assures you that this was his decision, that it was not your fault, you can't help but worry.

Sam takes full responsibility for the situation. At the same time he doesn't argue when you say "We are in this together." When you offer to help, the two of you are a team in this. Sleepless nights and hours of research are easier to endure together.

You selling your soul for Sam:

The survivor guilt is strong in this one.

To get it out of the way immediately: He is not angry at you. How could he be after you sacrificed your life for his? He can't be upset with you, ever, even if he'd want to be. He definitely thinks it was the wrong thing to do, though he doesn't hold it against you.

That said, he's scared. He won't leave a stone unturned until he finds a way to save you from such a cruel fate. There has to be something he can do and he'll try everything.

Once you say anything along the lines of "You'd do the same for me." he has no counter argument.

Now, I think his reaction / way to deal with this depends heavily on when this happens. - Is it after Dean has done the same for him? If so, he'll enter a straight up villain arc. He's familiar with the consequences in this scenario and there's no way he'll let you go through what his brother had to endure. - If it's earlier than that (any time before season 3), he'll feel a lot more hopeless. Not that it will stop him from trying everything. He's not giving up. But it's a different kind of pain because he doesn't know what awaits you.

Dean selling his soul for you:

No brainer. Dean sacrificing himself for others yet again? Shocker. You're probably disappointed but not surprised.

In all seriousness, he doesn't bat an eye doing it. His #1 task is to protect you, always, no matter the cost.

His soul is stained anyway, worthless, especially in comparison to yours. What's one less soldier on the battlefield when it means his sacrifice ensures your safety?

He can't keep any secrets from you. You're too clever for that, and you deserve to know the truth.

Though, he's very uncomfortable with the conversation. He'll try and change the topic. He'll play it down. Anything to reassure you that he's not worth the trouble, let alone any tears or you being worried about him.

Similar to Sam, the timing would make a huge difference: - Is it the first time he's selling his soul? Quite similar to how he brought back Sam. In a state of desperation, broken and willing to throw his life away in a heartbeat. - If it happens sometime after season 3-4, the weight of his decision is even heavier. If you'd ask him (good luck on trying to get him to talk), he'll probably say something along the lines of "It's not my first rodeo, I know how to deal with it this time." Honestly, in this setting his chances might be bigger to actually fend off the hell-hounds. And even if not, he's stubborn enough to stand by what he did. No regrets.

You selling your soul for Dean:

You better hope he won't find out. Unless you want your head ripped off before the hell-hounds can even catch your scent.

It's Dean's job to take care of others, not to be taken care of. That's how he was raised. To him this is not right. Your sacrifice goes against nature because of your motivation more than because of the act itself.

He's going to lash out when he learns the truth. Which he's going to regret. He knows he'll regret raising his voice at you, but what did you expect? This man is all self-hatred and anger and then there's you, the only good thing in his life, and it's his fault that he's going to lose that now, too.

It'll take him days, if not a week or two, before he's willing to talk to you again. It'll take way longer than that until he can look you in the eyes. Not because he hates you, never because he hates you. Just because this hurts way more than dying.

After cooling down a little bit, he won't leave your side. If the hell-hounds want to rip you apart, they have to get past him first.

Sam Winchester Taglist:

@alwaysdaydreamingoffiction @alexxavicry @ambiguous-avery @angelicjackles @bejeweledinterludes2

@bohoooitsme @castielscaplan @chronic-fangirl-222 @deanswifeyy @foxyjwls007

@ifritpng @justwhisperingfantasies @kamisobsessed @ladykitana90 @lunaleah

@mahi-wayy @mooselvrr @multiversefanfics @myceliumsunshine @slut4axkles

@spn-reader @sunnyteume @that-stanford-girlie @thetorturedintrovert @whump-loverz

@wvffles

Dean Winchester Taglist:

@alwaysdaydreamingoffiction @alexxavicry @amberlthomas @ambiguous-avery @angelicjackles

@bejeweledinterludes2 @berryblues46 @blueschevy @bohoooitsme @calibootsgirl

@cassieriddle713 @castielscaplan @charliesangel67 @chronic-fangirl-222 @deanswifeyy

@edajcheel @emma1998sblog @emmy21842 @foxyjwls007 @hot-and-confused

@idjit-central @ifritpng @ilovedeanwinchester4 @jackles010378 @jollyhunter

@justwhisperingfantasies @kamisobsessed @kimxwinchester @ladykitana90 @ladysparkles78

@lessons-of-red @lunaleah @lyarr24 @mahi-wayy @mccartneyqp

@midnight--raine @mooselvrr @multiversefanfics @riteofpassage77 @slut4axkles

@spacecowgirl126 @spn-reader @spookyfunhottub @soullessambs @sunnyteume

@supernotnatural2005 @that-stanford-girlie @thetorturedintrovert @waynes-multiverse @whichwitchwanda

