lamentationsofalonelypotato

[lamentationsofalonelypotato]

@beakaleak32

Aww thank you so much Beaks! I'm so happy that it made you happy my lovely friend! 💗 I literally envision this series as a classic rom-com and I've been watching some of my favorites for inspiration!

Chapter 2: The Rules Of Engagement

Pairing: Soldier Boy x f!reader / Billy Butcher x f!reader

Summary:When you first joined Butcher's team the last thing you expected was to develop a crush on him, but after two years of pining, you get a proposition from the last person you'd expect to care. This is Chapter 2 of my Promise Not To Fall In Love With Me Series!

Tropes: Fake Dating, Pining, Faking It, Awkward/Shyish Reader, Friends To Lovers

Word Count: 6.4K

Warnings: I'm gonna label this 18+ (For the S-E-X, and by the S-E-X I mean FAKE sex), Cursing, Sexual innuendo, References to sex, Snail Genitals (had to be there), Toaster Bath Joke, Just A Hint Of Soft!Ben, Reader is a little anxious/anxiety/socially awkward?, Reader has Self Deprecating Thoughts, Soldier Boy being Soldier Boy (He's a warning, we all know it and somehow still love him for it).

Note:This is told from Reader's perspective. Any references to the reader is made using you or your. I tried my best to proofread, but nobody's perfect. If you don’t like, don’t read, but if you do like, you’re my favorite!

Internal monologue is in italics and is in first person.

A/N: It's been a while since I wrote a chapter for this one, but I really wanted to take a little break and go back to Ben, because I've missed him.

Series Masterlist

Main Masterlist

Reader POV

How can we be out of milk? I just went to the grocery store!

You think to yourself with a sigh, scanning the dismal array of products on the shelves of the rusted refrigerator in front of you. All you really wanted was a bowl of cereal and like hell you were going to have it with water like some kind of psychopath.

I bet Homelander ate his cereal with water instead of milk. Or maybe he was one of those freaky dry cereal eaters who drink a glass of milk at the same time.

You shudder.

It was easier to focus on things like the lack of cereal now that you were inside the cabin and no longer drooling over Butcher chopping wood outside. The image begins to tiptoe back across your mind,  the tensing of his muscles with each mighty swing, the sweat that curved down his perfectly tan and muscular body, catching in his thick dusting of chest hair, that leads down to-

Nope, nope, nope. Not going back down that road.

Instead of fantasizing about being a drop of sweat you force yourself to focus on the conversation that Ben and you had earlier, when he agreed to fake date you. Which was maybe the oddest conversation you’d had with anyone… and you’d had an argument with Hughie over the possibility of making a lightsaber. Something that Hughie was sure the government was hiding and that you knew how to do.

Because obviously my engineering degree came with a minor in lasers, lightsabers, and Luke Skywalker.

But you’d thought the universe was throwing you a bone by letting you stare at Butcher's gloriously sweaty body with no consequences. Which meant that maybe Ben agreeing to fake date you was again the universe apologizing for the two years of you trying to get Butcher's attention (without trying to get his attention). 

Maybe things are looking up.

You think to yourself with a smile and then remember the current dilemma:

Dry cereal, no milk.

Your shoulders droop in defeat. It wasn't enough that there wasn't a coffee maker in this cabin, which meant you were dragging your body around the grounds like a blob, now you had to eat your cereal dry because no one else in this damn cabin went grocery shopping!

AND NO ONE ELSE DOES THE DISHES! I swear no one helps me in this house.

The small poorly stocked grocery store is twenty miles from the cabin down a bumpy back road that curves around a mountain so tight that you thought you were going to go soaring off when Ben took the turn too fast. You’d gone two days ago, walking down the three measly aisles trying to find something edible while Ben complained and said grocery shopping was a woman’s job.

Why he thought that and came with you anyway, you had no idea, but it was his fault you were out of milk.

You'd already caught him contaminating the jug with his man germs last night when you found him drinking straight from the carton like an animal.

Probably finished the job when I fell asleep. Damn it.

It often surprised you how someone who was supposed to be from a more cultured and upstanding generation still had the manners of a horny sailor who hadn't felt the touch of a woman in six months and the attitude of a toddler who just wanted his mom to buy him a lollipop at the checkout.

The man in question was in the (for all intents and purposes) "shower." The warm water pattered against the rusted tub below and steam rose from under the curtained area that was separated from the rest of the great room in the corner, confusing you further over the way the cabin was built.

The layout alone was odd.

It had one big room that served as a living area furnished only with a couch that had more than a few questionable stains, a kitchen, and a dining room. Two thinnly walled bedrooms were off the main room holding beds that creaked even when you weren't moving.

Every single sound was amplified, and you’d heard more than enough sounds coming from Ben's bedroom over the past three days to last you a lifetime.

But the "bathroom" was nothing more than a sectioned off area in the far corner of the living room with the toilet and shower shielded from view by a faded floral curtain.

You were thankful for the curtain, but at the same time you really hated that you couldn't go to the bathroom without everyone hearing everything. It made you feel like you were living in a frat house.

All you wanted was to go back to the city where Annie and you shared an apartment that always had toilet paper in the bathroom and where the seat was always down so the possibility of falling into the toilet in the middle of the night was zero.

Because no matter how many times you told Ben to actually put the seat down, he never did.

It's a wonder that he's still single…

But you liked living with Annie. You'd grown up with three sisters so you had no qualms with living with another woman, not to mention Annie and you had grown into good friends since your time working at Supe Affairs, and you were kinda scared to live alone as a single woman in New York.

Sure you had an engineering degree and you worked on a team that took down supes, but what were you supposed to do if someone broke in? Start talking about the quadratic formula and hope the intruder fell asleep? Or maybe start a debate with him over the structural integrity of a washing machine?

It wasn't that you couldn't handle yourself if the situation called for it,  more that there were other people on the team who handled that kind of thing before you needed to.

And by people it was usually Ben, because he never cared to listen to what Butcher was saying and because you were so whipped someone might as well give you the nickname Dole, you listened to everything Butcher said and stayed out of the line of fire.

You audibly sigh when you shut the refrigerator door.

Dry cereal it is.

The Lucky Charms box sitting pretty on the wooden countertop is a welcome sight. One little piece of civilization you'd found in the grocery store that was still selling dried meal kits and gas masks from World War I.  Ben hadn't thought it was funny when you held one up and asked if he was happy to see something familiar.

"Hey." Butcher's voice shatters the welcome silence in a low rumble that sends the prickle of goosebumps over your arms.

You gasp and jump at the sudden intrusion of his voice, sending bits of marshmallow raining down over the counter. Pieces roll under the refrigerator from the now empty box in your hand, taking your last wisp of hope of a good meal in this godforsaken place.

"Shit. Sorry Poppet. Didn't mean to sneak up on you." He apologizes.

The heady smell of sweat and Butcher's musk wafts over you with his close proximity, the heat from his sun-kissed skin buzzing through the air around you and making your throat tighten. You fight the heat that kisses your cheeks, hoping that you don't look too much like a startled doe.

Butcher raises a hand to wipe away the drops that curl across his forehead, the sleeve of his brightly colored Hawaiian shirt pulling with the flex of his muscular bicep.

He flashes a sheepish smile that makes it difficult for you to breathe, words evaporating from the tip of your tongue as you stare at him for a moment too long, the silence stretching between the two of you.

You drop to the ground to avoid his gaze, frantically scrapping the bits of cereal together while trying to stop the collection of emotions scrambling around your head screaming: "Defcon 1, alert, he's talking to us! This is not a drill!"

"It-it's okay. Totally fine-" You wave a hand anxiously. "I meant to do that."

Cleaning the cereal from the floor had been a good idea in theory, until Butcher dropped down next to you to help you clean up the mess.

It was another reason why you couldn't seem to shake the crush that you had on him, because William Butcher was different whenever it was just the two of you. He'd go out of his way to help you, he always had your back in the field, and on the nights when you were up late tinkering on something Butcher would talk to you softly, so different than the harsh growl he had whenever Ben was around.

Breathe. In and out- He's just a person. I can talk to a person. I do that everyday, no big deal...

Unfortunately the rest of your body thought it was a very big deal because deep breathing only seemed to make things worse. Now you could smell the sweat you’d dreamed about being twenty minutes ago when you'd shamelessly watched Butcher chopping wood outside.

There was something underlying it, a strong masculine scent, something heady, the way the earth smells before a storm when thunder rumbles in the distance, rainwater rippling through a quiet forest.

You could feel your mouth water, imagining the salty tang against the tip of your tongue if you were to taste it.

What is wrong with me?

"Meant to spill the cereal on the floor?" Butcher asks amused. His large hands are mirroring your frantic movements with a clean precision, over the ground as he picks up bits of your dinner.

"Yeah. You don't do that? It's good luck, like throwing salt over your shoulder-"

You had no idea what you were saying, just that you were babbling and you wanted it to stop, because you knew that you were only digging a deeper hole and that none of this was attractive to Butcher.

In the two years that you'd been dying to get his attention, you'd seen a few of the women that Butcher usually hung around. Beautiful, confident women. Women who looked like they chewed the world up and spat it back out. Women who actually owned tight-fighting designer clothes, were confident, wore bold colored lipsticks, clicked around in high heels, and knew how to do more makeup than just the random flick of mascara.

None of them were like you.

You didn't think that you were beautiful or sexy.

Cute, occasionally, when you weren't putting your foot in your mouth.

Pretty maybe on a good day when you tried a little harder and the aforementioned mascara didn't smear under your eyes and your hair actually cooperated.

Awkward, always... unfortunately.

Your sisters had always been like those women, you not so much.

Not to mention all of those women were older and probably knew how to do things to men in the bedroom that made the limited experience (ie. none) with men look like a single grain of sand sitting at the feet of the Statue of Liberty.

"Did you know that there are some kinds of snails that chew each others genitals off during sexual intercourse and-"

You continue, not sure how in the hell you got here in the past minute since the cereal fell and you kept screeching along like a broken record, but you were desperately wishing that you were one of the marshmallow bits that rolled deep underneath the refrigerator.

At least under there Butcher wouldn't be able to hear the ridiculous psychobabble you were spouting because every damn time you were in his vicinity, your mind seemed to forget things like boundaries and appropriate small talk and your phd and instead switched to the B side cassette tape where all the random info you'd learned at four am on YouTube resided in the dark recesses of your brain.

Please somebody make it stop.

Butcher's face has gone from amused to confused within seconds, an awkward chuckle working it's way up through his chest, because honestly how do you respond to that juicy little tidbit of info?

A wave of embarrassment and shame has already began to work it's way through your body, the urge to cry building in the back of your throat.

Why am I like this? Why can’t I just talk to someone without it turning into the fifty shades of how much of a freak I am?

You stand from the ground with a handful of dusty cereal in your hand, before throwing it away in the small rusting trashcan on the other side of the creaky kitchen table.

At this point you would have just run away to the bathroom or another room, but given that Ben was still in the shower, and Hughie was in one of the bedrooms, and you were sleeping on the couch so basically Butcher was in your bedroom right now, there wasn't anywhere to go.

Maybe Ben will get out of the shower long enough to let me commit toaster bath.

Butcher stands from the ground. "I didn't know that."

"Now you do." You clear your throat, avoiding eye contact the best you can.

The small kitchen seems to grow even smaller with his presence and the open window above the sink does little to cool down the wave of heat that travels through you at Butcher's close proximity to you. Your fingertips fidget at your sides when the silence grows.

You hated that this only happened whenever you were talking to Butcher. You never had problems keeping up with Frenchie and Kimiko, laughing with Hughie or Annie, or even just talking to Ben, but whenever you were around Butcher it was like your brain ejected things like common sense and wit. Sometimes you wondered if Butcher noticed and was just too polite to say anything to you.

Then again he probably just thinks I'm a freak that enjoys snail porn.

"So what were you and that yank talking about?" Butcher asks.

"What?"

It was difficult to talk to him when he was standing so close to you, but at least now he was wearing one of his signature Hawaiian shirts, soaked a little bit under the collar.

You were sure that if he was still shirtless you wouldn't have been able to make a sound, then again you could still see a delicious peak of chest hair sprouting beneath the two unbuttoned top buttons of the shirt.

The thud of your heartbeat thunders in your ears as you scramble for some lie, anxiety bubbling in your stomach the longer you look at Butcher, because there was no way in hell you could blurt out:

"Oh Ben agreed to fake date me so that you'll see me more than just a teammate or a little kid!"

"Well-" Butcher starts again.

Ben's arm comes around your waist so fast you don't have time to wonder how he snuck up on you. He tugs you back easily against his warm chest, still wet from his shower, and presses a kiss directly under your right ear, lingering a little bit too long to just be friendly. His beard scrapes against the sensitive skin of your neck, wet hair falling forward to tickle against the sides of your face, leaving the spicy scent of his shampoo under your nose.

"Showers free." He smirks at Butcher, before dropping his gaze to you, green eyes locking on yours and his lips pulling up in a mischievous smirk. "You ready for bed baby?"

Ben's other hand wanders just under the edge of your cotton t-shirt, pushing it up enough that the rough skin of his fingers finds the soft and supple flesh of your hips.

"Um-" You squeak in alarm.

Your face was so warm you were sure that if someone cracked an egg it would be fried to perfection in seconds.

Oh holy guacamole. This was so not what I meant. I meant maybe flirty talking or maybe him bringing me coffee and pretending to laugh with me about something! We need boundaries and maybe one of those squirt bottles you get for a cat that's unruly!

"I'm not really tired-" You choke out, still not able to make eye contact with Butcher. All you could think about Ben's very wet and naked chest pressed against you and the water from his shower soaking into your t-shirt.

This is worse than the snail genitals.

"Good." Ben purrs, the word rumbling up through where your back is pressed against his muscular torso. He leans closer to you, smirk widening. "I'm not either. Figured we could wear each other out first."

Butcher's body goes stock straight in surprise, eyes shifting from you to Ben for some kind of explanation.

"W-well-" You stammer.

Ben's eyes twinkle in the light streaming through the kitchen windows that picks up the flecks of gold hidden in the deep green that you'd never noticed.

"Fuck baby, I love that cute little stutter." His lips trail down your throat sucking a mark just below the shadow of your jaw, the prickle of his beard against your skin making a shiver travel down you spine.

Oh my sweet potato pie.

Unconsciously your body leans back into him, your hands falling to where his rest on your waist, as you try to control the heat wafting off of your face. An uncontrolled sound comes up through your chest as Ben's mouth continues to work down the column of your throat, earning a dark chuckle from the man behind you.

"Wait a minute are you two-" Butcher clears his throat as if he can't quite stomach it, the look on this face somewhere between someone choking and someone trying to pass a kidney stone.

"Have been for a while." Ben flashes a lazy smile. "She wanted to keep it quiet, but I said fuck it. I want everyone to know who she belongs to." His hand slides down your back to squeeze a handful of your ass.

Another uncontrollable squeak erupts from somewhere deep inside.

Time of Death 18:35:00. Goodbye cruel world.

Right about now you no longer believed that the universe was throwing you a bone with Ben pretending to date you, because this was beyond mortifying. You couldn't imagine Butcher giving a single fuck about the two of you. If anything Butcher was probably only worried about the one person on the team who could build whatever he wanted at the drop of a hat getting killed in a sex related accident.

Your throat closed a little tighter with the thought, because Ben was the strongest supe in the world now after everything with Homelander had fizzled out, and you couldn't imagine him being able to control himself in the throws of passion. Not when he barely had the self control to keep his temper in check.

But with it came the memory of what Ben had told you outside with a gentleness you didn't think he had, when he said that he wasn't going to hurt you or make you do anything that made you uncomfortable.

And maybe you were crazy, but you believed him.

You're not going to have sex with him.

You remind yourself, but with Ben's entire body wrapped around yours and the ghost of his beard against your throat, it seemed like you were going to have to remind him of that little thing all over again.

“But I thought you were-" Butcher tries again, but Ben interrupts him.

“Bring the cereal.” Ben nips at your earlobe, ignoring the man standing in front of the two of you. “I’ve got a feeling we’re going to work up an appetite.”

He smacks your ass before sauntering off to the bedroom he’d been sleeping in the past few nights, his towel slung low over his hips.

The idea of crawling under the refrigerator with the bits of marshmallow cereal resurfaces, but you were sure that even if you were under there they'd still be able to feel your embarrassment and anxiety all the way in Antarctica.

Butcher was staring at you open mouthed, unable to process. He closed it, then opened it again, looking far too much like a fish gasping for air on a beach.

If the error message on a computer had a picture assigned to it, Butcher's face would be smack dab in the middle of the screen.

Error. Does Not Compute. Please Try Again Later.

There was nothing you could say, nothing you could do to relieve the oppressive anxiety and embarrassment building in your chest with every second that passed following Ben's disappearance into his bedroom.

Maybe I was too soon to think that the universe was throwing me a bone, maybe it's beating me with it into submission.

Butcher coughs awkwardly. "I'm sorry. I think I just hallucinated, love. Did that wanker just say the two of you were-"

"Dating?" Your voice comes out high pitched. "Yeah."

"But he's-" Butcher searches for the word. "He's-"

"Older?"

It was the exact reason why you believed Butcher would never date you, because he was older and experienced. But it made you hopeful that Butcher would stop seeing you as just "kiddo" and "poppet" if he saw you with Ben.

"I was going to say a dick."

"Oh well Ben is- um- he's um-" You stutter, eyes dropping to the multicolored Hawaiian shirt Butcher was wearing trying to find some courage written in the chaotic colors swirling together. "He grows on you after a while."

"Like a fungus."

"He can actually be kind of sweet-" As soon as the words pass through your lips, Butcher laughs so loud you're sure that people would be able to hear it all the way back in NYC.

"You're joking right? Him? Mr. Casual Fuck? Mr. I'm Going To Disintegrate Everyone On My Old Team?"

Butcher lets out a deep sigh and rests his hip against the counter, while crossing his arms over his chest. You watch his eyes trace over you, inquisitive and somewhat curious.

"I don't think you should-" Butcher clears his throat. "I don’t think you should be with him, poppet."

If you'd been drinking something you would have done a spit take for sure.

"What?"

"He's-" Butcher tries to find his words, but you can see how difficult it is for him. "He's a prick and you're- I mean, you're nothing like him. Not to mention he's literally a walking Chernobyl waiting to 'appen."

"I think he has it under control." You say slowly. It was easier to talk to Butcher when you didn't have to talk about yourself. "He's just a little rough around the edges, um- like an onion!"

"Or a hand-grenade."

Ben appears in the doorway of his bedroom, still wearing the towel and a bored expression. But instead of saying anything or calling your name, he strides again over to where Butcher and you are standing, and unceremoniously slings you over his shoulder.

"Ben what are you doing?!" You screech.

"I told you. We're going to bed. I'm sick of hearing you and that British fuck talking. Not when you and I could be doing something a hell of a lot more satisfying."