@whormotional @whump-loverz @winchester-whiskey @wvffles @zepskies

Want to join the taglist? Fill out this FORM Want to be removed? Send a DM Not sure if you're on the taglist? Check here

#jolly's recs #dean winchester headcanons #sam winchester headcanons #dean winchester #sam winchester #dean winchester x reader #sam winchester x reader #dean winchester angst #sam winchester angst #lovely moots 💕#chevroletdean

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jollyhunter · 6 days ago

Text

Aww thanks, Babe! 🫶

Now you're really testing me! Maybe I'll one day open requests and you can give me a character or your own core personalities / some traits and I'll give you my dog-headcanon haha - if that's something anyone would be interested in 😛

I had to think of you when I picked the Australian Kelpie! 😉

⋆ ˚｡⋆ My HEADCANON for…

"What dog breed are they?" 🐶

❀ Dean Winchester | Soldier Boy / Ben | Beau Arlen | Mark Meachum ❀

Bonus: Sam Winchester & Bucky Barnes (requested by @sorryitsmyfirstdayonearth , thank you lovely! 😏)

Main Masterlist ❀ Taglist

DEAN WINCHESTER is a German Shepherd

Did we expect anything else? This is almost canon by now and I couldn't agree more.

SOLDIER BOY / BEN is a Cane Corso

Oh Ben... he reminds me of a large dog in every sense.

BEAU ARLEN is a Great Pyrenees

Okay, okay hear me out on this. I know Beau's the ultimate Golden Retriever on first sight and I thought the same at first, but I always felt like a Goldie lacks the fierce protectiveness of Beau.

And - I kid you not, I swear I had no idea about these gifs, they popped up when I was looking for a nice picture, but I consider it a sign 🤣 - so, if any of that didn't convince you yet:

MARK MEACHUM is a Rottweiler

The moment Mark showed up for the first time on Countdown, he gave me Rotti vibes! (Yup, my inspiration for Gunpoint 😆)

and I mean, look, they've got the same expression 🫴

BONUS:

SAM WINCHESTER is an Australian Kelpie

Now let me try and backup that claim with all the humble Sam-knowledge I have.

BUCKY BARNES is a Belgian Malinois

Might be a classic but to me it's just the perfect match.

...The face fur pattern also reminds me of the Winter Soldier (Raccoon Eyes 😛)

Disclaimer: Images are taken from pinterest.

J/NOTES Well, this was a lot of fun! Let me know if you'd be interested in others 😄

Dean, Soldier Boy, Beau and Mark Tag List (1):

@lamentationsofalonelypotato @ambiguous-avery @bettystonewell @maddie0101 @supernotnatural2005 @zepskies @waynes-multiverse @my-stories-vault @chevroletdean @aylacavebear

@youdontknowe @ladysparkles78 @v1v1-3 @123passwort @lillied31 @amethyst-bunny @alixxhere @royaler1999 @jc-winchester @lyarr24

@writtenbyhollywood @ralilda @mostlymarvelgirl @deansimpalababy @globetrotter28 @suckitands33 @spnaquakindgdom @champagnepoets @salemslostwitch @livya99

@multiversefanfics @toxicfataldestiny @sunnys-struggles @kimxwinchester @carliebear23 @alexxavicry @ladykitana90 @woaheasytig3r @velvetparkerx @cupidluvzz

@pressedwater @lori19 @theelephantroom4 @tinysnacklefan @deans-baby-momma @thebestqueenoftheworld @ultimatecin73 @fleurenoir @n-o-p-e-never

#i <3 your feedback sm #jolly's headcanons #jensen ackles characters #lovely moots 💕#bettystonewell

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jollyhunter · 7 days ago

Text

Thanks a lot Alex!! 🤭

They really are super fluffy 😍 I'd take one of each but I think my (almost) Dean wouldn't be too happy about it lol!!

And a rottie for Mark? Absolutely. And they had the same faceeeee. 😂😂

I knowww riiight??? I love that comparison too!! 😂 They even share the same "beard" - I swear once you see it, you cannot unsee it anymore. It's the ultimate "spot the difference" 😂😂😂

⋆ ˚｡⋆ My HEADCANON for…

"What dog breed are they?" 🐶

❀ Dean Winchester | Soldier Boy / Ben | Beau Arlen | Mark Meachum ❀

Bonus: Sam Winchester & Bucky Barnes (requested by @sorryitsmyfirstdayonearth , thank you lovely! 😏)

Main Masterlist ❀ Taglist

DEAN WINCHESTER is a German Shepherd

Did we expect anything else? This is almost canon by now and I couldn't agree more.

SOLDIER BOY / BEN is a Cane Corso

Oh Ben... he reminds me of a large dog in every sence.

BEAU ARLEN is a Great Pyrenees

Okay, okay hear me out on this. I know Beau's the ultimate Golden Retriever on first sight and I thought the same at first, but I always felt like a Goldie lacks the fierce protectiveness of Beau.

And - I kid you not, I swear I had no idea about these gifs, they popped up when I was looking for a nice picture, but I consider it a sign 🤣 - so, if any of that didn't convince you yet:

MARK MEACHUM is a Rottweiler

The moment Mark showed up for the first time on Countdown, he gave me Rotti vibes! (Yup, my inspiration for Gunpoint 😆)

and I mean, look, they've got the same expression 🫴

BONUS:

SAM WINCHESTER is an Australian Kelpie

Now let me try and backup that claim with all the humble Sam-knowledge I have.

BUCKY BARNES is a Belgian Malinois

Might be a classic but to me it's just the perfect match.

...The face fur pattern also reminds me of the Winter Soldier (Raccoon Eyes 😛)

Disclaimer: Images are taken from pinterest.

J/NOTES Well, this was a lot of fun! Let me know if you'd be interested in others 😄

Dean, Soldier Boy, Beau and Mark Tag List (1):

@lamentationsofalonelypotato @ambiguous-avery @bettystonewell @maddie0101 @supernotnatural2005 @zepskies @waynes-multiverse @my-stories-vault @chevroletdean @aylacavebear

@youdontknowe @ladysparkles78 @v1v1-3 @123passwort @lillied31 @amethyst-bunny @alixxhere @royaler1999 @jc-winchester @lyarr24

@writtenbyhollywood @ralilda @mostlymarvelgirl @deansimpalababy @globetrotter28 @suckitands33 @spnaquakindgdom @champagnepoets @salemslostwitch @livya99

@multiversefanfics @toxicfataldestiny @sunnys-struggles @kimxwinchester @carliebear23 @alexxavicry @ladykitana90 @woaheasytig3r @velvetparkerx @cupidluvzz

@pressedwater @lori19 @theelephantroom4 @tinysnacklefan @deans-baby-momma @thebestqueenoftheworld @ultimatecin73 @fleurenoir @n-o-p-e-never

#i <3 your feedback sm #jolly's headcanons #jensen ackles characters #lovely moots 💕#zepskies

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jollyhunter · 7 days ago

Text

Oh pshhhhh 🧡🧡🧡

⋆ ˚｡⋆ My HEADCANON for…

"What dog breed are they?" 🐶

❀ Dean Winchester | Soldier Boy / Ben | Beau Arlen | Mark Meachum ❀

Bonus: Sam Winchester & Bucky Barnes (requested by @sorryitsmyfirstdayonearth , thank you lovely! 😏)

Main Masterlist ❀ Taglist

DEAN WINCHESTER is a German Shepherd

Did we expect anything else? This is almost canon by now and I couldn't agree more.

SOLDIER BOY / BEN is a Cane Corso

Oh Ben... he reminds me of a large dog in every sence.

BEAU ARLEN is a Great Pyrenees

Okay, okay hear me out on this. I know Beau's the ultimate Golden Retriever on first sight and I thought the same at first, but I always felt like a Goldie lacks the fierce protectiveness of Beau.

And - I kid you not, I swear I had no idea about these gifs, they popped up when I was looking for a nice picture, but I consider it a sign 🤣 - so, if any of that didn't convince you yet:

MARK MEACHUM is a Rottweiler

The moment Mark showed up for the first time on Countdown, he gave me Rotti vibes! (Yup, my inspiration for Gunpoint 😆)

and I mean, look, they've got the same expression 🫴

BONUS:

SAM WINCHESTER is an Australian Kelpie

Now let me try and backup that claim with all the humble Sam-knowledge I have.

BUCKY BARNES is a Belgian Malinois

Might be a classic but to me it's just the perfect match.

...The face fur pattern also reminds me of the Winter Soldier (Raccoon Eyes 😛)

Disclaimer: Images are taken from pinterest.

J/NOTES Well, this was a lot of fun! Let me know if you'd be interested in others 😄

Dean, Soldier Boy, Beau and Mark Tag List (1):

@lamentationsofalonelypotato @ambiguous-avery @bettystonewell @maddie0101 @supernotnatural2005 @zepskies @waynes-multiverse @my-stories-vault @chevroletdean @aylacavebear

@youdontknowe @ladysparkles78 @v1v1-3 @123passwort @lillied31 @amethyst-bunny @alixxhere @royaler1999 @jc-winchester @lyarr24

@writtenbyhollywood @ralilda @mostlymarvelgirl @deansimpalababy @globetrotter28 @suckitands33 @spnaquakindgdom @champagnepoets @salemslostwitch @livya99