"But-"

Hughie picks that exact moment to open the door of the bedroom he's been sharing with Butcher for the past few days. "Hey, what's-" He looks at Ben and you squinting in confusion. "Going on?"

"Pay attention you might learn something." Ben has the audacity to wink, all the while you're praying that his towel doesn't fall open.

At this point, I’d rather face the locusts.

Your gaze flicks up to where Butcher stands in the kitchen one last time before the bedroom door shuts.

His arms are still crossed over his chest, mouth turning down into a frown, jaw tight, but just as it closes you see something flicker across his face, an emotion that breaks through the usual mask of hardened grizzle that Butcher wore all the time.

What the hell was that?

Your body goes flying onto the bed with a deranged scream of Ben’s name passing through your lips followed by the pterodactyl like screech of the ancient bed when you land on top.

The spicy smell of Ben’s signature cologne, sweat, and mothballs comes wafting up in a cloud with the motion as one of the springs digs into your spinal cord.

"That's right baby. Keep saying it just like that." Ben reaches for the end of his towel and you scramble off the bed with flushed cheeks.

"Ben!" You hiss, eyes flitting to the door beyond, knowing that Butcher and Hughie can hear everything. "I told you that I wasn't going to- We aren't going to-"

"Relax princess." He gruffs out. "Didn't mean to ruffle your delicate sensibilities."

"You didn't-" Your eyes squeeze shut in frustration and anxiety, the embarrassment washing over you all over again when the events of everything that just happened two minutes ago out in the kitchen comes roaring back. "Damn it I- I mean I-. What are you doing?"

Ben's smirk dips into a bored frown. "You told me that you wanted me to pretend to date you. That's what I was doing."

"Pretend to date me yes! Not throw me around like some sort of Caveman-"

"Butcher isn't going to give two fucks about any of it, if he doesn't think I'm fucking you." Ben huffs. "Which I still think would be better than doing whatever the fuck this is."

He walks over to where his suitcase sits in a state of unpacking on the threadbare chest of drawers squeezed into the corner of the room. Underwear, t-shirts, and several pairs of jeans spurt out of the black bag like multicolored fish erupting from a tank.

The rest of the cabin is oddly silent and you wonder if Butcher and Hughie are out there whispering about what just happened to avoid Ben and you hearing.

Jokes on them, I'm gonna make Ben eavesdrop and then tell me everything.

"I just think that we need to make some boundaries-" You start to say at the exact moment Ben decides to drop his towel.

Holy. Fucking. No-

You slap your hand over your eyes so loudly that the clap ricochets through the bedroom, however, not quick enough to block the image of Ben's muscular ass assaulting your mind. "This is exactly what I was talking about."

"Aww come on princess, I'm giving you an inside look. A million girls would dream to be where you are."

"I'm pretty sure they already have." You mutter under your breath, earning a chuckle from Ben.

"You could be a million and one."

"No thanks. I'm all good."

The tell-tale signs of Ben getting dressed fill the room, but you refuse to take a peak. You knew it was exactly what he wanted, but at the same time something stirred in the pit of your stomach that you'd never felt before, a small flutter of something unnamable when you thought about Ben being naked in the same space as you.

The bed screeches again as Ben slips onto the creaky mattress with an audible sigh. You take this as confirmation that it's safe to open your eyes, but still wait another beat before you do.

He's leaning back against the wooden headboard, smirking at you, eyes tracing over your body. Ben's chosen not to wear a shirt, instead he's clad only in a pair of gray sweatpants. Again, how he can do that in a cabin that has absolutely no air conditioning, you have no idea.

The full sized bed looks even smaller with Ben's hulking figure laid across it, leaving very little space beside him or even space for you to walk around the bed back to the door that lead back out into the living room without hitting his feet that hang over the end. It was enough to make you think that the four of you were trapped in Green Acres rather than a small mountain cabin in the armpit of America.

Ben pats the dusty quilt beside him.The space is barely fit for a toddler let alone another person. 

“Come on. I don’t bite.” His smirk turns mischievous. “Unless you ask me to baby.”

You swallow, biting your lip.

A part of you wanted to go back out to the living room, but that meant you'd have to face Butcher again. And with you stuck smack dab between:

Telling Butcher that Ben and you had sex quickly.

Telling Butcher that you asked Ben to pretend to be in a relationship with you to get his attention.

You were trapped in this little bedroom with Ben until sunrise… or until Jack Nicholson started breaking down the front door with an axe.

Ben sighs heavily and drops his voice into a whisper, aware that Butcher and Hughie are listening. “Okay come on. I’m not going to fucking do anything.”

"I'm not sure I trust that and I'm okay over here." You point down at the floor, feeling the uneven wooden floorboards anxiously with the tip of your big toe.

"You can't stand there all night."

"You don’t know that! Maybe I could learn to sleep standing up like a Flamingo or something."

Ben crosses his arms over his chest. "Look I might be an asshole, but I'm not the kind of asshole that's gonna let you sleep on the floor. So just get in the fucking bed."

You mentally calculate the options in your head all over again. "Not before we make some rules."

"Told you I wasn't too good with those sweetheart."

Ignoring him seems to be a skill that you'd been developing forever, so instead you say, "First, no sex."

"You said that already. Kinda sounds like you're trying to convince yourself not me." The smirk pulls at the ends of his lips again, making you narrow your eyes.

"Second, no touching-"

"Okay wait a damn minute." Ben sits up. "I have to be able to touch you."

"Why?"

"Because nobody is going to believe that you and me are together if I can’t touch you."

He did have a point, you knew that. You'd seen Ben a few times with women in the office that he'd gone home with, not to mention the guy was a walking HR violation.

"Okay fine." You hold up one finger. "No inappropriate touching."

"What the fuck does that mean? I can't slip my finger under your panties when we're in a meeting or something? Because I didn't really peg you as the type who wanted to get hot and heavy at the office princess."

A wave of heat blooms beneath your cheeks. "No! I mean-"

"You want to get hot and heavy at the office." He tilts his head to the side. "Because I could make that happen."

"Let me finish!" You begin to pace back and forth in front of the bed. Moving seemed like a good option right now, the anxious energy flickering through your body needed places to go and because you were stuck in this room that might as well be a jail cell you were making do with what you had. "You can touch me, just no squeezing my butt or anything like that. Maybe hugging me from behind or holding my hand-"

"Holding your hand? You've got to be fucking with me."

"Ben, please." You whisper, eyes darting to the bedroom door. "You said you would do this."

"I said that I would pretend to fucking date you, not pretend to be a fucking pussy." He grouses. "Nobody is going to believe that you and me are together if you don't let me be the way I am. I've got a reputation to uphold princess."

You stand there for another beat, because he was right. Who was going to believe this? The anxiety was back lacing around your ribcage and pulling tight.

The memory of all the years you spent watching Butcher walk around the office dreaming of something that was never going to happen comes washing over you. The nicknames Butcher called you ring in your ears things that made you feel like a little kid in fourth grade who had a crush on the high schooler who occasionally smiled at her.

He's right. I should just let this go. It's never going to happen. Why do I keep doing this to myself?

"You're right, this is a ridiculous idea, there's no way it's going to work and-" You begin to say, but Ben interrupts you.

"Shut up and get in bed." Ben says bluntly.

"Huh?" You clear your throat, fighting the tears that were already beginning to blur your eyes like the heartache that ate away at your chest. "

"Get in the fucking bed."

"Why?"

"Because I can't stand seeing you look all fucking pathetic like that. So you can either get in this bed or I can throw you in all over again."

"I'm not pathetic." You mutter, but you did feel that way. After all, you'd asked Soldier Boy to fake date you. Soldier Boy.

"Yes, you are. You've wanted Winston Churchill to fuck you for the past two years and you're obviously too fucked in the head to figure out how to do that so come here."

"Why?"

Ben starts to get up.

"Okay fine!" You sit on the end of the bed. "There. I'm in the bed, but I don't understand how this is going to-"

Ben's arm suddenly wraps around your waist and he pulls you back against his chest, to where he leans back against the headboard.

"Whoa, wait a minute-"

His hand clamps down over your mouth.

Your body immediately goes into fight or flight, eyes widening, beginning to struggle against his grip.

"I'm not going to hurt you. How many fucking times do I have to say that?" He grumbles, his voice a pleasant low rumble in your ear. "Just relax for one second."

Ben's face is so close to yours that you can feel the warmth of his breath on your face and the rough prickle of his beard against the curve of your ear. His eyes meet yours the flecks of gold inside like falling stars and a sprinkle of cinnamon colored freckles brushed over his nose and the top of his cheeks that you'd never noticed.

"You're too much in your head." Ben breathes. "Now moan."

He removes his hand from your mouth.

"But-"

He pokes your forehead with a frown. "No. Too much in here. Shut up and moan."

You open your mouth to probably to ask him why, but then you catch his gaze again. Something twinkles in his eyes, something that’s different than the bored or angry or aroused expressions that you’d seen before. It looks almost, amused.

So instead you moan and feel like a complete idiot.

"Good, now try a little louder." Ben's arm around your waist gives you an encouraging squeeze.

You do as he says, emboldened by his motivation.

Ben's other hand reaches back to hit the headboard once up against the wall, before he lets loose a moan that makes your entire body flush and an awkward giggle bubble up past your lips.

"You laughing at me sweetheart?" Ben chuckles, hitting the headboard up against the wall again, and motioning for you to moan again, which you comply without a second thought.

"No."  You whisper back with a smile.

"Kinda sounded like you were."

"I'd never do that."

This time Ben moans your name loudly, sending a thrill up your spine, before hitting the headboard against the wall.

You’d never heard anyone say your name like that before, and even though you know that Ben is pretending, for the first time in a long time you don't feel like the awkward girl that seemed to stumble through life, the one that was only 'just' and nothing else, the one who chose to pretend not to like someone because it was easier than the reality, and the one who was always so behind everyone else when it came to the opposite sex they might as well be on another planet.

So you take a chance and moan back his name just as loud as he did yours.

Ben's eyes darken, the arm he has around your waist tightening slightly, before he hits the headboard against the wall again.

"Fuck. You feel so good baby." Ben groans, the headboard banging so hard it makes dust from the ceiling flutter down onto the two of you.

"Ben!" You moan back, leaning into his chest and feeling the heat from his skin envelop you like a warm blanket.

The smell of Ben's shampoo is everywhere around you, soaking through your body, going up your nose with every inhale of breath. It was almost overwhelming. This was the first time that you'd ever been close to someone else of the opposite sex, besides the awkward hug you gave your study partner when the two of you graduated and he told you that he had feelings for you and you blurted out "How about those Yankees?" to cover, even though you'd never been to a game.

*Bang*

"You want more baby?" He growls.

*Bang*

"Please!"

*Bang*

"I love how polite you are sweetheart, even when I'm fucking you like this."

You cover your mouth to stop an awkward squeak from breaking through your lips, that only makes Ben's smirk grow as he hits the headboard against the wall.

"You like that?" He says it just as loud, but you know that it’s not directed at the two men in the other room listening to your performance.

Maybe. A little voice whispers inside your head, but you don't answer, because you're not sure where it came from. Not when Ben and you are in here trying to make someone jealous and the same someone that you can't remember the name of with Ben looking at you like that.

"Ready for the grand finale?" Ben mutters.

*Bang*

You nod.

"Ladies first."

"What a gentleman." You whisper back.

"Always." He winks at you, squeezing you tighter against him.

The sound that comes out of your mouth doesn't sound like you at all, but you don't care. Something about being here with Ben didn't make you feel like you, and it made you feel almost relieved.

Ben mirrors the moan, all the while looking at you with the same smile/smirk combo that only made you smile back at him. You couldn't remember the last time that you had smiled this much. He knocks the headboard one more time up against the wall for good measure before letting go and relaxing his arm beside where you sit between his outstretched legs.

"Look" Ben shakes his head, relaxing back against the headboard that left a pretty good sized dent in the peeling poorly painted wall behind it. "I get it, you really want Butcher to fuck you. But you're not going to get him with those silly rules of yours."

"But-"

"I'm not asking you to do something like shoot a porno in the office. All I'm asking is for you to trust me."

"Trust you?" You snort, raising an eyebrow.

"I know men sweetheart, and you don't. Me holding your hand isn't going to do anything to him." Ben leans in a little closer to you, mouth pulling up in the same mischievous smirk that he's had all night. "But him hearing me fuck you, it'll drive him crazy, not to mention keep him up all night."

You bite the inside of your cheek. As much as you didn't want to admit it, Ben might be right. Okay, maybe a whole lot more than right. Butcher wasn't going to think of you 'experienced' with Ben only holding your hand. It was things like what the two of you had just done that was going to get his attention.

Oddly enough, the usual embarrassment and anxiety that came wasn't there. You were waiting for it, waiting to feel shame, but you didn't have any.

That's weird.

"You might be right." You say slowly.

"I'm sorry, say that a little louder sweetheart."

"Shut up!" You smack him across his muscular chest. "And pinky swear."

"Pinky swear?"

"Yes. Pinky swear, because you won't let me make rules."

His eyes flick from your outstretched pinky to your face, looking as if you'd suggested hand holding all over again.

"Are you sure we can't just seal the deal with a good fuck instead?"

"Isn't that what we just did?"

"No." Ben chuckles, the low rumble vibrating against your back where it rests against his chest. "Trust me sweetheart, if we really had, you wouldn't be able to say anything, much less move."

But he wraps his pinky around yours, dwarfing your hand slightly, with a sigh.

There's a part of you that wishes that you had a camera to capture the moment of Soldier Boy pinky swearing with you. It was up there with photos of Bigfoot and flying saucers, something that even the experts couldn't prove impossible.

"Thank you."

"Don't mention it." Ben sighs retracting his pinky from yours, eyes narrowing. "Really, don't fucking tell anyone I did that."

"I won't promise that." You say with a giggle, before trying to slide away into the space beside Ben, but he doesn't move his arm from around your waist.

"Where are you going?" He smirks.

"To bed?"

It seemed obvious given the fact that you couldn't go back into the living room and you figured you might as well stay in here with Ben. All inhibitions you had about staying in here with him seemed to completely evaporate in the wake of your mutual (fake) orgasms.

"Not a chance princess. Need to let them catch an earful of round two, I've got a reputation to uphold after all."

A/N: And by rules of engagement I mean, THERE ARE NO RULES! It was so fun to come back to these two, I really missed seeing Ben with the fake dating trope. Also, I tried to make sure that I tagged everyone who asked, but if I missed you, please be sure to let me know! 💗

Thank you so much for reading! Likes, Reblogs, and Comments are not required, but are always appreciated! I love hearing what y'all think! 😊 If you'd liked to be added to my taglist for this series please let me know!

Taglist:

@zepskies @jollyhunter @waynes-multiverse @globetrotter98 @lunaleah

@ladykitana90 @kmc1989 @megara0224 @angrydragon90 @roseblue373

@the-super-who-locked-wizard @suckitands33 @spnaquakindgdom @garlicbreaddd1

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@alediao @yassqueen1303

[lamentationsofalonelypotato]

@jollyhunter

Oh my goodness, I absolutely LOVED all of these! I'm gonna come clean and say that I did not know the real names of some of these dogs until you brought them up, but reading your descriptions of the characters and how they relate to the dogs was so perfect! Not to mention I haven't seen someone do this headcanon before!

For Dean:

The "handler oriented" thing took me out. Made me want to raise John up from the grave just to send him under all over again 🤬

For Ben:

The no social skills made me cackle. I love how so many writers on here have really taken that and run with it, because it's so fun to read how many awkward situations that traumatized onion has been through.

(I say onion because he's got layers, he's an acquired taste, some people don't like him, and sometimes he makes people cry.)

But you really did nab him right with the descriptors, not to mention that dog looks very intimidating and you used the right gif for Ben to compare him to it. 😬

For Beau:

Oh my word this just reminds me that I have to watch Big Sky! I keep putting it off and that's just not good because it pushes me farther and farther from the cowboy sheriff 😭

For Mark:

the yapping and silent attention seeking by being annoying (or charming!)

I love how you subtly roast him with this, but it's so funny that I can't stop laughing LOL 🤣🤭

Also, did you know that Rottweiler are more prone to developing a head tu-

And right here is where I stopped laughing.

BAD JOLLY! *sprays water bottle*

🤣🤣🤣

For Sam:

Also I really love that you added Bucky and Sam to this! I am a Dean girlie through and through, but the Sam one, really seemed to fit him well! I don't think he's a golden retriever at all (because the frisky thing made me gasp and clutch my potatoes- I meant this to represent clutching my pearls, but the potatoes sounded sexual and I'm sorry 🤣)

For Bucky:

Ugh, really reminding me of my Bucky era, you're trying to drag me back in 😭 As if I don't have enough WIPs lol. But the coloring really does look like him! The raccoon eyes 🤣

Oh my goodness Jolly, I loved all of these! You did such a wonderful job and now I'm trying to think up a fun headcanon for all these lovable idiots 🥰

⋆ ˚｡⋆ 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? 😄

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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

@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

[lamentationsofalonelypotato]

@simpingforjoel

Aww 🥹 Thank you so much for the reblog! I'm so happy that you've liked this series 💗 Soft and yearning Din kills me too 😭 I'm working on the next chapter and the fluff is already just making me melt as I write it.

What Did I Say?

Pairing: Din Djarin x f!reader, Reader POV

Summary: A trip to the market takes a turn for the worst when you run into a bounty hunter that doesn't take no for an answer. Takes place after Season 3 when Din and Grogu have been living in their cabin on Nevarro. This is the fourth fic in my Sugar, Spice, and Starlight Series!

Tropes: Touch Her And Die, Protective!Din, Bakery AU, Grumpy vs. Sunshine, Mutual Pining, Shy!Din

Word Count: 9K (HOW DID THIS HAPPEN?! 😱)

Warnings: I'm gonna label this one 18+ just because this contains an UNWELCOME ADVANCE from someone on the reader (not Din) (it's creepy, And the reader does get hurt- just a little bit), Angst, Blood, Death, Super Creepy Transdoshan, Din Protecting the Reader and Being Super Hot While Doing it, Loverboy!Din But The Reader Doesn't Know It, One or two curse words?, Din taking care of the reader, The reader is really soft and likes to bake? Din being a little bit self-deprecating to himself? Din might be a little bit OOC.

Note: This is told from Reader's perspective. Any references to the reader is made using you or your. There is no use of y/n! I tried my best to proofread, but nobody's perfect. If you don’t like, don’t read, but if you do like, you’re my favorite! I'm just starting to write for Din, so please be gentle.

Internal monologue is in italics and is in first person.

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A/N: Again, this does contain an unwelcome (somewhat sexual? I really don't know what to call it) advance from a creepy lizard man, please, PLEASE, do not read this if that's something that will hurt you. I really don't want anyone to be effected negatively by this. After that whole situation it does get really cute...

The sounds and smells of the market were all around you, flooding your senses as you wove through the multicolored stalls on the bright afternoon. The sun above warmed your shoulders through the soft red dress you wore that swished around your ankles with each step through the crowds.