@multiversefanfics @toxicfataldestiny @sunnys-struggles @kimxwinchester @carliebear23 @alexxavicry @ladykitana90 @woaheasytig3r @velvetparkerx @cupidluvzz

@pressedwater @lori19 @theelephantroom4 @tinysnacklefan @deans-baby-momma @thebestqueenoftheworld @ultimatecin73 @fleurenoir @n-o-p-e-never

#i <3 your feedback sm #jolly's headcanons #jensen ackles characters #lovely moots 💕#my stories vault

183 notes · View notes

jollyhunter · 7 days ago

Text

Thanks a lot, Liane!! 🤗🧡

Yeah, that man has too much power 😔

Ohhh will we get a cat breeds headcanon from you?? I'd love that! 😻

⋆ ˚｡⋆ My HEADCANON for…

"What dog breed are they?" 🐶

❀ Dean Winchester | Soldier Boy / Ben | Beau Arlen | Mark Meachum ❀

Bonus: Sam Winchester & Bucky Barnes (requested by @sorryitsmyfirstdayonearth , thank you lovely! 😏)

DEAN WINCHESTER is a German Shepherd

Did we expect anything else? This is almost canon by now and I couldn't agree more.

SOLDIER BOY / BEN is a Cane Corso

Oh Ben... he reminds me of a large dog in every sence.

BEAU ARLEN is a Great Pyrenees

Okay, okay hear me out on this. I know Beau's the ultimate Golden Retriever on first sight and I thought the same at first, but I always felt like a Goldie lacks the fierce protectiveness of Beau.

And - I kid you not, I swear I had no idea about these gifs, they popped up when I was looking for a nice picture, but I consider it a sign 🤣 - so, if any of that didn't convince you yet:

MARK MEACHUM is a Rottweiler

The moment Mark showed up for the first time on Countdown, he gave me Rotti vibes! (Yup, my inspiration for Gunpoint 😆)

and I mean, look, they've got the same expression 🫴

BONUS:

SAM WINCHESTER is an Australian Kelpie

Now let me try and backup that claim with all the humble Sam-knowledge I have.

BUCKY BARNES is a Belgian Malinois

Might be a classic but to me it's just the perfect match.

...The face fur pattern also reminds me of the Winter Soldier (Raccoon Eyes 😛)

Disclaimer: Images are taken from pinterest.

J/NOTES Well, this was a lot of fun! Let me know if you'd be interested in others 😄

Dean, Soldier Boy, Beau and Mark Tag List (1):

@lamentationsofalonelypotato @ambiguous-avery @bettystonewell @maddie0101 @supernotnatural2005 @zepskies @waynes-multiverse @my-stories-vault @chevroletdean @aylacavebear

@youdontknowe @ladysparkles78 @v1v1-3 @123passwort @lillied31 @amethyst-bunny @alixxhere @royaler1999 @jc-winchester @lyarr24

@writtenbyhollywood @ralilda @mostlymarvelgirl @deansimpalababy @globetrotter28 @suckitands33 @spnaquakindgdom @champagnepoets @salemslostwitch @livya99

@multiversefanfics @toxicfataldestiny @sunnys-struggles @kimxwinchester @carliebear23 @alexxavicry @ladykitana90 @woaheasytig3r @velvetparkerx @cupidluvzz

@pressedwater @lori19 @theelephantroom4 @tinysnacklefan @deans-baby-momma @thebestqueenoftheworld @ultimatecin73 @fleurenoir @n-o-p-e-never

#pretty please?#i <3 your feedback sm #jolly's headcanons #jensen ackles characters #lovely moots 💕#chevroletdean

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jollyhunter · 7 days ago

Text

You know what's funny? I'm so scatter-minded that once I read this

Yo Jolly, why'd you put two pics of Dean in his part?

I didn't even continue reading. I went straight panic mode and scrolled back up to check what the hell I had done 🤣🤣🤣

See what I did there? Cause it's so accurate, that he's… you know? You get it, right?

yeh... now I do LMAO

Now, hilarious jokes aside, this was so, so lovely to read. The care and thought you put into this, as well as the gorgeous aesthetic we all know from you.

The one Great Pyrenees gif on the right had me giggling like a maniac, exactly what my sick, snotty brain needed. 😄

I hope you feel a little better now! 😘

I still love that video / gif, I think it's pretty old - do you remember it as well? From the old times?