The smell of spices, fruit, fresh baked pastry, and perfumes wafted up from the booths around you while the chittering of creatures in cages, the low hum of electricity, and the sound of vendors calling out to the other shoppers filled your ears. Families walked through the streets enjoying the fare and children giggled while they darted through the crowds playing tag while lone shoppers migrated from booth to booth, drawn in by smooth talking vendors with beconing hands.

It was one of those wonderful Saturdays. You had woken up early, made enough pastries for the morning rush, and left your assistant Jax in charge while you went grocery shopping. There was a list clutched in your hand written in your untidy scrawl, but you were only partly paying attention to it.

Shopping in the market was one of your favorite things to do.

Everyday there was a new vendor or a new product being sold, and you often didn't know where to look for fear of missing out on something strange and unusual. It always awakened a sense of excitement and joy, and of course it always made you feel more connected to the community on Nevarro.

You lean over the display of baskets filled with brightly colored and various sized fruits and vegetables that spill out in a colorful blur onto the small table.

“How about these?” The vendor asks with a wide smile, a hint of an accent on the end of his words, while he holds out a small container of bright purple fruit, each no bigger than the tip of your pinky.

You take a bite, allowing the sour and sweet taste of the fruit explode in your mouth, while the juice stains the delicate skin of your fingertips.

In your mind you begin to assemble a pastry around the flavor, thinking of the things you could make.

Maybe a jelly roll with honey-wine drizzle.

“These are perfect! I'll take two boxes." You smiling at the vendor who mirrors your enthusiasm and begins to pack up a bag for you while your eyes drift over the other fruits on the table considering what else you could create from oddly shaped products.

The market never failed to inspire you, and you often went back to the bakery laden down with multiple bags and exciting ideas about possible treats to bake. You also supposed that was the curse of shopping hungry, and it was something that you did often, but never regretted

Today you had been hoping to find more inspiration for savory treats. Since the day you went with Din to parent's night, he'd gone from stopping by a few times a week to everyday. And each time you'd send him off loaded down with a bag full of meat pies, stew, pastries, and anything else that you could think of.

It made you smile to yourself, but it drops a little bit when you think of him. Din hadn't been into the shop in a week. You knew that it was because he was out on "a job." He hadn't said where  he was going or what he was doing, but he had stopped by just before closing time the night before he left to tell you.

He'd loitered by the door for a few moments watching you sweep up and listen to you talk about your day while Grogu slept in the bag slung around Din's broad chest. And after he'd told you that he was going to be off planet for a few days.

You been surprised that he was telling you that, but at the same time you were happy he did. If Din had stopped showing up with no warning, you would have been worried that something terrible happened to him.

Despite his hesitancy to talk about it, you knew what Din did for a living, and even though you knew that Din was supposedly a mighty warrior and he wore armor that protected him, you still worried about him. The thought that Din would just vanish from your life made an unpleasant feeling bubble in the pit of your stomach.

It had happened so quickly, but you could feel yourself falling for him more each day, and his time away from you this week, had only proven how much you depended on seeing him every day.

The week had dragged on, each day longer and longer in Din's absense. You'd almost gone to find Karga to ask him if he'd heard from Din, or stopped Cara as she did her daily rounds about the city to see if Din was back. You'd held yourself back.

The trip to the market at the end of the longest week of your life had been an attempt to cheer yourself up, but it hadn't done much to keep your mind off him.

Each flash of silver in the sun had turned your head as you walked through, heart surging at the thought of running into Din, but every time you'd been disappointed.

It wasn't him and you missed him more than you thought possible.

You missed hearing his heavy sigh, seeing the tilt of his head as he watched you with a customer, and feeling the warmth of his gaze that made your cheeks heat.

You missed hearing his laugh at your jokes, seeing him cradling a sleeping Grogu in his arms, and smiling at the awkward hesitation Din had whenever you did something for him that he wasn’t expecting. Like when you rubbed a smudge of icing off his breastplate because Grogu had touched it with sticky hands, or when you'd made Din sit still while you patched a hole in his cowl with the emergency sewing kit you always had with you while he stammered that you didn't have to do that.

Those moments made you imagine that Din was blushing beneath his Beskar and smiling at you the way you smiled at him. You understood that the grumpy and somewhat stoic Mandalorian you'd come to know was not someone who blushed easily, but it gave you an unfathomable amount of joy to be the only person that could do that to Din.

Or at least… think that you were the one who made him blush.

“Hey baby.” You hear someone hiss, but you ignore it, expecting it to be directed at another customer and you continue looking at a collection of vegetables on the table, that are star shaped and bright red.

I wonder if they'd bring a little spice to a good hearty stew. Does Din like spicy food?

You made a mental note to ask him when you saw him.

“You here all alone?” The voice says again and you feel someone’s hand on the small of your back, pressing through the crimson dress you were wearing.

You flinch at the intrusion and turn your head to gaze up at a large Transdoshan that stands beside you. His reptilian face is split into a wicked smirk, tongue treading through his black lips, red beady eyes raking across your figure in a more than friendly way.

Nevarro did occasionally get a colorful group of bounty hunters, each month there were less and less with the way Cara and Karga were cleaning up the city, but you'd never seen a Transdoshan here before, especially not one this close.

Most of the bounty hunters kept to themselves, only coming in to your shop with clipped words before you sent them on their way, but there was something lurking behind his beady eyes that made a cold shiver trickle down your spine and your heart beat dangerously fast.

You wondered if he could hear it.

“No.” The lie slips through your lips before you can stop it, and you try to pull away from him to continue shopping, hoping that he'll leave, while the vendor watches the two of you uncomfortably.

“I think you are." The Transdoshan teases with a smiles so wide you can see all of his sharp teeth.  "And someone as pretty as you shouldn’t be out all alone on a beautiful day like this.”

The black stripes that run vertically up and down his face are a stark contrast against the white scales and red eyes. His hand presses harder against the small of your back and you can feel the sharp tips of his claws against your soft flesh through the dress.

You clear your throat, trying to slow the rapid beat of your heart. "Can you please move your hand? I'm trying to shop." You say it as politely as possible, but it does little to keep the tremor from your voice.

His red eyes crinkle around the edges with his smile as he hears the shake on your words. “I think I’ll keep it here. In fact why don’t you and I go somewhere a little more private.” He rasps, tongue flicking out through his fangs, as his other hand travels down to grip your wrist dragging your body back into his. His skin is cold, scaly, hard, and unyielding where it rests against your flesh.

His breath is warm and smells like something coppery and metallic, while his tongue tickles your cheek.

Another shudder travels down your spine when you think about going anywhere with him, especially alone.

Your eyes flick to the other people in the marketplace hoping to catch a glimpse of Cara Dune for help, but you don't see her.

You wish that Din hadn't gone away, wish that he was here with you, because you knew that if he was someone like this Trashdoshan would never come within ten feet of you.

“I’m okay thanks.”  You try to pull away cringing back from him, but he only tightens the grip he has on you, pulling your back harder against his chest.

“Come on sweet thing, don't be like that-“ the Transdoshan leans down, his dark tongue flicking between his sharp teeth, but as he does someone grabs him by the back of his jacket and rips him away from you, so hard and fast that the he stumbles away and lands in the dirt.

Even wearing full armor, Din looks furious as he puts himself between you and the Transdoshan laying on the ground a few feet away. Anger wafts off of him in waves through the silver Beskar into the blaring sunlight, and his shadow falls long over the warm ground beneath your feet.

Din pushes you behind him, wrapping his arm around your waist to keep your body pressed against his back as he looms over the Transdoshan. Your hand automatically comes up to his shoulder, allowing it to ground you to where you are, while Din’s hand is placed firmly on the back of your waist.

The Transdoshan rises to his feet with an angry snarl, lips curled back over pointed teeth that are about half the length of your pinky. It makes another shudder travel down your spine and you gasp softly against Din.

You feel Din's body tense at the sound of your gasp and feeling of your shudder, and the hand on the back of your hip tightens as Din pushes you further behind him into his back. You lean into his protective embrace.

“Don't you ever touch her again.” Din’s voice, although monotone, is laced with venom.

The Transdoshan's eyes flick to where you stand behind Din, his lips curling into a wicked smirk before he says something in his native tongue and then vanishes into the crowds of people enjoying the sunny day who have watched the drama unfold with wide eyes.

You relax as he vanishes and take a breath for the first time in a minute. “Thank you Din.” You say, but Din doesn't answer, in fact his arm tightens around you where it's wrapped around your waist. 

“Din?” You say his name softly to get his attention, but he doesn't turn. His gaze is focused in the direction that the Transdoshan disappeared.

“Wait here.” He says his voice still a growl through his helmet before he hands you the kid and vanishes in the same direction as the Transdoshan.

You try not to be disappointed when his arm is removed from around your body. You had felt so safe pressed against him, like no one could touch you.

You take in a shaky breath to calm your heart, that still seems to be going a mile a minute. Grogu reaches up and touches your chin with one of his little hands, drawing your eyes to the child in your arms.

“Hey Grogu,” You smile as the child coos and puts his fingers through your hair, tugging lightly at the strands that have pulled free from your floral scarf.

He coos something and nuzzles his head into your chest. You might be imagining this, but there's a part of you that thinks Grogu is trying to make you feel better.

It works.

You smile at the little creature, holding him closer to you as he reaches up again to squeeze your chin. "I'm okay."

Grogu blinks his dark eyes, but he mirrors your smile.

 “Are you having fun at the market?” You ask him, gently rubbing his ears, but notice that he has a brown sticky substance smeared on the bottom half of his mouth. “You’re a mess.” You laugh and take out a cloth from your bag, wet it with your tongue, and begin to gently drag it over his face.

Grogu wriggles defiantly under your ministrations, but you hold him fast and continue, allowing the rhythmic movement of the cloth against his face calm you and also distract you.

You had no idea where Din had gone, only that you were now more worried about him than you had been for yourself.

The Transdoshan was bigger than Din, what if he hurts him?

Din reappears next to you, the shine of his metal in the sunlight almost blinding, but you feel a wave of relief at his reappearance. There's a purplish-black substance flecked just under the right intention of his helmet that wasn’t there when he left.

“Are you alright Cyare?” Din asks, his voice a low rumble through the helmet, and then Din does something he’s never done, Din touches your cheek with his gloved hand, his helmet tilted down towards you.

Your eyes widen in surprise, gasping softly with his touch. It was the first time that Din had ever done anything remarkably like this, especially in front of the entire town that was still watching the two of you.

They always were, but by now you didn't care. You were used to the whispers, used to seeing women in the streets stare at you and then turn to one another as if they knew something you didn't.

"Yes." You breathe, looking up into the helmet with a soft smile. "Thank you Din."

"You do not have to thank me." Din replies, the roughness of his glove resting against your cheek is surprisingly comfortable.

"But-"

"Not for something like this. He won't bother you again." He says firmly, voice hardening.

For a brief moment you can feel his gaze locked on yours through the visor, and it brings a wave of comfort through your body, being here with him. A feeling of safety comes with it and you lean further into his touch with a sigh.

Din keeps his hand on your cheek for another few seconds before he drops it. You watch his head tilt in the direction of Grogu, who is still trying to squirm away from the wipe in your hand.

“I guess he’s saving whatever that was for later.” You say with a smile, changing the subject.

“We stopped at the shop, but you weren’t there.” Din explains. You can't help but think that he sounds a little disappointed.

“Oh so this is Uj cake.” You laugh as you finish cleaning. “I left Jax in charge. She’s pretty good at cashiering, not so much baking, but I thought that I made enough sweets for the morning rush at least."

The people pass by the two of you glancing nervously at the Mandalorian standing next to you, but you pay them no mind, gently rocking the child in your arms.

“How are you?” You ask Din.

"Good."

“I-um- wasn’t sure when you’d be back.” You drop your eyes to Grogu in your arms shyly. It was difficult not to show Din how much you missed him, and at the same time there was a part of you that wanted Din to know.

“It wasn’t supposed to take that long, but-“ Din stops mid-sentence, measuring his next words.

“But?” You look up at him raising an eyebrow in confusion.

You noticed that he did that a lot, that Din tried to censor what he said to you as if he were afraid to tell you the whole truth.

Sometimes you wondered if Din was waiting for you to run away screaming, for you to turn your back on him the way everyone else in town had, and it broke your heart. You wanted him to open up about his job with you, to tell you what he did, to tell you about the sprawling worlds that lay beyond this one.

You’d only been to a handful of other planets in your lifetime and you were sure that Din had some incredible stories about other worlds all over the galaxy.

Din waits another beat finding his words. “He kept evading me. I’m sorry I was gone so long.” Din remarks slowly.

“You don’t have to apologize.”

“I did-“ He clears his throat. “Bring you something.” Din's fingers fidget slightly where his hands hang at his sides.

“Oh really?" You blink in surprise. "You didn’t have to.”

Din reaches into his bag and pulls out an old book. It’s covered in a dark blue tattered binding with faded silver script on the spine and cover, and yellowed pages. He takes Grogu from you before holding out the book to you.

You take it gently from his hand and open the first page to read the table of contents, and realize that it's a cookbook. The listed dishes of sweet and savory items are things you’d never heard of, but you feel yourself begin to buzz with excitement at the thought of trying out new recipes.

He was thinking about me.

The thought makes you smile to yourself and blush, that Din thought about you as much as you were thinking about him.

“I saw you sitting at the fountain a few days before I left, reading, and I thought you’d want another one.” His voice is huskier than usual and you wonder if it’s because he’s nervous.

“That was very sweet Din. Thank you.” You brush your fingers over the page before looking up at him with a bright smile. “I can’t wait to try these out."

He nods once.

“Why didn’t you come say hi when you saw me?”

“I didn’t want to disturb you.”

“I would have welcomed the disruption. Especially if I knew if you were going, I missed seeing you around." Your cheeks warm as you admit that to him, but you wondered if he felt that way about you, especially now that you had the cookbook clasped in your hand.

Din's muscles tense beneath his Beskar. "I-" He begins to say, but just as he does the Greef Karga walks by.

"Mando! You're back." Karga smiles wide at the sight of the Mandalorian. "Just who I wanted to see."

Din sighs. "What is it?"

"I need your help with something- only take a minute." Karga's gaze flicks to you. "Well isn't it Nevarro's favorite baker. Are you enjoying this fine day?"

The memory of the Transdoshan flickers across your mind, bringing the sharp feeling of his claws prickling against your back, and the warmth of his breath against your face. You shudder slightly, hoping that Karga misses it.

Din doesn't.

"Yes." Your smile feels a little bit forced. "I am."

"Good!" Karga booms. "Now Mando please, don’t make me ask again. I need you, old friend.”

Din's helmet hasn't turned away from where you stand, his concerned gaze focused on you for a moment too long. "Fine."

"Thank you!" Karga turns to go, expecting Din to follow, but Din steps closer to you.

"Are you alright cyar'ika?" Din asks it quietly under his breath and you watch his right hand twitch as if he was going to reach for your face again.

You didn’t know what the word meant, but you’d noticed that each time you were with Din, he'd use more and more words in Mando'a that you couldn't place. By now you were used to it, figuring that Din was getting more comfortable talking casually with you and it caused certain words in Mando'a to slip in to his vocabulary when he spoke.

"Yes, Din I'm fine. I promise." Your smile is genuine this time as you look up into the helm, and you reach out to touch his arm to reassure him.

Din waits a moment, his eyes tracing over you face beneath the helmet, before he sighs. "Can you watch the kid for me?"

"Of course. I'll go back to the shop. I'm sure that I can find something he wants to snack on." You place your new book in your bag before taking Grogu from Din, who gurgles happily and nuzzles into your neck.

Din sighs again and you imagine the Mandalorian rolling his eyes. "You shouldn't spoil him."

"He deserves it. And I like spoiling people." You didn't say that you wished Din would let you spoil him, because the big scary Mandalorian you'd heard rumors about was nothing like the man who showed up in your bakery for treats. There was a voice inside of you that wondered if he was as lonely as you were. "Thank you for the book, I'll see you in a little bit."

You walk away whispering to the child while he gurgles and squeaks grabbing on to the strands of your hair, not noticing how Din's eyes follow you through the market making sure that you're safe.

By closing time, Din still hasn't come to pick up Grogu, but you don’t mind. You liked spending time with him as much as you liked spending time with his father. You'd sent Jax home early, wanted to let her enjoy the rest of her day, and by now the twin moons had already risen from the horizon to bathe the city in a silver glow. The florescent signs that lined the streets flickered in multicolored splendor outside and strands of lights that lined the streets twinkled outside the shop.

Grogu was happily sitting on your counter with a bowl of stew clutched between his small hands, listening to you read aloud from the book of recipes that Din had brought you. There were so many recipes that you'd never heard of before, and by now you had a large list of ingredients written on a piece of paper beside the book you’d made. It meant another trip to the market, and you hoped that Din would go with you now that he was back in town.

"What do you think about stewed Jorgan berries with spiced egg-milk tart?" You muse aloud to Grogu who takes another sip from his bowl as you study the recipe written in neat script, running a fingertip down the list of ingredients. "I think that could be good." You continue, listening Grogu babble his answer. "Do you think Din would like it?"

The door at the front of your store opens, the happy jingle of the bell is familiar and welcome. You expected it to be Din, so you don’t bother looking up from the page. “Wow, Karga kept you a long time. What did he need?” 

But it's not Din that answers.

"Did you miss me sweet thing?" A voice hisses bringing a tremor of fear scuttling down your spine.

You raise your eyes from the book.

The Transdoshan dwarfs the front entrance of your shop, the lights of the street outside dramatizing the broad shoulders and imposing figure. It takes another step forward, mouth curling up in a snarl as it does.

One of it's eyes is completely swollen shut, the once white skin covering it an ugly blotchy purple, and it's lip is split, dripping purplish black blood onto the smooth wooden floors of your shop.

The color is familiar and you remember the flecks of liquid on the indention of Din's helmet from earlier.

Did Din do that?

The memory of how long Din was gone and how quick he was to follow the Transdoshan seemed to prove that.

He approaches the counter limping on his right leg as if putting weight on it is too much to bear.

"We're closed." You keep your voice from shaking. "Plus, I'm sold out."

Grogu coos softly, looking up at the creature that slinks forward, and you pick him up and move him out of harms way. The last thing you wanted was for Grogu to get hurt and if that meant putting yourself in between him and the creature that loomed over your counter so be it.

Why is he here? Why couldn't he have just slinked back to wherever the hell he came from?!

You'd thought that Din had made himself clear when he spoke to him earlier, but apparently this Transdoshan was more hard-headed than your favorite Mandalorian.

"Oh I'm not here for that." The one red eye glints with malice in the light, and before you can back up further, his hand flashes out across the counter and grabs your wrist, yanking you forward. "I'm here for something much sweeter."

You bite back a whimper.

Where is Din?