I can't express how much I appreciate you adding those two sweet, dark-haired sad boys to the list! 😄Every a Dean girl thinks about Sam for me, an angel gets its wings, I'm pretty sure. 😄❤️ I don't know Kelpies (I thought those were, like, mermaids or something? Like from Irish folklore? I may have this all wrong), but your description of the breed fits Sam perfectly! I don't know if it's just the picture you picked, but I love that he has Sam's luscious, chestnut waves, too. 😄

An angel got its wings thanks to me? Dang, so does that mean I won't go to hell for all my smuty sins? 😄

You're riiiiight, it's the half-horse-half-sea-monster from Scotland. 😳 I didn't even think about it but your question pulled me down the rabbit hole. Apparently the first bitch was named "Kelpie" (="water sprite") and they probably named her that way because they got her from Scotland; "The Australian Kelpie is a herding dog believed to have Scottish origins dating back to around 1870." 😄

There are also other fur patterns but yes, some do have those chestnut waves and of course I picked that one because it fits Sam's beautiful hair 😘

Bucky being a therapy dog did make me giggle a little, but honestly, it is kinda fitting! And the fact that he's got the raccoon-eyes make-up pattern...

Right? I feel like he'd make a great PTSD service dog, like for military veteran 😄

You really outdid yourself, Jolly! There are amazing, and so in-depth! I feel like often lists like this are either a little sloppy or highlight traits of the character in a weird way to fit the dog breed (or whatever they're being compared to, kitchen appliances, I don't know), but this all felt so honest and real.

Awwww thank you so much 💗

Just to be clear. I don't have a beard. But I was twirling my hair like that 😂

Also, "kitchen appliances" LMAO I snorted 🤣 - now you make me wonder what they would be... what is there... like a mixer? An egg-timer? Yeah, kitchen's not my field of competence 😂

What other hyperfixations do you have? Cause we need more of these lists, stat! 😄❤️❤️❤️

Haha, hmmm not sure any of my other knowledge would be 'headcanon-material' 😂 What about you? 👀

⋆ ˚｡⋆ My HEADCANON for…

"What dog breed are they?" 🐶

❀ Dean Winchester | Soldier Boy / Ben | Beau Arlen | Mark Meachum ❀

Bonus: Sam Winchester & Bucky Barnes (requested by @sorryitsmyfirstdayonearth , thank you lovely! 😏)

DEAN WINCHESTER is a German Shepherd

Did we expect anything else? This is almost canon by now and I couldn't agree more.

SOLDIER BOY / BEN is a Cane Corso

Oh Ben... he reminds me of a large dog in every sence.

BEAU ARLEN is a Great Pyrenees

Okay, okay hear me out on this. I know Beau's the ultimate Golden Retriever on first sight and I thought the same at first, but I always felt like a Goldie lacks the fierce protectiveness of Beau.

And - I kid you not, I swear I had no idea about these gifs, they popped up when I was looking for a nice picture, but I consider it a sign 🤣 - so, if any of that didn't convince you yet:

MARK MEACHUM is a Rottweiler

The moment Mark showed up for the first time on Countdown, he gave me Rotti vibes! (Yup, my inspiration for Gunpoint 😆)

and I mean, look, they've got the same expression 🫴

BONUS:

SAM WINCHESTER is an Australian Kelpie

Now let me try and backup that claim with all the humble Sam-knowledge I have.

BUCKY BARNES is a Belgian Malinois

Might be a classic but to me it's just the perfect match.

...The face fur pattern also reminds me of the Winter Soldier (Raccoon Eyes 😛)

Disclaimer: Images are taken from pinterest.

J/NOTES Well, this was a lot of fun! Let me know if you'd be interested in others 😄

Dean, Soldier Boy, Beau and Mark Tag List (1):

@lamentationsofalonelypotato @ambiguous-avery @bettystonewell @maddie0101 @supernotnatural2005 @zepskies @waynes-multiverse @my-stories-vault @chevroletdean @aylacavebear

@youdontknowe @ladysparkles78 @v1v1-3 @123passwort @lillied31 @amethyst-bunny @alixxhere @royaler1999 @jc-winchester @lyarr24

@writtenbyhollywood @ralilda @mostlymarvelgirl @deansimpalababy @globetrotter28 @suckitands33 @spnaquakindgdom @champagnepoets @salemslostwitch @livya99

@multiversefanfics @toxicfataldestiny @sunnys-struggles @kimxwinchester @carliebear23 @alexxavicry @ladykitana90 @woaheasytig3r @velvetparkerx @cupidluvzz

@pressedwater @lori19 @theelephantroom4 @tinysnacklefan @deans-baby-momma @thebestqueenoftheworld @ultimatecin73 @fleurenoir @n-o-p-e-never

#calling all kitchen appliances experts to make a headcanon pls lmao #i <3 your feedback sm #jolly's headcanons #jensen ackles characters #lovely moots 💕#sorryitsmyfirstdayonearth

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jollyhunter · 7 days ago

Text

Ooooh you do?? 😍 You know I demand pictures now, right?

⋆ ˚｡⋆ My HEADCANON for…

"What dog breed are they?" 🐶

❀ Dean Winchester | Soldier Boy / Ben | Beau Arlen | Mark Meachum ❀

Bonus: Sam Winchester & Bucky Barnes (requested by @sorryitsmyfirstdayonearth , thank you lovely! 😏)

Main Masterlist ❀ Taglist

DEAN WINCHESTER is a German Shepherd

Did we expect anything else? This is almost canon by now and I couldn't agree more.

SOLDIER BOY / BEN is a Cane Corso

Oh Ben... he reminds me of a large dog in every sence.

BEAU ARLEN is a Great Pyrenees

Okay, okay hear me out on this. I know Beau's the ultimate Golden Retriever on first sight and I thought the same at first, but I always felt like a Goldie lacks the fierce protectiveness of Beau.

And - I kid you not, I swear I had no idea about these gifs, they popped up when I was looking for a nice picture, but I consider it a sign 🤣 - so, if any of that didn't convince you yet:

MARK MEACHUM is a Rottweiler

The moment Mark showed up for the first time on Countdown, he gave me Rotti vibes! (Yup, my inspiration for Gunpoint 😆)

and I mean, look, they've got the same expression 🫴

BONUS:

SAM WINCHESTER is an Australian Kelpie

Now let me try and backup that claim with all the humble Sam-knowledge I have.

BUCKY BARNES is a Belgian Malinois

Might be a classic but to me it's just the perfect match.

...The face fur pattern also reminds me of the Winter Soldier (Raccoon Eyes 😛)

Disclaimer: Images are taken from pinterest.

J/NOTES Well, this was a lot of fun! Let me know if you'd be interested in others 😄

Dean, Soldier Boy, Beau and Mark Tag List (1):

@lamentationsofalonelypotato @ambiguous-avery @bettystonewell @maddie0101 @supernotnatural2005 @zepskies @waynes-multiverse @my-stories-vault @chevroletdean @aylacavebear

@youdontknowe @ladysparkles78 @v1v1-3 @123passwort @lillied31 @amethyst-bunny @alixxhere @royaler1999 @jc-winchester @lyarr24

@writtenbyhollywood @ralilda @mostlymarvelgirl @deansimpalababy @globetrotter28 @suckitands33 @spnaquakindgdom @champagnepoets @salemslostwitch @livya99

@multiversefanfics @toxicfataldestiny @sunnys-struggles @kimxwinchester @carliebear23 @alexxavicry @ladykitana90 @woaheasytig3r @velvetparkerx @cupidluvzz

@pressedwater @lori19 @theelephantroom4 @tinysnacklefan @deans-baby-momma @thebestqueenoftheworld @ultimatecin73 @fleurenoir @n-o-p-e-never

#i’ve got a brother of Dean lol 💕#jensen ackles characters #jolly's headcanons

183 notes · View notes

jollyhunter · 8 days ago

Text

You got my water works going, H. 🧡

First of all, this made me so horny for autumn. 😂😂 Sorry to be so graphic, but seriously. Good grief. I could almost smell the crisp fall air through the screen of my phone. I put on a sweater and cuddled up in bed.

"Horny for autumn" LOL 😂 It's a real mood though, isn't it!! I'm ready for my favorite season and I think I poured all of that longing into the vibe and setting. Happy it worked! ☺️

The way you managed to make the story flow between slow and beautiful and mysterious to gut-wrenching is nothing short of masterful. At the first mention of the women screaming I became perfectly uncomfortable, and the way these two flavors kept mixing was breath taking. (Can you tell I'm trying to use a bunch of big words to try and keep up with Jolly's level of writing? No? Oh, I totally wasn't doing that.)

Oh H - you have no idea how much your words mean to me. 🧡🧡🧡 I was scared of not being able to get the "mixture right" or that it might throw people off when I keep swinging between heavy angst and fluff. I'm calling it fluff because I don't know what else it'd be called (Therefore "tainted fluff", not sure what genre this falls into?? 😂). I'll take your words as a huge compliment and I know I'll keep rereading it a every day (like I already have). 😭

The descriptions of the panic and fear the reader goes through were done perfectly and all too accurate. I really love how strong she is. I loved reading about her. ❤️

Again, thank you so much 🧡

Now as you know I don't know this Mark Maechum guy, but why am I not surprised that he wears a leather jacket? 😁 Does he drive a really cool car too? 😉

Of course he wears a leather jacket. It's a different one though 😉

For some reason I cannot find a single image of him and his car? lol But I'd argue it's not the sexiest heh, at least not compared to Baby 😂 But! It's only got one side-mirror (attached to it) and it's one of an Impala 😉

I love their banter, how easily the dialogue flows. The tension is already so palpable. ❤️ The internal monologue is also perfection. Threw me back and forth between giggling and clutching my hand over my heart.