"You see, your Mandalorian disrespected me." The creature pulls you halfway across the counter, so close to him that you can feel his rancid breath against your face, the wood ledge presses painfully into your hip. "He wears all that fancy armor and I wasn't able to leave a mark on him. But you-" He raises his cold scaly hand to your cheek, dragging a claw down the arch of your cheekbone. "You were made for that." The claw bites into your skin following the subtle curve of your cheek.

The door behind him whips open so fast you imagine that it's been pulled off it's hinges. You can't see who it is, but all you know is that the creature is ripped away from you so suddenly that it almost pulls your arm off in the process.

You scramble backwards off the counter, holding your wrist to your chest, watching the scene unfold in front of you.

"Do you remember what I said I'd do to you if you ever touched her again?" Din's voice is a growl through the helmet, so different than the deep rumble you loved so much.

He has the Transdoshan pinned to the wall of the bakery, a silver knife pressed so hard against it's throat that blood blooms against the blade and drips down below the creature's collar.

“I don’t see your name written on her Mandalorian.” It spits back. “Perhaps she wants something more free range not someone locked up in a metal cage.”

Din's body tenses with the words and he growls out your name without looking away from the creature. "Take the kid into the kitchen. I don't want you to see this."

You do as he says without question, vanishing behind the curtain that separates the back and the front of the shop with Grogu clutched tightly against your chest.

He said you. He didn't say the kid.

The thought makes you remember how Din tried to distance you from when he spoke about his job, when you knew he was holding back details because he was afraid you wouldn't be his friend.

There's a sickening squelching sound, a muffled scream, and the sound of something heavy hitting the floor, but you don't leave the kitchen. You hold Grogu tighter to your chest and squeeze your eyes shut as your stomach knots at the unpleasant noises coming from the front of your bakery.

Din walks through the curtain, the dark blood of the Transdoshan splashed over the front of his Beskar, his chest rising and falling with the exertion. His helmet tilts in your direction and you watch him hesitate to come towards you, as if he's afraid that you would run from him.

How can I when I know he did that to protect me?

Before Din can decide to come closer, you run to him, throwing your arms around his chest with the kid pressed between the two of you, and burying your face against the hard metal of his breastplate. Sobs shake your body as tears burn and slip from your eyes, rolling down your cheeks.

You were trying not to focus on what had almost happened to you, but all you could think about is what would have happened if Din didn't show up when he did. Outside at the market had been a public place, but here, alone in your bakery there would have been no one to hear you scream.

You shudder at the thought.

It was enough to shock Din out of his stupor. He hadn't moved since you'd collapsed against him, momentarily surprised, but now his muscular arms come up around you to hold you against him. The breastplate was cutting into your cheek, but you didn't care, not when Din was actually hugging you back. 

"Shh cyar'ika, it's alright." Din murmurs, his voice softer than it was moments ago as he moves his hand up and down your back while you cry harder and tighten your arms around him. "He's not going to hurt you again I swear it."

The three of you stand there for another few moments, with Din rubbing his hand up and down your back while you cry softly into his armor and Grogu coos softly and nuzzles his head into you as if trying to bring you comfort the way his father is.

Din pulls back from you. "You're bleeding." His voice deepens a little bit and you can feel the invisible trace of his eyes over your face.

“Huh?” You sniffle, rubbing your eyes with the back of your hand.

“Come on.” He leads you back to sit down on the ottoman of the plush armchair in the corner, tilting your face upwards and brushing back the strands of your hair that have fallen into your eyes.

You could see your reflection in the shine of his helmet, eyes swollen and rimmed with fresh tears, and an ugly long scratch that ran the length of your cheekbone.

“Does it look bad?” You whisper.  You couldn’t feel any pain, you were still in shock, anxiety thrumming through your body, with the possibility of what almost happened.

“No.” Din almost growls it, his gloved hand tightening on your chin as he continues to examine your face.

Finally he sighs, releases your chin, and tries to take Grogu from you, but Grogu wriggles defiantly and cuddles further into you.

"Please don't take him." You whisper in a voice you don't recognize. It sounds more hollow and still holds a little shake as you sniffle again.

Din does as you ask and kneels down at your feet, sitting back on his heels as he begins to strip off his gloves.

You blink in surprise, holding back the urge to reach eagerly for his hands, wanting to see just a peek of the skin, wanting to reach out and touch the forbidden flesh that he hid beneath his armor.

He doesn't notice your interest, instead Din stays focused on the task at hand.

Din reaches into the bag slung around his shoulders to pull out a small medical kit, methodically taking out the gauze and sterile spray.

 His fingertips reach to brush against your jawline and you gasp softly, not because he is touching the scratch that the Transdoshan left behind, but because Din's skin is touching yours. The exact thing that you'd wanted for so long.

"Are you alright? Does it hurt?" He rumbles, mistaking your gasp for pain. You can hear the worry in his voice. It stirs something in your chest, knowing how much he cared about you.

"No, it doesn't, not really." You smile faintly despite the situation.

"I'm sorry." He sighs shaking his head. "I should have come sooner. I shouldn't have assumed he would leave you alone."

"This isn't your fault." You whisper. "I'm okay."

"You're not."

"Din, I'm right here in front of you-"

Din's hand touches your cheek again. "But you're hurt. You wouldn't have been if I had been here with you. I was stupid to think-"

You raise your hand to touch the metal of his helmet, directly over where you imagined his cheek would be if he wasn't wearing it, tilting his helmet so you're sure he's looking at you through the visor. Din freezes in surprise. "This is not your fault Din. Please don't blame yourself for this. How were you supposed to know? Karga needed you for-"

"I do not care what happens to Karga. You needed me more and I wasn't here-"

"You were here when it mattered." You whisper back with a soft smile. "And you're here now."

He shouldn't beat himself up for this, not when it's not his fault.

"But-"

"No." You breathe wishing that you could see his face, touch his cheek the way he was touching yours, not just the feeling of the cold metal of his helmet against your hand, but the warmth of his skin. You knew that it could bring more comfort to him than this. "We're not going to go there. We're not going to think about 'what if' because if we do that we'll be here all night."

He sighs again.

Your thumb gently rubs over the indention of his helmet wishing again that it was his cheekbone. "I worry about you too."

"You worry about me?" Din chuckles, but there's a trace of surprise in his voice. "Why?"

"I mean you-" You press your lips together in a tight line before you drop your eyes from his helmet, the heat of his gaze through the helm too much.  It didn't matter that you couldn't see Din's face, you knew he was looking at you, and although you welcomed it, sometimes it was too much, especially now when you were admitting something like this. "I know what you do Din." You say it slowly, noticing how he stiffens, but you continue. "And you were gone for so long that I was afraid you were hurt or worse."

The thought that Din would never come back, that you'd never see him come into your shop with Grogu ever again haunted you.

Din's hand slips down to your chin, tilting up your face to look at him again. "Please do not worry about me cyar'ika. I swear to you that no matter what happens, I will always come back to you."

You didn't need to see Din's face to imagine the determination in his eyes when he says it, you could hear it in his voice, stirring something in the pit of your stomach that sends your heart surging up in your chest. It was so brutally honest, his voice holding more emotion than you'd ever heard before.

He said "to you."

The thought makes a shy blush creep into your cheeks.

Din keeps his hand on your chin for another few seconds, his gaze locked on yours through the helmet studying you. He was waiting for you to look away, waiting for some hesitation in your eyes. Din was a master of reading people, it was a part of his job understanding what a simple twitch on the end of someone's lips or of the flicker of someone's eyes meant. Din was waiting to see fear flash in your eyes, but there's nothing. There's only you.

It was why Din had told you to go into the kitchen, he hadn't wanted you to see what he was going to do to the creature who dared touch you. And after he'd expected you to tell him to leave, that you didn't wish for him to be around you anymore, that he was a murderer and scared you. It was the reason why Din didn't want his life as a bounty hunter to tangle with yours, because he feared the moment you found out the kind of person he was, found out what he'd done, understood how many times his hands ran red with blood, you would run from him. But you hadn't,  you had run to him, hugged him, collapsed into his chest and fit there like you belonged while asking him to comfort you.

The sharp tang of the Transdoshan's blood fills your nose and you can see the purple stain against the breastplate of Din's armor like a shadow, a reminder of what he did.

And maybe another person would be frightened, but you can't be, not when you knew that Din did those things to keep you safe. He was your friend and there was no part of you that believed Din would ever hurt you.

"I'm going to hold you to that." You smile into the visor, still only seeing yourself, but for some reason you can tell that Din is smiling back. Call it some inkling in the back of your mind, or some kind of psychic connection, but you can feel his smile.

"I don't break my promises cyare." He says firmly, but he leans into your hand where it still clutches the left indention on his helm.

Din had called you that several times since that walk home from the Parent's Night, and each time you were just a little disappointed. You hoped that Din saw you as more than a friend, especially after he'd promised that he'd "always come back to you," but you supposed not.

"I believe you."

"Good."

Din pulls back from you slowly to begin cleaning your wound again.

"Din?"

"Yes?"

"Are you okay?" You ask tentatively.

Din's rough fingertips work with a practiced methodical precision and deftness that you didn’t think he'd possess, gently cleaning your cheek. "Yes. Why do you ask?"

"I wasn't sure if you were hurt too."

Din chuckles as he applies a bandage to your face. "What did I say about you worrying about me?"

"I didn’t promise I wouldn't worry." You laugh. "I just wanted to ask because you were fighting him."

"I am fine. My armor was sufficient to block his attacks." He reassures you before lifting up your left wrist to examine the bruising handprint the Transdoshan left behind. Din lets out a sigh that sounds close to a growl. "He should not have been able to do this to you."

"Is it broken?"

It didn't feel broken to you, it just hurt a lot more than the scratch on your face.

I hope people don’t think Din did this to me.

The thought of Ms. Cross and the other parents at the school gossiping about the new bandage on your face and what people had seen today in the market made your blood boil. You didn't want to hear a rumor about how Din invited another bounty hunter to Nevarro and it was Din's fault you got hurt.

"No, but I wouldn't knead any bread for a few days."

"Does that mean I get to hire you as an extra set of hands in the kitchen?" You joke. "Because I can always make you that pink apron. And yours certainly seem big enough to handle some dough."

Din only shakes his head, but before you can stop yourself, you reach out to take his hands in yours.

He stiffens.

It feels forbidden, like something you shouldn’t be able to do and yet you can't stop. You gently trace your fingers over the rough callouses on his palms worn from hard work and notice small scars that interlace and curve over the back of his hands over the burnished bronze of his skin. You wanted to memorize each one, to listen to the warm rumble of Din’s voice and  know the story of how they came to be.

Din sighs.

It's not the heavy sigh of annoyance he has when Grogu does something wrong, or the growl of a sigh he just had when he dwelt on what the Transdoshan did to you, this is different. It's soft through the modulator of the helmet, it wisps through the air and straight into your heart.

Oh no maybe I did something wrong.

"I'm sorry I should have asked-" You try to pull back, afraid that you've offended him, but Din takes your hands in his. They're much larger, warm and solid, but he holds yours with a gentleness that would have surprised you if you hadn't seen the way he was with Grogu.

"It's alright." He says softly.

"It feels wrong."

"What?" Din asks, voice laced with humor.

"I never see any of your skin." You were sure that by now your cheeks must be almost blinding under thermal vision. It felt like all the blood in your entire body had rushed to them and made them shine like a beacon in the night. "You don't take the helmet off to say hello and you certainly don't take off your gloves."

Din says your name softly. "It’s okay for you to see my hands."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes." He laughs. "It's my face that you cannot see."

You chew the inside of your cheeks measuring your next question. It was the one question you’d had since you met Din, why he kept his helmet on when you knew other Mandalorians that did not. "Why?"

"This is the way." Din replies in a monotone as if reciting the phrase from memory.

That tells me absolutely nothing.

“You really wear it all the time?”

“Yes.”

“Even when you sleep?”

"Sometimes."

“It must be uncomfortable."

You couldn’t imagine waking up with your head in a helmet, you'd probably think you were suffocating. That or you’d think you went blind.

"I'm used to it." Din shrugs. "I've been wearing this since I was a boy."

“So since last week?” You say with a laugh squeezing his hands. You were trying to make light of the situation, given that you didn’t understand why Din wore his helmet and your brother did not.

Din chuckles, the warmth of his laugh making you feel like you’d sunk into a hot bath. His helmet is tilted down where you’re holding his hands in your own watching your fingertips trace over the scars that weave over his sun-kissed skin.

“But what if you-“ You stop the question before it comes out of your mouth.

Din’s head tilts up to look at your face. “What if I what?”

“Nothing, it’s too personal.”  You shake your head in embarrassment.

You didn't know what had made you almost blurt out the question 'what if you wanted to kiss someone?'

Well, you did know, because you wanted to kiss him, but you didn't know if Din saw you that way. Given the way he kept calling you "friend" in Mando'a you were sure of it.

“Please ask me Cyare.” Din gives your right hand an encouraging squeeze.

“I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

“You cannot.” He says gently.

You swallow. “What if you wanted to kiss someone? You wouldn’t take off your helmet? And if you got married Din, you’d just never-“ You trail off, cringing at your questions. You weren’t about to open the can of worms that was asking Din about his sex life.

I should just shrivel up and die.

Din’s thumb deftly traces your bruised wrist in a soothing motion, taking his time before he answers. “There are other ways to kiss someone.”

“Oh.” You had no idea what that meant but you were still trying to not be so damn awkward because now you were imagining what it would be like to kiss Din. Not to mention the feeling of him holding your hands skin against skin felt so good it was making you transcend to another plane of existence. "Like what?"

His thumb stills.

"Please forget I asked that. You don't have to explain if you don't want to." You squeeze your eyes shut in embarrassment. You really really didn't want to make Din nervous, not when it felt like he was actually opening up to you. It was what you had wanted since the moment you met.

Din raises his hand to your cheek, his gaze locked on yours through the opaque visor. He clears his throat. "May I show you?"

For a moment you forget how to breathe.

"Yes." You squeak.

Oh holy glazed honey buns he's going to kiss me.

Din waits a moment, before he very gently pulls your head down to his and rests his forehead against yours. You gasp softly, feeling the cool metal of his helmet against the heated blush of your face, fogging around where it rests against your skin.

And before Din can pull away, you raise your hand to the left indenture of his helmet once more, mirroring his own hand on your cheek, tilting you head to look into the dark visor with a soft smile.

Din sighs.

It’s not the tired sigh he has whenever Grogu does something or whenever you give Grogu a treat, it's softer, the same sigh he had when you first touched his hands. You're under the impression that he didn't mean to do that, but you see the tension dissipate from his shoulders as he leans further into you waiting another few precious seconds before he pulls away and your hand falls from his cheek.

Din doesn't say anything for a moment and truthfully you couldn't think of anything either. There was a strange energy in the room between the two of you, a tension that wound tight around where Din was kneeling in front of you and you were sitting. You knew he was only demonstrating, but there was something about it that felt like more.

His head tilts down to look at your wrist again. "We should ice that." He says, voice huskier through the voice modulator than it was a few moments ago.

"Oh, I can-"

Grogu reaches out with his hand and touches the delicate skin of your left wrist, laying gently against the bruised flesh. Warmth blooms where his three fingers grasp your arm, wrapping and curling around the bones and muscle, weaving them back together. And you watch as the flesh takes on it's normal color before your very eyes.

Grogu sighs heavily and falls back into your lap in a daze.

"How did he do that?" You raise your wrist to your face to examine it closer, slowly rotating your hand and flexing your fingers in surprise.

You hadn’t been looking forward to using only one hand in the bakery, but you were willing to make do with what you had.

Din gently take Grogu from your lap to into his bag, who has begun to snore quietly.  "He's always been able to do that."

"Heal people?"

Din nods once, but doesn't embellish.

Worry begins to trickle in at the way Grogu seemed to crumple as if it took too much out of him to do that. "Is he going to be okay?"

"Yes. He just needs to sleep.

You look down at the creature resting in the pouch, his small head cuddling into the worn leather side of the bag.

Curious.

"Thank you Grogu." You whisper, gently stroking his ears while he slumbers. He stirs for a moment to babble something under his breath in his sleep, but quickly drifts off once more.

“He didn’t want to see you in pain.” Din says quietly. “I understand how he feels.”

Your heart thuds an extra beat when Din says that and it again reminds you of what Din had done for you today, how he'd protected you and put himself in harm's way to keep you safe.

Din stands from his position on the ground and holds out a hand to you. "I would like to walk you home, if that's not too much to ask."

"I'd like that Din, but I still have to clean up-" You wave a hand at the kitchen that still has dirty bowls and pans stacked in the sink. “I can’t leave the kitchen like this.”

"Let me." His helmet turns in the direction of the front of your shop to look over his shoulder. "There are some things in here that I need to take care of. And I'd like to make sure you get home safe."

The memory of the sounds you heard coming from the front when Din was dealing with the Transdoshan make you cringe in disgust. The thought of cleaning up what was left of him made your stomach tie itself in knots and the sour taste of bile rise in the back of your throat.

But you didn’t want to leave Din with all this mess.

“Are you sure?"

"Yes. I want you to get some rest."

Din gently leads you by the hand to the curtain partition that divides your kitchen from the front of the shop, but stops so suddenly you walk into his back.

He turns to look at you over his shoulder. "Close your eyes."

You do what he asks without hesitation and Din leads you through the shop and out the front door into the moonlit streets beyond.

The walk home is silent, but odder still is that Din has not released your hand since he led you through the tables and chairs at the front of your shop. He holds it gently, as if it's a beating heart.

But you weren't going to complain. The feeling of Din's bare skin against yours was giving you a pleasant buzz. The warm roughness of his palm surprisingly soothing. You didn't know how you were going to go back to feeling the leather of his gloves when all you wanted was this.

Not to mention that the streets were blessedly empty and there wasn't anyone watching Din and you together.

When you arrive at your door, Din says your name to catch your attention.

"Yes?" You ask.

He looks down at where his hand is still in yours as if he can't believe it. His thumb begins to trail over the back of your hand. "I didn't answer your question."

"My question?"

What question did I ask him?

Din hesitates again, unsure. "I can reveal my face to people in my clan. And if-" Din clears his throat. "If I were married, my wife would see me without my helmet."

"Oh, oh." You said eyes widening in surprise.

Frankly, you were shocked that Din was bringing this up again, but you weren't going to stop him. Not when Din was opening up to you again.

"We would be one. The other half of me." Din says this slowly. "My riduur."

“Riduur.” You murmur the word feeling the syllables roll off your tongue.

"Yes." He nods at your pronunciation of the word.

Your eyes trace the familiar lines of Din's helmet, again thinking what he would look like. It was something that you always did in the past, but now the idea that you wouldn't get to see him, stung just a little bit. It was difficult for you to imagine Din with someone else, to know that someone else got to see the soft side of Din that he only showed when you were with him, but you also knew that you would try your hardest to be happy for him if he ever took a wife. He was after all, your only friend on Nevarro and really your only friend beside your brother.

"She would be very lucky to be with you." You say looking up into the helm, a soft smile pulling on the end of your mouth as you give Din's hand an encouraging squeeze. "Just as I am lucky to have you as a friend."

Din's body goes stiff in surprise. It was the last thing that he was expecting you to say to him. In fact Din was afraid that he had said too much to you. Especially given that he was about to start courting you. The book he'd given you today would be the first in a series of gifts that he would bring back to prove his commitment and ability to provide, as had Din's statement that he would always come back to you and his remodeling of his home to make a bigger kitchen and more room for you if you were to accept him. Of course there was a part of Din that wasn't sure that you would accept him.

That was why Din hadn't told you what "cyare" really meant or tell you why he brought you the book. He thought that maybe easing you into it would be better.

Before Din can respond, you pull him into a hug, wrapping your arms around him as tight as you can. "I know you keep saying that I don’t have to thank you, I do. You saved my life Din. Thank you."

Din's body curves up around yours holding you tightly against the hard cool metal of his armor. "You're welcome cyare."

Guide:

Cyar'ika: Sweetheart

Cyare: Beloved

Thank you so much for reading! Likes, Reblogs, and Comments are not required, but are always appreciated! If you'd liked to be added to my taglist for fics in this universe please let me know!

Taglist:

@jollyhunter @scoliobean @pressedwater @littlebear423 @bookloverkat

@scorpio-echo @windsweptarmadillo @foxin5billion @silas-aeiou

[lamentationsofalonelypotato]

Promise Not To Fall In Love With Me. BEN LIKES HER!!!!! I'm full on Miss Congeniality-ing it here. He thinks she's gooooooorgeous, he wants to daaaaaaate her, he wants to kiiiiiiissss her, he wants to be her booooooyfriend, because he loooooooves her🎶

Sorry Butcher. Even if this does make him act or realize something, it's too little too late. Even if she doesn't see it yet, heck even if Ben doesn't see it yet, there's no competion when it takes someone else noticing you to make the person you (thought you) liked notice you.

Oh my word YES!! Taunt that man! If Ben were within earshot he'd smack us both silly for mocking him LOL 🤣🤣

Butcher was the furthest thing from her mind as soon as she goes into Ben's room, guaranteed. Poor Butcher isn't gonna know what hit him. I really love this series because it's got rom-com vibes and I'm catching up on some of my favorites to get me in the right mood to write it 🥰 And like always I'm hitting myself over the head with a wooden spatula with working on another slow burn, because it will kill me one of these days. Death by angst 😭 But thank you so much for taking the time to tell me what you thought! I'm so happy you liked this chapter!

[lamentationsofalonelypotato]

@jollyhunter

Oh my word not the Arnold gif 🤣 But it do be like going to war sometimes when you're reading angst lol

Your intros always take me off guard in the most hilarious way 🤣 Just like this;

Aww thank you 🥰 For me trying to find the way to start a fic is one of my favorite things!

I mean. I can almost understand how that one can be annoying. But I don't want to agree with the Warden and therefore I'll let it slip 😂

Oh my word, annoying yes, but I don't want to agree with him either. Especially when he's a total bully and also when he's probably exaggerating just to be an even bigger jerk 🤣

LOL I love this reader so much. She's got that Golden Retriever / Sunshine personality but in her head she's just as naughty as all of us 🤭 ... Good thing the Warden can't read minds. The things he'd see there 😂

YAY! I'm glad you like her! She's been interesting to write for, because I'm still not used to writing for a softer reader, but I feel like I might be entering a new era or something. Which is terrifying and also exciting in a cliff diving kind of way 😬

BUT YES! That girl doing the hanky panky in her head with Walker, while the warden chews her out. The things that he'd see in her head would for sure end her hard time in prison in solitary confinement- HA

Bahaha - definitely the latter. My old highschool teacher was the same. Absolute ass. The day his wife dropped by, we all knew why 🤣 (didn't justify it though and neither did we feel sorry for him lol)

Oh my word nooooo! What a JERK, but so funny that y'all all were like *clocks wife* and then collectively went "oh that makes sense." HILARIOUS- I will say that one of the most satisfying things in life is when that happens. When you realize why someone is that way 🤣

LMAO - not me instantly imagining her mother and the Warden meeting up every Wednesday for a cuppa afternoon tea to gossip about her daughter

Reader goes home for thanksgiving and her mom is dating the Warden without anyone else's knowledge and the whole time they've just been bitching about her 😱

What an accurate way to describe a pose we all immediately recognize 😂 (and has us recoil and clench our jaws). You always manage to describe things in such unique ways which are either beautiful or have me crack up LOL!

Bro, I am telling you... we've all been there and it's *shudder* the worst 😭. Even worse I guess is how many people have gone through that and seeing that some men really are disappointing in every reality 😒 But THANK YOU JOLLY 💗🥹

This reader is growing on me. She's got her priorities set right 😂 and her heart is in the right place 💗 She really is the perfect opposites-attract puzzle piece to Mark isn't she?

I'd kill for some chocolate right now LOL😆 But she really is the opposite of Mark and I really wanted to see him with a soft reader. I really am a sucker for a big strong man who completely crumbles for his girl 😭

Okay I just wanted to throttle the Warden at this point. The fact that he says these things even though he knows that Walker's not a real criminal, just makes this ten times more disgusting. I hope he gets kicked in the family jewels in a riot or somebody knocks him over with his car!

I'M DYING WITH THAT GIF OF THE CAR 🤣🤣🤣 That man deserves every single tire track on his body though.AND I KNOW! The warden knows that Mark isn't a real criminal and he's still telling her to stay away from him for NO good reason!

HERE COMES THE MISUNDERSTANDIG - OH NO. Also, very clever how you played with the canon scene here! I love how we all try to integrate those and give them a different twist or perspective 😄 (I've got something planned with that one as well 🤭) Like when you switched to Mark's perspective and played the entire scene once more. Genius move!! And so effective!!

I put the misunderstanding in there just for you 😘 LOL jkjk. But yeah... the misunderstanding in this one really does kinda hit you straight on in the chest.

Honestly, this little "fight" scene happens a few months before the canon scene we see in the show 😅 But, I can't wait to see what you do with it in Gunpowder Tea!

EXACTLY. And that's why she fits you so well, Mark! You're like a pair of mismatched socks! (I LOVE his internal monologues so much, overall his entire perspective was so intriguing and well done - I don't know about you but I felt like you nailed his character!!)

Oh my word they are like a pair of mismatched socks!! And OH my word, Jolly thank you so much! I was so scared to write from his perspective and honestly, even him breaking character to demolish that guy I was so worried about it initially, but I think it worked out well 😊

NO - MARK STAHP IT. His final thoughts on this and with the misunderstanding on top?? Oh man, the next chapter is going to hit hard, I can already smell the angst. Why are you doing this to us! 😭 (jk, you know I love it)

I knowww 😭 I hurt myself with this one too! (The gif had me in stitches LOL)

Sorry but this had me snort, poor Mark! 🤣

He really out there letting himself get hurt just so he can see her, only to get saddled with the other dude 🤣 Mark's gotta figure out her work schedule- haha.

What an awesome second chapter to this storyline, Lee! 🥰 It started out comedic and took an angsty turn real fast. I am kinda scared of the next one now lol! But I also want to know what's going to happen next. Will the misunderstanding lead to even more misunderstandings?? Will we get introduced to the duct taped Nikes buffoon? Will she be scared of Mark / Walker now and the Warden's going to be all like "Told you so." ? 😭

AHHHH JOLLY THANK YOU! I am also a little scared of where this one is going to go lol! So many important questions that have me trying to sink back into the bushes like Homer Simpson LOL. But it was so nice to read your wonderful comments today! 💗 And I'm so excited about GUNPOWDER TEA!

I Want To Be The One To Light Up The Dark In You

Pairing: Mark Meachum x f!reader, Reader POV, Mark Meachum POV

Summary: As much as you hate to admit it, the Warden might be right. This is the second fic in my Jailhouse Rock Series!

Tropes: Slow Burn, Forbidden Love, A Smidge Of Touch Her And Die Trope, Mutual Pining.

Word Count: 4.4K

Warnings: Manspreading 😒, Mentions of Sex/ Sexual Innuendo, Mentions of Blood and Prison Fights, Cursing, Angst, Inmate Says A Few *ahem* Unpleasant Things, Warden Also Says A Few Unpleasant Things, Reader trying not to be in love with a hot man in prison? Mark might be a little bit OOC.

Note: This is told from Reader's perspective. Any references to the reader is made using you or your. There is no use of y/n! I tried my best to proofread, but nobody's perfect. If you don’t like, don’t read, but if you do like, you’re my favorite! I'm just starting to write for Mark, so please be gentle.

Internal monologue is in italics and is in first person.

Listen While You Read 🚨: Light Up The Dark By Gabrielle Aplin title of fic is taken from this song!

Jailhouse Rock Playlist 🚨

Main Masterlist

Jailhouse Rock Masterlist

A/N: Oh my goodness, thank you so much everyone for all the reblogs and the wonderful feedback on part one of this fic series! I'm so happy that so many of you have decided to strap in to this angsty ride! 😊

Reader POV

Have you ever noticed that closing your eyes and counting to ten does little when you're talking to the most odious person alive?

That by some miracle, closing your eyes and pretending that they aren't there standing in front of you, breathing the same air, chattering on and on in the most annoying and condescending voice about something that makes your teeth grind down together and your insides suddenly want to be your outsides will help you find some way to maintain your composure?

Right now you wished it did.

Black coffee steamed from the ancient chipped mug sitting on the tanker desk in front of you, curling and twisting in the mid-day sun that floated through the barred windows of the Warden's office.

It did little to obscure the man scowling at you from under his mustache, but you wished that by some miracle the steam would grow into a cloud to hide you from the judgmental gaze of your employer.

What you'd done, you had no idea, but you noticed that the warden was often pulling you into his office to discuss things that seemed trivial in the grand scheme of things.

Things like:

You forgot to clean off your desk before you went home.

You brought a tuna fish sandwich from home and he could somehow smell it two floors down.

Your socks were distracting and therefore counterproductive to the work environment.

Basically, the warden was the mean cheerleader who dated all the jocks and never grew up.

Lovely.

So when he called you into his office you knew you were in for another tongue lashing that would later make you roll your eyes so hard that they'd get stuck in the back of your head.

He sits across from you, hands entwined on the top of his desk, beady eyes skating across you as if he can sense your internal monologue.

"I hear that you had to patch up Walker again yesterday." He says it like an accusation, as if it isn't your job to take care of the inmates, to patch them up when things get a little too fight club for your taste.

No disrespect to Brad Pitt and Ed Norton of course.

"Yes sir."

You'd learned by now to call him anything other than Warden or Sir would earn you a taste of the famous anger (re temper tantrums) the Warden had.

You'd been on the receiving end of them far too many times and despite not caring if he was mad at you or not, you didn't have time to sit here in his office and wait around, not when you were trying to leave early because your sister Margo and you had your weekly book club meeting tonight at your apartment.

The Warden takes a sip of his coffee, mustache rippling over the curve of the chipped cup, not breaking eye contact with you as he does.

There's an odd energy in the room, something oppressive and faintly masculine. It's cloying presence pulls at your limbs, shifts over the dark wood cabinet behind the desk, and drags over the concrete slab floor that ran the length of the prison. It was the same kind of energy that you'd only found in your physics professor's office, the one who told you that you'd never be able to pass his course with your academic record and you then spent the semester proving him wrong.

The walls of his office are painted in the same dreary gray that ghosted along the infirmary. You supposed that it was to make the room look bigger, but it only made it feel small, choking.

Instead of closing your eyes and counting to ten, you busy yourself with reading the titles of the books that line the dark wooden cabinet behind the Warden's head.

Anything is better than looking into those creepy beady eyes.

Especially not when you knew that the Warden was fishing for something to hold over you. Even though the only thing you'd done with Walker was your job. At least on paper, the things you'd done in your head were a little more PG-13 than the Warden needed to know about. Hell, you still were trying your best not to let your mind go to those places.

The Warden's gaze shifts over your body again. It worms beneath your skin, oppressive, squirmy. It was the same look that he gave the rest of the inmates within the walls of the prison to keep them in submission. You briefly wonder if he's always been like this or if he's having marital problems that he projects on everyone else.

"I also hear that you've been-" He clears his throat, beady eyes on you. "a little more friendly with him." His lip curls up in distaste at the word "friendly."

Oh so that's what this is about.

You choose to let your face remain impassive, not giving the man across from you eyeing you like a predatory bird the satisfaction.

"Sir?"

The Warden stands from his desk. "Do you know what the most dangerous thing in our profession is?"

"Shanks?"

The word came out before you could stop it, slipping out with the ghost of a smile on your lips.

His frown deepens. "Now isn't the time for your exhaustive wit."

Looks like somebody has been talking to my mother.

He comes around the desk, every step measured, before finally he's leaning against the front in the ultimate form of man-spreading, the highest level, also known as 'the douchebag professor who thinks that he knows everything, but really just stares down your blouse and likes keeping you quiet and submissive.'

"It's getting comfortable, believing that they can be your friends, not seeing them for what they really are-"

"What they really are?"

"Inconveniences, nuisances, trash, rubbish- the undesirables." The Warden shrugs. "But what they can never be is your friends."

Your jaw tightens.

The truth was, you had heard all of this before from your mother, usually when she was trying to talk you out of keeping your job at the prison.  She'd told you countless times how all of the inmates didn't deserve you as a doctor and therefore you should move on, but you couldn't. You took an oath to help people, to heal, to care, and you felt like you were where you needed to be.

The bigger problem, was hearing this kind of talk from someone who not only was supposed to oversee and run the prison, but also see the worth of his job, of seeing the positives as well as the negatives. He was not supposed to look down on the inmates.

Who does he think he is? The President of the United States?! He has no right to judge these men that way. Not when he's supposed to be the voice of reason, the leader, the one person in this damn prison who actually gives a fuck.

"Sir-" Anger flares in your chest, beating against your ribcage like the wings of a bird.

"Come on." He stands from the desk and walks to his office door behind him.

"What?"

"I want to show you something."

The Warden doesn't wait for you, in fact he continues to walk down the maze of hallways with you running to catch up with him. You had no idea why he couldn't just chew you out in his office for something that you didn't deserve to be chewed out for.

For actually giving a shit about his inmates... well maybe caring a little bit too much.

Your thoughts immediately shift to Walker as they always did whenever all went quiet in your mind and you couldn't think of anyone else.

There was a little part of you that you didn't want to heed, the rational part of your brain that said that Walker was playing you like a fiddle, that he didn't care about you and all he wanted was to charm you so it would be easier for him to use you.

That part usually warred with the other part, the part that kept letting the green-eyed man slip into your thoughts when you felt discouraged and disappointed by the other men in your life that never quite seemed to get you.

The Warden opens a door at the end of the hallway, the brilliant sunlight blinding you for a moment, before you realize that the two of you are standing in the inner gate looking out onto the yard.

Inmates mill around in groups while others move in a grayish blue blur through the crowds with the sun baking from above. Some play a game of basketball in the far corner while others lift weights.

Dust kicks up in twisted clouds around their feet with the wind that blows from the East, wicking the sweat that gathers on the back of your neck. Grass pushes up through the coarse earth in sporadic patches only to be stomped into submission by the white canvas prison regulation tennis shoes the inmates wore. The murmur of the prisoners, the heavy clink of weights, and bounce of a basketball against pavement is lost on the wind.

You find Walker almost immediately. It’s a compulsion, like magnets, as if you can’t help but look for the scruffy green-eyed man who’s entered your subconscious despite all the times you’ve told yourself that it can’t happen. Your mind automatically seeking him out for some relief, a bad habit you can't seem to break.

He's sitting on top of one of the concrete picnic tables on the far end of the yard, talking to a younger guy with hair so black it's almost the color of charcoal.

The breeze rustles through Walker's hair that blazes a honeyed chestnut in the mid-day sun, the same sun that paints his body in a golden glow. You know that if you were standing beside him you’d be able to see the flecks of gold like falling stars around his eyes, that crinkle with his boisterous laugh.

Walker laughs at something the dark-haired inmate says, his warm chuckle somehow finding the curve of your ear as if he's standing right next to you and even though you haven’t been able to hear anything else it comes across clear as day.

An alarm bell goes off in your head, because you know this is crazy. You knew better than to start thinking about an inmate the way you thought about Walker. Even if he was incredibly charming, funny, and had eyes that seemed to see through everything you were.

Damn it.

There was only one place that this could head, and it was already circling the drain, you just needed to pull the plug before you were in too deep.

Feels like it might be too late for that.

Walker's gaze flicks up from his companion to you, finding your eyes within seconds of you finding him, as if he sensed it. You hold his gaze, a smile twitching at the end of his mouth just for a moment, before he looks back at the man beside him. If you’d blinked you would have missed it.

Unfortunately, the Warden didn't miss it either.

"That's exactly what I'm talking about." He says.

"What?"

"You give them too much leash."

"They're not dogs." You grumble under your breath.

"You're right. They're not. They're wolves." The Warden spits, eyes narrowed as he turns to look at you. He takes a step in your direction, backing you up against the chain link fence. "You can't tame them and the second you turn your back, they'll rip your throat out."

His eyes are two blackened pits, the sunlight no longer a soft glow, but a striking white that blinds you momentarily as you look up into his face. The planes of his face are sharpened in the dark shadow of his gray cowboy hat. He looks every bit the Warden role he'd chosen to play.

"You don't know that. Just because they're prisoners does not make them any less human than you and me!" You snap back.

Anger flared red hot beneath your skin, bubbling up from the pit of your stomach like a volcano ready to erupt. You hated the way that he spoke about the inmates, haughty, prideful, arrogant, as if they were below him somehow when all they were was just men. Men who maybe had made a few mistakes, but you were willing to believe that with the bad came the good, that not all of them could be psychos that were locked up for the "betterment of society."

"Yes I do. I've been here a hell of a lot longer than you. See this happen time and time again." He snarls taking another step towards you. The chain link cuts through the back of you scrubs, harsh and unyielding, meant to keep the inmates in but somehow now feel like it's trying to keep you out. "Let me guess, you think that life has been unkind to them. That not one of them deserves to be within these walls."

"That's not what I'm-"

"Did I say that I was done?" He barks.

Your jaw tenses so tightly together that you're sure you'll get TMJ.

He spoke to you like you were a little girl who'd done something wrong and was sent to the principal's office as if you were living in some imaginary world filled with rainbows and unicorns or still believed in Santa.

There were only a few moments in your life that you admitted to absolutely hating someone, and this would go right on the list as number five. Number one was Sally Caruthers in second grade who took your pudding cup at snack time.

This is much worse than someone stealing my chocolate, and that's saying something.

But worse still was that he was assuming you only saw the good in the world, but he was wrong. Your father had told you enough stories from his job growing up, things that were said to you in warning to prepare you for when you struck out on your own. You weren't naïve, far from it, but you didn't believe that everyone was rotten to the core, you wanted to believe that everyone had some good hidden somewhere.

It was that way with Walker. You'd seen his file, knew what he did, but there was a part of you that wanted to believe that he wasn't all bad.