(using reaction gifs now so that I don't repeat myself)

Well, I can't wait to read the rest of it - can't believe you've got me craving non-SPN stuff, never mind it being a show I've never watched. 😄😄 Well done, Jolly! ❤️

And I'm so grateful that you took your time to read it even though you don't watch the show. 🧡 Thank you for your wonderful feedback, lovely, your support means a lot to me!! 🥰

New Life, Old Herbs & Same Bullet

Main Masterlist ❀ Mark Meachum Masterlist

⋆ ˚｡⋆ PAIRING Mark Meachum x fem!Reader

⋆ ˚｡⋆ WORDS ~7k

Series Masterlist ❀ Taglist

You've always been one to smile even when it's wet and broken. Or when it was busted, and the rest of your face looked like Pollock's hand had slipped across it.

Other than that, you won't take much with you from your time undercover.

There is one unspoken rule you've learned the hard way, though, and that one you definitely won't forget:

Always make sure you play well with the mob.

So that's what you do.

Different place, different mob, different murder. Same job.

It's just one of the many things that going undercover teaches you – how to bury your gag reflex and smile like it's all just another Tuesday.

Dead, hollow eyes stare back at you once you continue to place the body down on a small slab of rock, its surface covered by a tablecloth of moss – today's offering.

Let's see how they like this...

You wipe your fingers on the crumpled paper, adjust your flowy dress, and pick up your basket before you step back some feet. Then wait.

Sure enough, the mob comes.

"You like that, huh?" you call over to them, chuckling to yourself as one of them tilts its head and ruffles its feathers in response.

Mob happy. Mission complete.

There are no neighbours.

To "check in on you" as she likes to put it. Nosy old woman...

Otherwise, you're positive that there are no neighbours for miles who'd hear you scream.

Not the happy screams either – God, you haven't had those in a while. Heard enough of the others.

But all in all, you love it here.

Not that you'd mind, but you had a different use for them, than leaving them to rot on the porch.

You grab the broom from the corner and get to work.

Autumn may call many things to an end, but it in your mind, also allows you to finally focus on the things which are important, the ones which stay. Which make a house, a home.

My home. You smile proudly.

Then give the neatly cleaned floor a once over, hands on your hips, satisfied with your work.

Once in your kitchen, you set the basket with the pile of leaves down in the corner next to the stove.

I'll take care of those later…

Some of their mossy green colours remind you of that guy who'd busted you free from your last undercover gone wrong.

He probably thought you'd either been coked up or you were just generally off your rocker.

I didn't even get to ask him for his name.

You push the thought aside. He's part of a life that's in your past. It's probably for the best this way. And yet…

Gratefully, you're snapped out of your thoughts when you hear the familiar sputter of a car draw up to your house and kill its engines once it's parked in front of your entrance.

You've been expecting them, the guys of WitSec, but they're a little early as always. You can't help but groan to yourself with a roll of your eyes.

Not for much longer… two more days and I'm done. Just gotta make my statement and that's it. You remind yourself.

You open your kitchen window to gesture to the backside of your house. "Go to the back! I'll be with you in a minute!" One of them responds with a grunt and the other with a lazy wave of his hand.

Charming as always.

You go back to finish chop up the last bit for the tea you'd prepared, while you feel your fingers curl tighter around the knife's handle.

Whenever you have to face them, it takes all of your energy to keep smiling.

Their presence is like a constant reminder of all those months you spent in fear, of the countless times you were relocated across half of the US, and of them watching you the entire time.

The clack-clack-clack on the carving board comes to a halt. Hands slightly shaking. You take a couple of deep breaths, steady yourself and wait for the tremors in your hands to fade.

But your mind keeps going.

You couldn't even get a damn muffin in the local bakery without his permission.

Undercover work destroyed your sense of self. But witness protection had successfully finished the job.

It was the price for your safety, as you'd been told countless times. One you'd agreed on. And effectively made you to their pawn.

Even now it manages to make your jaw clench.

I didn't choose this. Not really. They called it a choice. But it wasn't.

For over eight goddamn months.

It was hell.

The nightmares and panic attacks ruled your life until last month, when they finally caught Rick Chavez and his right-hand man, Jackson Walker, and you were finally given back your own life.

Now they're just waiting for your statement to finish the case. Once and for all.

Two more days.

Play nice now. You force that perfect lovely smile like you'd learned to.

"I made pie," you say, thumbing towards your kitchen, "I'll go get some."

From the corner of your kitchen window, you keep an eye on them while you cut three slices of your freshly baked apple pie. Not too big. Just enough to keep their mouths occupied.

He glances your way, checking what takes you this long – you quickly look back down and continue to prepare everything... in slow motion.

Rhodes then shifts his focus back to his partner.

His hand drops down with a frustrated huff, just to continue with his fingers tapping the tablecloth while he fishes a cigarette package from his chest pocket with his other hand.

Bailey tilts his head to the sky. Pauses.