The thought stutters to a halt.

Do I really believe that? Or do I think that just because of the way he's always nice to me… Only when he needs something.

You glance over your shoulder to look at where Walker is sitting with the other inmate, but instead of being locked in conversation, Walker's entire body has gone rigid.

He's staring at where the Warden has you cornered against the chain length fence, eyes dark, with his hand curled against the concrete slab that serves as the top of the table pulled so tight that his knuckles look white. Something dark dances in his eyes that sends a shiver down your spine.

You’d never seen him like that before. Easy smiles, windswept hair, green eyes so bright they seemed to dance yes. But this? Seeing Walker with something akin to murder in his eyes, never.

It made your throat tighten.

"You think they hate being in here? That it’s some dark twist of fate that they’re imprisoned here?” The Warden asks with a sneer. "They aren’t. In here they think they're kings, gods, who assert their power however they see fit. Because out there they are nothing,  but in here they think they're untouchable, and Walker is the worst of them all."

"You don't know that-" Your voice comes out in a whisper, heart sinking.

"I do." The Warden towers over you, placing one of his hands against the unyielding metal of the chain-length fence. His fingers curl into the space to cage you in. The warmth of his breath wafts across your face, bringing the distinct smell of coffee.

It made your stomach feel like it was flopping around, a fish out of water.

"He doesn't give a shit about you, none of the prisoners do. It might be all smiles and jokes now, but the second the status quo changes, the exact moment there aren't any guards looking, no one to stop him, well-" The Warden smiles cruelly. "I'm sure Walker will have a lot of fun getting his hands on a pretty little thing like you, with no one to stop him and no one to hear you scream. And for men like him," Something dark flickers in his eyes sending a shudder down your spine as he leans down towards you. "Hearing those screams makes them feel alive."

The sunlight soaking into your bones has suddenly gone cold, fear tracing along the curve of your spine with a chilled fingertip.

Memories of the stories your father told you from years in this world come whispering against your ear, stories that used to keep your sister up at night and made her the kind of woman that had a bright pink keychain loaded with every self-defense tool known to man.

When you'd taken this job your father had issued the same warning, told you about the dangers of desperate men who had nothing to lose.

"They're wrong," He'd said one night while the two of you watched an episode of the Walking Dead, sighing at the screen. "Men like that don't come around when everything falls apart. They already exist and the dangerous ones aren't the ones that wear it proudly on their sleeves. The dangerous ones are the men who hide in plain sight with easy smiles and gentle touches, because when they flip the switch, you don't see it coming."

On some level you knew that the Warden was right, men like that existed everywhere, but you didn't want to believe that Walker was one of them. Just as you didn't want to believe that everyone was out to get you all the time, that would lead to a very lonely existence, a sad and somewhat dark existence.

A flash of Walker's dark eyes comes roaring back through your subconscious before you can stop it. In his gaze you hadn't seen the Walker you knew, you'd seen someone else. And the longer you thought about it, the more it snagged in your chest that maybe Walker wasn't as charming as he let on and maybe he was getting you exactly where he wanted before the façade dropped.

An alarm sounds from across the yard, shattering through the sounds of mid-day and sending the crows that gathered on the top of the barbed wire fences flocking across the sun.

"Look at him." The Warden grabs your shoulder and turns you around so fast that you feel dizzy for a moment. "You think that man is a puppy? He's a damn wolf in sheep's clothing sweetheart and the second you turn your back they'll be nothing you can do."

Your gaze focuses on Walker, who sits atop another inmate splayed out beneath him on the ground. Walker's eyes have gone dark, the playful gleam you'd grown to love vanishing, his mischievous smirk morphed into an angry scowl as he throws his fist into the other inmate's face. Blood flecks over his cheeks and across his knuckles, and despite the guards that try to pull him off the other man, Walker fights back hard.

His eyes flicker across the yard once again finding you, but this time it doesn't bring the same warmth that it usually does, all it does is bring the chill scuttling down the length of your spine. Because the man staring back at you, has not one shred of the Walker you know, and it brings the doubt surging back up to swallow you whole.

Mark POV

*Five Minutes Ago*

It was moments like this that Mark hated being undercover.

He wasn't one to complain, and truthfully he liked a lot of things about being undercover: the improv as he slipped into character, the bravado he exuded, the rush of adrenaline that snapped and crackled through his veins when things were going his way and also the same lightning bolt that energized him when things weren't…

But not right now.

Especially not now.

It wasn't the sun that baked against his freckled skin, it wasn't the inmates that whispered death threats under their breath whenever they passed or the ones that actually had the balls to act on, it wasn't the chill that came in the dead of night creeping beneath the metal doors and seeped through the cinderblock when he tried to tug the hole riddled blanket up over his body, and it wasn't the headache that pinched between his eyebrows, the same headaches that came at the most inopportune times and reminded him of the thing he was trying to forget.

The axe that hung over the chopping block, the ticking time bomb in his head with a nuclear level countdown sequence that no one could stop.

But he wasn't thinking about any of that, all he was thinking about was you.

Mark knew the second you appeared on the edge of the chain length fence enclosing the yard following after the Warden something was wrong.

Because you weren't smiling.

There was never one moment that Mark had seen you with a frown on your face, not when each time you smiled he felt something deep down inside of him break open and flood the cavity in his chest with warmth. Which only made him feel a hell of a lot of guilt. He was undercover for fucks sake, he needed to focus on what he was doing not get distracted by someone like you…

But he was.

You were so unlike any person he'd ever met, someone who shouldn't exist somewhere like this. Not with your sincere smiles, warm personality, and genuine caring attitude that you carried with you through the dismal halls of the prison. It was almost like there was this one bright light that flickered and shone despite the thick mortar and cinderblock that enclosed the rest of the inmates, a light that could so easily be blown out at a moment's notice.

She wears crazy socks for fucks sake! A woman like her should be working in one of the top hospitals in the country, not here!

And Mark knew that he shouldn't care about you as much as he did, not when he was undercover and especially not because his days were numbered.

Because where could this go? He finally gets out of prison only to tell you that he's on death row? A dead man walking? Might as well just throw him right back in the fucking clink, he was already waiting out a death sentence and as long as he was making some kind of difference who cares?

What was the point if he couldn't give you what you deserved?

But that did nothing to stop you from slipping into his subconscious. The sound of your laugh a soothing melody, the brief glimpse of your smile like a star falling from heaven, and the gentle touch of your fingers over his skin a calming balm whenever you patched him up.

Mark had to keep reminding himself that you were nothing but a distraction, not to mention a complication that he never saw coming, blindsided by your kindness and gentle demeanor.

I'm a fucking professional not some cockeyed rookie. I've done this multiple times why is she different!? Why now?

Mark tried his hardest not to think about you, not when he was supposed to be focused on the job, but he couldn't help it, he worried about you constantly.

Worried that some other inmate or even one of the guards here would catch you alone unaware. Worried that you wouldn't pick up on the signals until it was too late and there was nowhere for you to go and Mark couldn't get to you in time.

Anything could happen in this prison, hell, Mark had seen quite a few things happen already and he couldn't bear the thought of you being involved in any of them.

Mark saw the way the others watched you when they noticed you walking down the hallways, saw the way that even the guards gazes lingered on your form whenever they brought Mark to the infirmary.

And as much as it hurt to get into fights, it was the only way that Mark could ensure seeing that you were okay, that you were still here. He hated the days that he let another inmate land a punch only to find the buffoon with the duct taped Nikes waiting for him in the infirmary.

Talk about disappointing.

Mark also tried not to think too hard that the other reason he went to see you was that it felt so damn good, that he couldn't go without seeing you at least once per week. He felt like an addict of the worst kind, but if this was an addiction he wasn't sure he ever wanted to quit, not when seeing you smile made Mark forget everything wrong in his fucked up life.

The sun kissed your skin giving it a brilliant glow and framing the curves of your body so well that Mark was sure if he closed his eyes the imprint would be stamped across the inside of his eyelids, the wind rustled through the strands of your hair pulling it freely into your face, and Mark dropped his eyes to your ankles barely catching a glimpse of the cactus socks hidden in your pair of signature converse, but still you don't smile.

An ugly feeling swarmed in the pit of Mark's stomach when his gaze drifted to the Warden. He was standing a little too close for Mark's comfort, towering over you, and Mark didn't like the way you seemed to curl slightly in on yourself, folding beneath the Warden's gaze.

He couldn't hear what you two were talking about, but he could sure as hell guess.

Mark's hand curls around the concrete table top of the picnic table when the Warden takes another step in your direction, pressing you further against the fence.

White hot rage begins to flood through his body, the urge to protect you breaking through the little voice inside that was telling him to let you go, let it go, that he's about to blow his cover for all the wrong reasons.

Fuck.

Mark hated the Warden, knew how much of an asshole he was the second Mark met with him before he went undercover, and Mark hated the way you looked.

You looked small.

Mark had never seen you look anything but happy, your laugh always making something inside of Mark feel like he was slowly sliding into a sun soaked beach chair on a remote island.

But not now. Now Mark wanted to stride over there, throw it all away, and nail the Warden once in face for saying whatever the hell it was that he was saying to you, because Mark knew that it wasn't good. It couldn't be, not when the look on your face was something between anger and hurt.

"Yo Walker!" An inmate cat-calls, but Mark ignores him.

Mark is in too deep and he knows it, but he can't look away from you. He's too busy trying to read the Warden's lips to care what someone else says to him.

"Looks like the Warden's got his eye on your little bitch." The inmate continues.

Mark's head snaps in the direction of said inmate, Luis, the man that had come to see you after him yesterday. He was at least three times Mark's size, his mouth splitting in a wide toothless smile on his goon-like face, the snake tattoo that curves up over his left eye flashing in the sunlight, offsetting the black and blue marks around his nose that mirrored the black eye on Mark's face.

"Fuck off."

"Ooo, touchy." Luis continues, rubbing one hand over his bald, sweaty forehead. Mark watches his gaze flick back in your direction, raking over your body without your knowledge. You were far too focused on the Warden who had cornered you against the chain-length fence like you were some kind of animal. "I'll say this, she's cute. Got that kind of body I wouldn't mind having all to myself. Bet she'd moan my name real pretty."

Mark's teeth grit together so hard he can hear the grinding in his ears, but he doesn't give in.

Don't play his game. Don't blow this because of her-

Chen looks from Mark to Luis, eyes wide. He had just started to trust Mark, and Mark didn't want to throw that all away so he ignores the man egging him on and instead watches where you are with the Warden.

"Fuck, I got a semi the other day when she was patching me up." Luis continues, taking another step towards Mark with two of his goons flanking him. "Her hands are so soft, I can't imagine what it'd feel like if she put those hands all over my co-"

The rest of his sentence is lost in the haze of red that washes over Mark's mind. He doesn't remember rising from the picnic table, doesn’t remember tackling Luis to the ground, and doesn't remember the first punch he throws into his face or the second or the third.

All he knows is that the moment the guards pull him off of Luis, whose nose is now broken for the second time, and his eyes find yours across the yard, and he sees the look of horror that crosses your face is that he messed up. Because Mark can lie to himself all day long, tell himself that he doesn't care about you, but seeing you look at him like that makes him want to throw all of this away.

And that's what scares him the most, because he can't, not when this is all he is and ever can be and you're everything else.

A/N: Just a tinsy bit of angst, a sprinkle if you will... Yes I know canonically that the Warden knows that Mark is undercover, I just wanted to make the Warden an even bigger jerk for warning her about Mark.

Taglist:

@jollyhunter @zepskies @waynes-multiverse @roseblue373 @angrydragon90

@kmc1989 @lunaleah @megara0224 @globetrotter98 @ladykitana90

@youroldfashioned @wonderland2022 @hellsbratonthet @moosewithabackstory @wvffles

@beakaleak32 @caroline-brooks @agentorange9595 @spxideyver

@hobby27 @anna-reid23 @britt217 @ralilda @lori19 @iamasimpingh0e

[lamentationsofalonelypotato]

Chapter 2: The Rules Of Engagement

Pairing: Soldier Boy x f!reader / Billy Butcher x f!reader

Summary:When you first joined Butcher's team the last thing you expected was to develop a crush on him, but after two years of pining, you get a proposition from the last person you'd expect to care. This is Chapter 2 of my Promise Not To Fall In Love With Me Series!

Tropes: Fake Dating, Pining, Faking It, Awkward/Shyish Reader, Friends To Lovers

Word Count: 6.4K

Warnings: I'm gonna label this 18+ (For the S-E-X, and by the S-E-X I mean FAKE sex), Cursing, Sexual innuendo, References to sex, Snail Genitals (had to be there), Toaster Bath Joke, Just A Hint Of Soft!Ben, Reader is a little anxious/anxiety/socially awkward?, Reader has Self Deprecating Thoughts, Soldier Boy being Soldier Boy (He's a warning, we all know it and somehow still love him for it).

Note:This is told from Reader's perspective. Any references to the reader is made using you or your. I tried my best to proofread, but nobody's perfect. If you don’t like, don’t read, but if you do like, you’re my favorite!

Internal monologue is in italics and is in first person.

A/N: It's been a while since I wrote a chapter for this one, but I really wanted to take a little break and go back to Ben, because I've missed him.

Series Masterlist

Main Masterlist

Reader POV

How can we be out of milk? I just went to the grocery store!

You think to yourself with a sigh, scanning the dismal array of products on the shelves of the rusted refrigerator in front of you. All you really wanted was a bowl of cereal and like hell you were going to have it with water like some kind of psychopath.

I bet Homelander ate his cereal with water instead of milk. Or maybe he was one of those freaky dry cereal eaters who drink a glass of milk at the same time.

You shudder.

It was easier to focus on things like the lack of cereal now that you were inside the cabin and no longer drooling over Butcher chopping wood outside. The image begins to tiptoe back across your mind,  the tensing of his muscles with each mighty swing, the sweat that curved down his perfectly tan and muscular body, catching in his thick dusting of chest hair, that leads down to-

Nope, nope, nope. Not going back down that road.

Instead of fantasizing about being a drop of sweat you force yourself to focus on the conversation that Ben and you had earlier, when he agreed to fake date you. Which was maybe the oddest conversation you’d had with anyone… and you’d had an argument with Hughie over the possibility of making a lightsaber. Something that Hughie was sure the government was hiding and that you knew how to do.

Because obviously my engineering degree came with a minor in lasers, lightsabers, and Luke Skywalker.

But you’d thought the universe was throwing you a bone by letting you stare at Butcher's gloriously sweaty body with no consequences. Which meant that maybe Ben agreeing to fake date you was again the universe apologizing for the two years of you trying to get Butcher's attention (without trying to get his attention). 

Maybe things are looking up.

You think to yourself with a smile and then remember the current dilemma:

Dry cereal, no milk.

Your shoulders droop in defeat. It wasn't enough that there wasn't a coffee maker in this cabin, which meant you were dragging your body around the grounds like a blob, now you had to eat your cereal dry because no one else in this damn cabin went grocery shopping!

AND NO ONE ELSE DOES THE DISHES! I swear no one helps me in this house.

The small poorly stocked grocery store is twenty miles from the cabin down a bumpy back road that curves around a mountain so tight that you thought you were going to go soaring off when Ben took the turn too fast. You’d gone two days ago, walking down the three measly aisles trying to find something edible while Ben complained and said grocery shopping was a woman’s job.

Why he thought that and came with you anyway, you had no idea, but it was his fault you were out of milk.

You'd already caught him contaminating the jug with his man germs last night when you found him drinking straight from the carton like an animal.

Probably finished the job when I fell asleep. Damn it.

It often surprised you how someone who was supposed to be from a more cultured and upstanding generation still had the manners of a horny sailor who hadn't felt the touch of a woman in six months and the attitude of a toddler who just wanted his mom to buy him a lollipop at the checkout.

The man in question was in the (for all intents and purposes) "shower." The warm water pattered against the rusted tub below and steam rose from under the curtained area that was separated from the rest of the great room in the corner, confusing you further over the way the cabin was built.

The layout alone was odd.

It had one big room that served as a living area furnished only with a couch that had more than a few questionable stains, a kitchen, and a dining room. Two thinnly walled bedrooms were off the main room holding beds that creaked even when you weren't moving.

Every single sound was amplified, and you’d heard more than enough sounds coming from Ben's bedroom over the past three days to last you a lifetime.

But the "bathroom" was nothing more than a sectioned off area in the far corner of the living room with the toilet and shower shielded from view by a faded floral curtain.

You were thankful for the curtain, but at the same time you really hated that you couldn't go to the bathroom without everyone hearing everything. It made you feel like you were living in a frat house.

All you wanted was to go back to the city where Annie and you shared an apartment that always had toilet paper in the bathroom and where the seat was always down so the possibility of falling into the toilet in the middle of the night was zero.

Because no matter how many times you told Ben to actually put the seat down, he never did.

It's a wonder that he's still single…

But you liked living with Annie. You'd grown up with three sisters so you had no qualms with living with another woman, not to mention Annie and you had grown into good friends since your time working at Supe Affairs, and you were kinda scared to live alone as a single woman in New York.

Sure you had an engineering degree and you worked on a team that took down supes, but what were you supposed to do if someone broke in? Start talking about the quadratic formula and hope the intruder fell asleep? Or maybe start a debate with him over the structural integrity of a washing machine?

It wasn't that you couldn't handle yourself if the situation called for it,  more that there were other people on the team who handled that kind of thing before you needed to.

And by people it was usually Ben, because he never cared to listen to what Butcher was saying and because you were so whipped someone might as well give you the nickname Dole, you listened to everything Butcher said and stayed out of the line of fire.

You audibly sigh when you shut the refrigerator door.

Dry cereal it is.

The Lucky Charms box sitting pretty on the wooden countertop is a welcome sight. One little piece of civilization you'd found in the grocery store that was still selling dried meal kits and gas masks from World War I.  Ben hadn't thought it was funny when you held one up and asked if he was happy to see something familiar.

"Hey." Butcher's voice shatters the welcome silence in a low rumble that sends the prickle of goosebumps over your arms.

You gasp and jump at the sudden intrusion of his voice, sending bits of marshmallow raining down over the counter. Pieces roll under the refrigerator from the now empty box in your hand, taking your last wisp of hope of a good meal in this godforsaken place.

"Shit. Sorry Poppet. Didn't mean to sneak up on you." He apologizes.

The heady smell of sweat and Butcher's musk wafts over you with his close proximity, the heat from his sun-kissed skin buzzing through the air around you and making your throat tighten. You fight the heat that kisses your cheeks, hoping that you don't look too much like a startled doe.

Butcher raises a hand to wipe away the drops that curl across his forehead, the sleeve of his brightly colored Hawaiian shirt pulling with the flex of his muscular bicep.

He flashes a sheepish smile that makes it difficult for you to breathe, words evaporating from the tip of your tongue as you stare at him for a moment too long, the silence stretching between the two of you.