Bailey smacks his lips. Then replies slowly.

"Sounds like a load of bullshit to me."

Bailey rolls his eyes lazily and mumbles with a huff through his nose. "You watch too many movies, man. Makes you all antsy."

"You leave Rick 'n Morty out of this. You're just miffed 'cause I usually get the bigger slice of pie."

"Now that is bollocks," Rhodes snaps at Bailey in defence.

An amused snort escapes you, luckily out of ear shut.

You nod but you don't listen.

"Oh you think you're so clever you little bitch, hm?" "Once I get my hands on y-"

Okay – stop. Breathe. I am save. I am doing fine. I am in the here and now.

Now, life is goo-

"Jackson Walker's free."

Your thoughts come to a screeching halt.

The world stops. Your heart stumbles, then slams hard against your ribs.

Not him. Not again.

You feel the scars flare up, even though you shouldn't be able to feel them anymore – the bruises he and his men left, the sound of boots on concrete, the smell of gasoline in the dark.

You taste blood.

"W-what?" is all you manage.

You feel the twist of a knife between your ribs when Rhodes goes on with an explanation that has your guts curl inwards.

Someone must've pulled the ground open underneath your feet, because you feel like you're in a free-fall, hurtling down into the open jaws of a wolf.

Your world, peaceful and perfect one moment, comes crashing down like a deer shot through the flank.

"But- but… what about-?"

"Chavez's still in custody. But with his guard dog off the leash it's only a matter of time 'till he rounds up the rest of the witnesses and soon that bastard's back on the street."

Your breath gets stuck in your throat. Mind still struggling to process the information that Jackson Walker is free. Unrestrained. Out there. As they speak.

You startle when both of the men are suddenly on their feet and Bailey pulls out his phone, apparently readying it to make some calls.

"We'll have to relocate you, stat."

His annoucement slams down like a guillotine.

No. Not again.

You’d rather die here, in a place that feels like an actual life.

"No."

Their heads both snap up to stare at you.

You swallow. Hard. Eyes narrowed. Determination flaring up inside you.

Not your pawn anymore.

Rhodes' upper lip twitches his moustache. Dangerously.

Air thick. Breath caught in your throat. Lips tight.

"Now you listen to me, –" he says your last name with a clear edge to it, "I won't let ya fuck this up. As long as you're in witness protection, you play by our rules."

The way he stares you down with piercing cold eyes has you flinch and instinctively lean further back, the railing digging into your back.

The Marshal seems to take note of your discomfort, because he reaches out to give Rhodes a pat to the shoulder which has him take a few steps back. One fist subtly curled into a fist.

It allows you to let out the breath you'd been holding.

"Three weeks. That's all I need. I'll give you your statement. Just let me have this," you try to reason with them. Or maybe you're more like pleading now.

Rhodes is not done with putting you in place, though. Each and every word he spits your way makes your throat tighten up more.

Instead he steps up next to Rhodes and drawls in a calm but final tone.

"So, what's it gonna be, dear?"

Three days later.

"In that case, I'm leaving," you'd snapped at them. "I told you. I'm done. Now get the hell off my land." You'd even grabbed for the broom to send them fleeing off your porch.

But, "I'm making that damn statement. But this time, I'm doing it on my terms." had effectively shut them both up.

You're free now to do as you please. At least on paper.

Which feels great.

But your nightmares are back ten-fold. So are the panic attacks.

For the past three days it has been a complete mess.

Thoughts spiralling more often than not. Questions, doubts and what-if scenarios tearing at your sanity without a break.

Maybe they were right – maybe I am being stubborn, maybe I am throwing myself to the wolves –

Over and over and over.

You drop the twig into the basket to the other herbs before your fingers instinctively go to curl into the fabrics of your soft coloured dress. Your boots digging further into the dirt.

"This is my home now. I don't need them. I'm safe here."

You keep repeating those words out loud like a mantra.

They had told you it wasn't much.

But to you, every blemish only adds to her charming beauty.

"Get to your fuckin' knees."

You freeze.

A shiver runs down your back at the intrusive voice scratching at the inside of your head and the feeling of a cool muzzle grazing the nape of your neck.

The taste of copper fills your mouth.

No.

No I will not. Fuck you, Jack. You wrangle him back into the hole he once again slipped free from.

Take a deep breath. Then let out a long exhale.

Slow. In... Out. That's it.

You shift your focus to your hands. Ignore the slight tremble…

Now focus on your ears… your nose…

You can hear the distant clucking of your chickens, roaming freely around what's yours and what nature offers you with generous hands. The wind, rustling of leaves. Chirping of birds. Craws singing. The untamed flora and fauna fills your senses with the smell of the woods. The scent of spices like thyme, rosemary, basil and citrus hang over your garden, and whenever the wind is just right, a swift waft of floral rose hits your nose.