You drop to the ground to avoid his gaze, frantically scrapping the bits of cereal together while trying to stop the collection of emotions scrambling around your head screaming: "Defcon 1, alert, he's talking to us! This is not a drill!"

"It-it's okay. Totally fine-" You wave a hand anxiously. "I meant to do that."

Cleaning the cereal from the floor had been a good idea in theory, until Butcher dropped down next to you to help you clean up the mess.

It was another reason why you couldn't seem to shake the crush that you had on him, because William Butcher was different whenever it was just the two of you. He'd go out of his way to help you, he always had your back in the field, and on the nights when you were up late tinkering on something Butcher would talk to you softly, so different than the harsh growl he had whenever Ben was around.

Breathe. In and out- He's just a person. I can talk to a person. I do that everyday, no big deal...

Unfortunately the rest of your body thought it was a very big deal because deep breathing only seemed to make things worse. Now you could smell the sweat you’d dreamed about being twenty minutes ago when you'd shamelessly watched Butcher chopping wood outside.

There was something underlying it, a strong masculine scent, something heady, the way the earth smells before a storm when thunder rumbles in the distance, rainwater rippling through a quiet forest.

You could feel your mouth water, imagining the salty tang against the tip of your tongue if you were to taste it.

What is wrong with me?

"Meant to spill the cereal on the floor?" Butcher asks amused. His large hands are mirroring your frantic movements with a clean precision, over the ground as he picks up bits of your dinner.

"Yeah. You don't do that? It's good luck, like throwing salt over your shoulder-"

You had no idea what you were saying, just that you were babbling and you wanted it to stop, because you knew that you were only digging a deeper hole and that none of this was attractive to Butcher.

In the two years that you'd been dying to get his attention, you'd seen a few of the women that Butcher usually hung around. Beautiful, confident women. Women who looked like they chewed the world up and spat it back out. Women who actually owned tight-fighting designer clothes, were confident, wore bold colored lipsticks, clicked around in high heels, and knew how to do more makeup than just the random flick of mascara.

None of them were like you.

You didn't think that you were beautiful or sexy.

Cute, occasionally, when you weren't putting your foot in your mouth.

Pretty maybe on a good day when you tried a little harder and the aforementioned mascara didn't smear under your eyes and your hair actually cooperated.

Awkward, always... unfortunately.

Your sisters had always been like those women, you not so much.

Not to mention all of those women were older and probably knew how to do things to men in the bedroom that made the limited experience (ie. none) with men look like a single grain of sand sitting at the feet of the Statue of Liberty.

"Did you know that there are some kinds of snails that chew each others genitals off during sexual intercourse and-"

You continue, not sure how in the hell you got here in the past minute since the cereal fell and you kept screeching along like a broken record, but you were desperately wishing that you were one of the marshmallow bits that rolled deep underneath the refrigerator.

At least under there Butcher wouldn't be able to hear the ridiculous psychobabble you were spouting because every damn time you were in his vicinity, your mind seemed to forget things like boundaries and appropriate small talk and your phd and instead switched to the B side cassette tape where all the random info you'd learned at four am on YouTube resided in the dark recesses of your brain.

Please somebody make it stop.

Butcher's face has gone from amused to confused within seconds, an awkward chuckle working it's way up through his chest, because honestly how do you respond to that juicy little tidbit of info?

A wave of embarrassment and shame has already began to work it's way through your body, the urge to cry building in the back of your throat.

Why am I like this? Why can’t I just talk to someone without it turning into the fifty shades of how much of a freak I am?

You stand from the ground with a handful of dusty cereal in your hand, before throwing it away in the small rusting trashcan on the other side of the creaky kitchen table.

At this point you would have just run away to the bathroom or another room, but given that Ben was still in the shower, and Hughie was in one of the bedrooms, and you were sleeping on the couch so basically Butcher was in your bedroom right now, there wasn't anywhere to go.

Maybe Ben will get out of the shower long enough to let me commit toaster bath.

Butcher stands from the ground. "I didn't know that."

"Now you do." You clear your throat, avoiding eye contact the best you can.

The small kitchen seems to grow even smaller with his presence and the open window above the sink does little to cool down the wave of heat that travels through you at Butcher's close proximity to you. Your fingertips fidget at your sides when the silence grows.

You hated that this only happened whenever you were talking to Butcher. You never had problems keeping up with Frenchie and Kimiko, laughing with Hughie or Annie, or even just talking to Ben, but whenever you were around Butcher it was like your brain ejected things like common sense and wit. Sometimes you wondered if Butcher noticed and was just too polite to say anything to you.

Then again he probably just thinks I'm a freak that enjoys snail porn.

"So what were you and that yank talking about?" Butcher asks.

"What?"

It was difficult to talk to him when he was standing so close to you, but at least now he was wearing one of his signature Hawaiian shirts, soaked a little bit under the collar.

You were sure that if he was still shirtless you wouldn't have been able to make a sound, then again you could still see a delicious peak of chest hair sprouting beneath the two unbuttoned top buttons of the shirt.

The thud of your heartbeat thunders in your ears as you scramble for some lie, anxiety bubbling in your stomach the longer you look at Butcher, because there was no way in hell you could blurt out:

"Oh Ben agreed to fake date me so that you'll see me more than just a teammate or a little kid!"

"Well-" Butcher starts again.

Ben's arm comes around your waist so fast you don't have time to wonder how he snuck up on you. He tugs you back easily against his warm chest, still wet from his shower, and presses a kiss directly under your right ear, lingering a little bit too long to just be friendly. His beard scrapes against the sensitive skin of your neck, wet hair falling forward to tickle against the sides of your face, leaving the spicy scent of his shampoo under your nose.

"Showers free." He smirks at Butcher, before dropping his gaze to you, green eyes locking on yours and his lips pulling up in a mischievous smirk. "You ready for bed baby?"

Ben's other hand wanders just under the edge of your cotton t-shirt, pushing it up enough that the rough skin of his fingers finds the soft and supple flesh of your hips.

"Um-" You squeak in alarm.

Your face was so warm you were sure that if someone cracked an egg it would be fried to perfection in seconds.

Oh holy guacamole. This was so not what I meant. I meant maybe flirty talking or maybe him bringing me coffee and pretending to laugh with me about something! We need boundaries and maybe one of those squirt bottles you get for a cat that's unruly!

"I'm not really tired-" You choke out, still not able to make eye contact with Butcher. All you could think about Ben's very wet and naked chest pressed against you and the water from his shower soaking into your t-shirt.

This is worse than the snail genitals.

"Good." Ben purrs, the word rumbling up through where your back is pressed against his muscular torso. He leans closer to you, smirk widening. "I'm not either. Figured we could wear each other out first."

Butcher's body goes stock straight in surprise, eyes shifting from you to Ben for some kind of explanation.

"W-well-" You stammer.

Ben's eyes twinkle in the light streaming through the kitchen windows that picks up the flecks of gold hidden in the deep green that you'd never noticed.

"Fuck baby, I love that cute little stutter." His lips trail down your throat sucking a mark just below the shadow of your jaw, the prickle of his beard against your skin making a shiver travel down you spine.

Oh my sweet potato pie.

Unconsciously your body leans back into him, your hands falling to where his rest on your waist, as you try to control the heat wafting off of your face. An uncontrolled sound comes up through your chest as Ben's mouth continues to work down the column of your throat, earning a dark chuckle from the man behind you.

"Wait a minute are you two-" Butcher clears his throat as if he can't quite stomach it, the look on this face somewhere between someone choking and someone trying to pass a kidney stone.

"Have been for a while." Ben flashes a lazy smile. "She wanted to keep it quiet, but I said fuck it. I want everyone to know who she belongs to." His hand slides down your back to squeeze a handful of your ass.

Another uncontrollable squeak erupts from somewhere deep inside.

Time of Death 18:35:00. Goodbye cruel world.

Right about now you no longer believed that the universe was throwing you a bone with Ben pretending to date you, because this was beyond mortifying. You couldn't imagine Butcher giving a single fuck about the two of you. If anything Butcher was probably only worried about the one person on the team who could build whatever he wanted at the drop of a hat getting killed in a sex related accident.

Your throat closed a little tighter with the thought, because Ben was the strongest supe in the world now after everything with Homelander had fizzled out, and you couldn't imagine him being able to control himself in the throws of passion. Not when he barely had the self control to keep his temper in check.

But with it came the memory of what Ben had told you outside with a gentleness you didn't think he had, when he said that he wasn't going to hurt you or make you do anything that made you uncomfortable.

And maybe you were crazy, but you believed him.

You're not going to have sex with him.

You remind yourself, but with Ben's entire body wrapped around yours and the ghost of his beard against your throat, it seemed like you were going to have to remind him of that little thing all over again.

“But I thought you were-" Butcher tries again, but Ben interrupts him.

“Bring the cereal.” Ben nips at your earlobe, ignoring the man standing in front of the two of you. “I’ve got a feeling we’re going to work up an appetite.”

He smacks your ass before sauntering off to the bedroom he’d been sleeping in the past few nights, his towel slung low over his hips.

The idea of crawling under the refrigerator with the bits of marshmallow cereal resurfaces, but you were sure that even if you were under there they'd still be able to feel your embarrassment and anxiety all the way in Antarctica.

Butcher was staring at you open mouthed, unable to process. He closed it, then opened it again, looking far too much like a fish gasping for air on a beach.

If the error message on a computer had a picture assigned to it, Butcher's face would be smack dab in the middle of the screen.

Error. Does Not Compute. Please Try Again Later.

There was nothing you could say, nothing you could do to relieve the oppressive anxiety and embarrassment building in your chest with every second that passed following Ben's disappearance into his bedroom.

Maybe I was too soon to think that the universe was throwing me a bone, maybe it's beating me with it into submission.

Butcher coughs awkwardly. "I'm sorry. I think I just hallucinated, love. Did that wanker just say the two of you were-"

"Dating?" Your voice comes out high pitched. "Yeah."

"But he's-" Butcher searches for the word. "He's-"

"Older?"

It was the exact reason why you believed Butcher would never date you, because he was older and experienced. But it made you hopeful that Butcher would stop seeing you as just "kiddo" and "poppet" if he saw you with Ben.

"I was going to say a dick."

"Oh well Ben is- um- he's um-" You stutter, eyes dropping to the multicolored Hawaiian shirt Butcher was wearing trying to find some courage written in the chaotic colors swirling together. "He grows on you after a while."

"Like a fungus."

"He can actually be kind of sweet-" As soon as the words pass through your lips, Butcher laughs so loud you're sure that people would be able to hear it all the way back in NYC.

"You're joking right? Him? Mr. Casual Fuck? Mr. I'm Going To Disintegrate Everyone On My Old Team?"

Butcher lets out a deep sigh and rests his hip against the counter, while crossing his arms over his chest. You watch his eyes trace over you, inquisitive and somewhat curious.

"I don't think you should-" Butcher clears his throat. "I don’t think you should be with him, poppet."

If you'd been drinking something you would have done a spit take for sure.

"What?"

"He's-" Butcher tries to find his words, but you can see how difficult it is for him. "He's a prick and you're- I mean, you're nothing like him. Not to mention he's literally a walking Chernobyl waiting to 'appen."

"I think he has it under control." You say slowly. It was easier to talk to Butcher when you didn't have to talk about yourself. "He's just a little rough around the edges, um- like an onion!"

"Or a hand-grenade."

Ben appears in the doorway of his bedroom, still wearing the towel and a bored expression. But instead of saying anything or calling your name, he strides again over to where Butcher and you are standing, and unceremoniously slings you over his shoulder.

"Ben what are you doing?!" You screech.

"I told you. We're going to bed. I'm sick of hearing you and that British fuck talking. Not when you and I could be doing something a hell of a lot more satisfying."

"But-"

Hughie picks that exact moment to open the door of the bedroom he's been sharing with Butcher for the past few days. "Hey, what's-" He looks at Ben and you squinting in confusion. "Going on?"

"Pay attention you might learn something." Ben has the audacity to wink, all the while you're praying that his towel doesn't fall open.

At this point, I’d rather face the locusts.

Your gaze flicks up to where Butcher stands in the kitchen one last time before the bedroom door shuts.

His arms are still crossed over his chest, mouth turning down into a frown, jaw tight, but just as it closes you see something flicker across his face, an emotion that breaks through the usual mask of hardened grizzle that Butcher wore all the time.

What the hell was that?

Your body goes flying onto the bed with a deranged scream of Ben’s name passing through your lips followed by the pterodactyl like screech of the ancient bed when you land on top.

The spicy smell of Ben’s signature cologne, sweat, and mothballs comes wafting up in a cloud with the motion as one of the springs digs into your spinal cord.

"That's right baby. Keep saying it just like that." Ben reaches for the end of his towel and you scramble off the bed with flushed cheeks.

"Ben!" You hiss, eyes flitting to the door beyond, knowing that Butcher and Hughie can hear everything. "I told you that I wasn't going to- We aren't going to-"

"Relax princess." He gruffs out. "Didn't mean to ruffle your delicate sensibilities."

"You didn't-" Your eyes squeeze shut in frustration and anxiety, the embarrassment washing over you all over again when the events of everything that just happened two minutes ago out in the kitchen comes roaring back. "Damn it I- I mean I-. What are you doing?"

Ben's smirk dips into a bored frown. "You told me that you wanted me to pretend to date you. That's what I was doing."

"Pretend to date me yes! Not throw me around like some sort of Caveman-"

"Butcher isn't going to give two fucks about any of it, if he doesn't think I'm fucking you." Ben huffs. "Which I still think would be better than doing whatever the fuck this is."

He walks over to where his suitcase sits in a state of unpacking on the threadbare chest of drawers squeezed into the corner of the room. Underwear, t-shirts, and several pairs of jeans spurt out of the black bag like multicolored fish erupting from a tank.

The rest of the cabin is oddly silent and you wonder if Butcher and Hughie are out there whispering about what just happened to avoid Ben and you hearing.

Jokes on them, I'm gonna make Ben eavesdrop and then tell me everything.

"I just think that we need to make some boundaries-" You start to say at the exact moment Ben decides to drop his towel.

Holy. Fucking. No-

You slap your hand over your eyes so loudly that the clap ricochets through the bedroom, however, not quick enough to block the image of Ben's muscular ass assaulting your mind. "This is exactly what I was talking about."

"Aww come on princess, I'm giving you an inside look. A million girls would dream to be where you are."

"I'm pretty sure they already have." You mutter under your breath, earning a chuckle from Ben.

"You could be a million and one."

"No thanks. I'm all good."

The tell-tale signs of Ben getting dressed fill the room, but you refuse to take a peak. You knew it was exactly what he wanted, but at the same time something stirred in the pit of your stomach that you'd never felt before, a small flutter of something unnamable when you thought about Ben being naked in the same space as you.

The bed screeches again as Ben slips onto the creaky mattress with an audible sigh. You take this as confirmation that it's safe to open your eyes, but still wait another beat before you do.

He's leaning back against the wooden headboard, smirking at you, eyes tracing over your body. Ben's chosen not to wear a shirt, instead he's clad only in a pair of gray sweatpants. Again, how he can do that in a cabin that has absolutely no air conditioning, you have no idea.

The full sized bed looks even smaller with Ben's hulking figure laid across it, leaving very little space beside him or even space for you to walk around the bed back to the door that lead back out into the living room without hitting his feet that hang over the end. It was enough to make you think that the four of you were trapped in Green Acres rather than a small mountain cabin in the armpit of America.

Ben pats the dusty quilt beside him.The space is barely fit for a toddler let alone another person. 

“Come on. I don’t bite.” His smirk turns mischievous. “Unless you ask me to baby.”

You swallow, biting your lip.

A part of you wanted to go back out to the living room, but that meant you'd have to face Butcher again. And with you stuck smack dab between:

Telling Butcher that Ben and you had sex quickly.

Telling Butcher that you asked Ben to pretend to be in a relationship with you to get his attention.

You were trapped in this little bedroom with Ben until sunrise… or until Jack Nicholson started breaking down the front door with an axe.

Ben sighs heavily and drops his voice into a whisper, aware that Butcher and Hughie are listening. “Okay come on. I’m not going to fucking do anything.”

"I'm not sure I trust that and I'm okay over here." You point down at the floor, feeling the uneven wooden floorboards anxiously with the tip of your big toe.

"You can't stand there all night."

"You don’t know that! Maybe I could learn to sleep standing up like a Flamingo or something."

Ben crosses his arms over his chest. "Look I might be an asshole, but I'm not the kind of asshole that's gonna let you sleep on the floor. So just get in the fucking bed."

You mentally calculate the options in your head all over again. "Not before we make some rules."

"Told you I wasn't too good with those sweetheart."

Ignoring him seems to be a skill that you'd been developing forever, so instead you say, "First, no sex."

"You said that already. Kinda sounds like you're trying to convince yourself not me." The smirk pulls at the ends of his lips again, making you narrow your eyes.

"Second, no touching-"

"Okay wait a damn minute." Ben sits up. "I have to be able to touch you."

"Why?"

"Because nobody is going to believe that you and me are together if I can’t touch you."

He did have a point, you knew that. You'd seen Ben a few times with women in the office that he'd gone home with, not to mention the guy was a walking HR violation.

"Okay fine." You hold up one finger. "No inappropriate touching."

"What the fuck does that mean? I can't slip my finger under your panties when we're in a meeting or something? Because I didn't really peg you as the type who wanted to get hot and heavy at the office princess."

A wave of heat blooms beneath your cheeks. "No! I mean-"

"You want to get hot and heavy at the office." He tilts his head to the side. "Because I could make that happen."

"Let me finish!" You begin to pace back and forth in front of the bed. Moving seemed like a good option right now, the anxious energy flickering through your body needed places to go and because you were stuck in this room that might as well be a jail cell you were making do with what you had. "You can touch me, just no squeezing my butt or anything like that. Maybe hugging me from behind or holding my hand-"

"Holding your hand? You've got to be fucking with me."

"Ben, please." You whisper, eyes darting to the bedroom door. "You said you would do this."

"I said that I would pretend to fucking date you, not pretend to be a fucking pussy." He grouses. "Nobody is going to believe that you and me are together if you don't let me be the way I am. I've got a reputation to uphold princess."

You stand there for another beat, because he was right. Who was going to believe this? The anxiety was back lacing around your ribcage and pulling tight.

The memory of all the years you spent watching Butcher walk around the office dreaming of something that was never going to happen comes washing over you. The nicknames Butcher called you ring in your ears things that made you feel like a little kid in fourth grade who had a crush on the high schooler who occasionally smiled at her.

He's right. I should just let this go. It's never going to happen. Why do I keep doing this to myself?

"You're right, this is a ridiculous idea, there's no way it's going to work and-" You begin to say, but Ben interrupts you.

"Shut up and get in bed." Ben says bluntly.

"Huh?" You clear your throat, fighting the tears that were already beginning to blur your eyes like the heartache that ate away at your chest. "

"Get in the fucking bed."

"Why?"

"Because I can't stand seeing you look all fucking pathetic like that. So you can either get in this bed or I can throw you in all over again."

"I'm not pathetic." You mutter, but you did feel that way. After all, you'd asked Soldier Boy to fake date you. Soldier Boy.

"Yes, you are. You've wanted Winston Churchill to fuck you for the past two years and you're obviously too fucked in the head to figure out how to do that so come here."

"Why?"

Ben starts to get up.

"Okay fine!" You sit on the end of the bed. "There. I'm in the bed, but I don't understand how this is going to-"

Ben's arm suddenly wraps around your waist and he pulls you back against his chest, to where he leans back against the headboard.

"Whoa, wait a minute-"

His hand clamps down over your mouth.

Your body immediately goes into fight or flight, eyes widening, beginning to struggle against his grip.

"I'm not going to hurt you. How many fucking times do I have to say that?" He grumbles, his voice a pleasant low rumble in your ear. "Just relax for one second."

Ben's face is so close to yours that you can feel the warmth of his breath on your face and the rough prickle of his beard against the curve of your ear. His eyes meet yours the flecks of gold inside like falling stars and a sprinkle of cinnamon colored freckles brushed over his nose and the top of his cheeks that you'd never noticed.

"You're too much in your head." Ben breathes. "Now moan."

He removes his hand from your mouth.

"But-"

He pokes your forehead with a frown. "No. Too much in here. Shut up and moan."

You open your mouth to probably to ask him why, but then you catch his gaze again. Something twinkles in his eyes, something that’s different than the bored or angry or aroused expressions that you’d seen before. It looks almost, amused.

So instead you moan and feel like a complete idiot.

"Good, now try a little louder." Ben's arm around your waist gives you an encouraging squeeze.

You do as he says, emboldened by his motivation.

Ben's other hand reaches back to hit the headboard once up against the wall, before he lets loose a moan that makes your entire body flush and an awkward giggle bubble up past your lips.

"You laughing at me sweetheart?" Ben chuckles, hitting the headboard up against the wall again, and motioning for you to moan again, which you comply without a second thought.

"No."  You whisper back with a smile.

"Kinda sounded like you were."

"I'd never do that."

This time Ben moans your name loudly, sending a thrill up your spine, before hitting the headboard against the wall.

You’d never heard anyone say your name like that before, and even though you know that Ben is pretending, for the first time in a long time you don't feel like the awkward girl that seemed to stumble through life, the one that was only 'just' and nothing else, the one who chose to pretend not to like someone because it was easier than the reality, and the one who was always so behind everyone else when it came to the opposite sex they might as well be on another planet.

So you take a chance and moan back his name just as loud as he did yours.

Ben's eyes darken, the arm he has around your waist tightening slightly, before he hits the headboard against the wall again.

"Fuck. You feel so good baby." Ben groans, the headboard banging so hard it makes dust from the ceiling flutter down onto the two of you.

"Ben!" You moan back, leaning into his chest and feeling the heat from his skin envelop you like a warm blanket.

The smell of Ben's shampoo is everywhere around you, soaking through your body, going up your nose with every inhale of breath. It was almost overwhelming. This was the first time that you'd ever been close to someone else of the opposite sex, besides the awkward hug you gave your study partner when the two of you graduated and he told you that he had feelings for you and you blurted out "How about those Yankees?" to cover, even though you'd never been to a game.

*Bang*

"You want more baby?" He growls.

*Bang*

"Please!"

*Bang*

"I love how polite you are sweetheart, even when I'm fucking you like this."

You cover your mouth to stop an awkward squeak from breaking through your lips, that only makes Ben's smirk grow as he hits the headboard against the wall.

"You like that?" He says it just as loud, but you know that it’s not directed at the two men in the other room listening to your performance.

Maybe. A little voice whispers inside your head, but you don't answer, because you're not sure where it came from. Not when Ben and you are in here trying to make someone jealous and the same someone that you can't remember the name of with Ben looking at you like that.

"Ready for the grand finale?" Ben mutters.

*Bang*

You nod.

"Ladies first."

"What a gentleman." You whisper back.

"Always." He winks at you, squeezing you tighter against him.

The sound that comes out of your mouth doesn't sound like you at all, but you don't care. Something about being here with Ben didn't make you feel like you, and it made you feel almost relieved.

Ben mirrors the moan, all the while looking at you with the same smile/smirk combo that only made you smile back at him. You couldn't remember the last time that you had smiled this much. He knocks the headboard one more time up against the wall for good measure before letting go and relaxing his arm beside where you sit between his outstretched legs.

"Look" Ben shakes his head, relaxing back against the headboard that left a pretty good sized dent in the peeling poorly painted wall behind it. "I get it, you really want Butcher to fuck you. But you're not going to get him with those silly rules of yours."

"But-"

"I'm not asking you to do something like shoot a porno in the office. All I'm asking is for you to trust me."

"Trust you?" You snort, raising an eyebrow.

"I know men sweetheart, and you don't. Me holding your hand isn't going to do anything to him." Ben leans in a little closer to you, mouth pulling up in the same mischievous smirk that he's had all night. "But him hearing me fuck you, it'll drive him crazy, not to mention keep him up all night."

You bite the inside of your cheek. As much as you didn't want to admit it, Ben might be right. Okay, maybe a whole lot more than right. Butcher wasn't going to think of you 'experienced' with Ben only holding your hand. It was things like what the two of you had just done that was going to get his attention.

Oddly enough, the usual embarrassment and anxiety that came wasn't there. You were waiting for it, waiting to feel shame, but you didn't have any.

That's weird.

"You might be right." You say slowly.

"I'm sorry, say that a little louder sweetheart."

"Shut up!" You smack him across his muscular chest. "And pinky swear."

"Pinky swear?"

"Yes. Pinky swear, because you won't let me make rules."

His eyes flick from your outstretched pinky to your face, looking as if you'd suggested hand holding all over again.

"Are you sure we can't just seal the deal with a good fuck instead?"

"Isn't that what we just did?"

"No." Ben chuckles, the low rumble vibrating against your back where it rests against his chest. "Trust me sweetheart, if we really had, you wouldn't be able to say anything, much less move."

But he wraps his pinky around yours, dwarfing your hand slightly, with a sigh.

There's a part of you that wishes that you had a camera to capture the moment of Soldier Boy pinky swearing with you. It was up there with photos of Bigfoot and flying saucers, something that even the experts couldn't prove impossible.

"Thank you."

"Don't mention it." Ben sighs retracting his pinky from yours, eyes narrowing. "Really, don't fucking tell anyone I did that."

"I won't promise that." You say with a giggle, before trying to slide away into the space beside Ben, but he doesn't move his arm from around your waist.

"Where are you going?" He smirks.

"To bed?"

It seemed obvious given the fact that you couldn't go back into the living room and you figured you might as well stay in here with Ben. All inhibitions you had about staying in here with him seemed to completely evaporate in the wake of your mutual (fake) orgasms.

"Not a chance princess. Need to let them catch an earful of round two, I've got a reputation to uphold after all."

A/N: And by rules of engagement I mean, THERE ARE NO RULES! It was so fun to come back to these two, I really missed seeing Ben with the fake dating trope. Also, I tried to make sure that I tagged everyone who asked, but if I missed you, please be sure to let me know! 💗

Thank you so much for reading! Likes, Reblogs, and Comments are not required, but are always appreciated! I love hearing what y'all think! 😊 If you'd liked to be added to my taglist for this series please let me know!

Taglist:

@zepskies @jollyhunter @waynes-multiverse @globetrotter98 @lunaleah

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@the-super-who-locked-wizard @suckitands33 @spnaquakindgdom @garlicbreaddd1

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[lamentationsofalonelypotato]

Chapter 2: The Rules Of Engagement

Pairing: Soldier Boy x f!reader / Billy Butcher x f!reader

Summary:When you first joined Butcher's team the last thing you expected was to develop a crush on him, but after two years of pining, you get a proposition from the last person you'd expect to care. This is Chapter 2 of my Promise Not To Fall In Love With Me Series!

Tropes: Fake Dating, Pining, Faking It, Awkward/Shyish Reader, Friends To Lovers

Word Count: 6.4K

Warnings: I'm gonna label this 18+ (For the S-E-X, and by the S-E-X I mean FAKE sex), Cursing, Sexual innuendo, References to sex, Snail Genitals (had to be there), Toaster Bath Joke, Just A Hint Of Soft!Ben, Reader is a little anxious/anxiety/socially awkward?, Reader has Self Deprecating Thoughts, Soldier Boy being Soldier Boy (He's a warning, we all know it and somehow still love him for it).

Note:This is told from Reader's perspective. Any references to the reader is made using you or your. I tried my best to proofread, but nobody's perfect. If you don’t like, don’t read, but if you do like, you’re my favorite!

Internal monologue is in italics and is in first person.

A/N: It's been a while since I wrote a chapter for this one, but I really wanted to take a little break and go back to Ben, because I've missed him.

Series Masterlist

Main Masterlist

Reader POV

How can we be out of milk? I just went to the grocery store!

You think to yourself with a sigh, scanning the dismal array of products on the shelves of the rusted refrigerator in front of you. All you really wanted was a bowl of cereal and like hell you were going to have it with water like some kind of psychopath.

I bet Homelander ate his cereal with water instead of milk. Or maybe he was one of those freaky dry cereal eaters who drink a glass of milk at the same time.

You shudder.

It was easier to focus on things like the lack of cereal now that you were inside the cabin and no longer drooling over Butcher chopping wood outside. The image begins to tiptoe back across your mind,  the tensing of his muscles with each mighty swing, the sweat that curved down his perfectly tan and muscular body, catching in his thick dusting of chest hair, that leads down to-

Nope, nope, nope. Not going back down that road.

Instead of fantasizing about being a drop of sweat you force yourself to focus on the conversation that Ben and you had earlier, when he agreed to fake date you. Which was maybe the oddest conversation you’d had with anyone… and you’d had an argument with Hughie over the possibility of making a lightsaber. Something that Hughie was sure the government was hiding and that you knew how to do.

Because obviously my engineering degree came with a minor in lasers, lightsabers, and Luke Skywalker.

But you’d thought the universe was throwing you a bone by letting you stare at Butcher's gloriously sweaty body with no consequences. Which meant that maybe Ben agreeing to fake date you was again the universe apologizing for the two years of you trying to get Butcher's attention (without trying to get his attention). 

Maybe things are looking up.

You think to yourself with a smile and then remember the current dilemma:

Dry cereal, no milk.

Your shoulders droop in defeat. It wasn't enough that there wasn't a coffee maker in this cabin, which meant you were dragging your body around the grounds like a blob, now you had to eat your cereal dry because no one else in this damn cabin went grocery shopping!

AND NO ONE ELSE DOES THE DISHES! I swear no one helps me in this house.

The small poorly stocked grocery store is twenty miles from the cabin down a bumpy back road that curves around a mountain so tight that you thought you were going to go soaring off when Ben took the turn too fast. You’d gone two days ago, walking down the three measly aisles trying to find something edible while Ben complained and said grocery shopping was a woman’s job.

Why he thought that and came with you anyway, you had no idea, but it was his fault you were out of milk.

You'd already caught him contaminating the jug with his man germs last night when you found him drinking straight from the carton like an animal.

Probably finished the job when I fell asleep. Damn it.

It often surprised you how someone who was supposed to be from a more cultured and upstanding generation still had the manners of a horny sailor who hadn't felt the touch of a woman in six months and the attitude of a toddler who just wanted his mom to buy him a lollipop at the checkout.

The man in question was in the (for all intents and purposes) "shower." The warm water pattered against the rusted tub below and steam rose from under the curtained area that was separated from the rest of the great room in the corner, confusing you further over the way the cabin was built.

The layout alone was odd.

It had one big room that served as a living area furnished only with a couch that had more than a few questionable stains, a kitchen, and a dining room. Two thinnly walled bedrooms were off the main room holding beds that creaked even when you weren't moving.

Every single sound was amplified, and you’d heard more than enough sounds coming from Ben's bedroom over the past three days to last you a lifetime.

But the "bathroom" was nothing more than a sectioned off area in the far corner of the living room with the toilet and shower shielded from view by a faded floral curtain.

You were thankful for the curtain, but at the same time you really hated that you couldn't go to the bathroom without everyone hearing everything. It made you feel like you were living in a frat house.

All you wanted was to go back to the city where Annie and you shared an apartment that always had toilet paper in the bathroom and where the seat was always down so the possibility of falling into the toilet in the middle of the night was zero.

Because no matter how many times you told Ben to actually put the seat down, he never did.

It's a wonder that he's still single…

But you liked living with Annie. You'd grown up with three sisters so you had no qualms with living with another woman, not to mention Annie and you had grown into good friends since your time working at Supe Affairs, and you were kinda scared to live alone as a single woman in New York.

Sure you had an engineering degree and you worked on a team that took down supes, but what were you supposed to do if someone broke in? Start talking about the quadratic formula and hope the intruder fell asleep? Or maybe start a debate with him over the structural integrity of a washing machine?

It wasn't that you couldn't handle yourself if the situation called for it,  more that there were other people on the team who handled that kind of thing before you needed to.

And by people it was usually Ben, because he never cared to listen to what Butcher was saying and because you were so whipped someone might as well give you the nickname Dole, you listened to everything Butcher said and stayed out of the line of fire.

You audibly sigh when you shut the refrigerator door.

Dry cereal it is.

The Lucky Charms box sitting pretty on the wooden countertop is a welcome sight. One little piece of civilization you'd found in the grocery store that was still selling dried meal kits and gas masks from World War I.  Ben hadn't thought it was funny when you held one up and asked if he was happy to see something familiar.

"Hey." Butcher's voice shatters the welcome silence in a low rumble that sends the prickle of goosebumps over your arms.

You gasp and jump at the sudden intrusion of his voice, sending bits of marshmallow raining down over the counter. Pieces roll under the refrigerator from the now empty box in your hand, taking your last wisp of hope of a good meal in this godforsaken place.

"Shit. Sorry Poppet. Didn't mean to sneak up on you." He apologizes.

The heady smell of sweat and Butcher's musk wafts over you with his close proximity, the heat from his sun-kissed skin buzzing through the air around you and making your throat tighten. You fight the heat that kisses your cheeks, hoping that you don't look too much like a startled doe.

Butcher raises a hand to wipe away the drops that curl across his forehead, the sleeve of his brightly colored Hawaiian shirt pulling with the flex of his muscular bicep.

He flashes a sheepish smile that makes it difficult for you to breathe, words evaporating from the tip of your tongue as you stare at him for a moment too long, the silence stretching between the two of you.

You drop to the ground to avoid his gaze, frantically scrapping the bits of cereal together while trying to stop the collection of emotions scrambling around your head screaming: "Defcon 1, alert, he's talking to us! This is not a drill!"

"It-it's okay. Totally fine-" You wave a hand anxiously. "I meant to do that."

Cleaning the cereal from the floor had been a good idea in theory, until Butcher dropped down next to you to help you clean up the mess.

It was another reason why you couldn't seem to shake the crush that you had on him, because William Butcher was different whenever it was just the two of you. He'd go out of his way to help you, he always had your back in the field, and on the nights when you were up late tinkering on something Butcher would talk to you softly, so different than the harsh growl he had whenever Ben was around.

Breathe. In and out- He's just a person. I can talk to a person. I do that everyday, no big deal...

Unfortunately the rest of your body thought it was a very big deal because deep breathing only seemed to make things worse. Now you could smell the sweat you’d dreamed about being twenty minutes ago when you'd shamelessly watched Butcher chopping wood outside.

There was something underlying it, a strong masculine scent, something heady, the way the earth smells before a storm when thunder rumbles in the distance, rainwater rippling through a quiet forest.

You could feel your mouth water, imagining the salty tang against the tip of your tongue if you were to taste it.

What is wrong with me?

"Meant to spill the cereal on the floor?" Butcher asks amused. His large hands are mirroring your frantic movements with a clean precision, over the ground as he picks up bits of your dinner.

"Yeah. You don't do that? It's good luck, like throwing salt over your shoulder-"

You had no idea what you were saying, just that you were babbling and you wanted it to stop, because you knew that you were only digging a deeper hole and that none of this was attractive to Butcher.

In the two years that you'd been dying to get his attention, you'd seen a few of the women that Butcher usually hung around. Beautiful, confident women. Women who looked like they chewed the world up and spat it back out. Women who actually owned tight-fighting designer clothes, were confident, wore bold colored lipsticks, clicked around in high heels, and knew how to do more makeup than just the random flick of mascara.

None of them were like you.

You didn't think that you were beautiful or sexy.

Cute, occasionally, when you weren't putting your foot in your mouth.

Pretty maybe on a good day when you tried a little harder and the aforementioned mascara didn't smear under your eyes and your hair actually cooperated.

Awkward, always... unfortunately.

Your sisters had always been like those women, you not so much.

Not to mention all of those women were older and probably knew how to do things to men in the bedroom that made the limited experience (ie. none) with men look like a single grain of sand sitting at the feet of the Statue of Liberty.

"Did you know that there are some kinds of snails that chew each others genitals off during sexual intercourse and-"

You continue, not sure how in the hell you got here in the past minute since the cereal fell and you kept screeching along like a broken record, but you were desperately wishing that you were one of the marshmallow bits that rolled deep underneath the refrigerator.

At least under there Butcher wouldn't be able to hear the ridiculous psychobabble you were spouting because every damn time you were in his vicinity, your mind seemed to forget things like boundaries and appropriate small talk and your phd and instead switched to the B side cassette tape where all the random info you'd learned at four am on YouTube resided in the dark recesses of your brain.

Please somebody make it stop.

Butcher's face has gone from amused to confused within seconds, an awkward chuckle working it's way up through his chest, because honestly how do you respond to that juicy little tidbit of info?

A wave of embarrassment and shame has already began to work it's way through your body, the urge to cry building in the back of your throat.

Why am I like this? Why can’t I just talk to someone without it turning into the fifty shades of how much of a freak I am?

You stand from the ground with a handful of dusty cereal in your hand, before throwing it away in the small rusting trashcan on the other side of the creaky kitchen table.

At this point you would have just run away to the bathroom or another room, but given that Ben was still in the shower, and Hughie was in one of the bedrooms, and you were sleeping on the couch so basically Butcher was in your bedroom right now, there wasn't anywhere to go.

Maybe Ben will get out of the shower long enough to let me commit toaster bath.

Butcher stands from the ground. "I didn't know that."

"Now you do." You clear your throat, avoiding eye contact the best you can.

The small kitchen seems to grow even smaller with his presence and the open window above the sink does little to cool down the wave of heat that travels through you at Butcher's close proximity to you. Your fingertips fidget at your sides when the silence grows.

You hated that this only happened whenever you were talking to Butcher. You never had problems keeping up with Frenchie and Kimiko, laughing with Hughie or Annie, or even just talking to Ben, but whenever you were around Butcher it was like your brain ejected things like common sense and wit. Sometimes you wondered if Butcher noticed and was just too polite to say anything to you.

Then again he probably just thinks I'm a freak that enjoys snail porn.

"So what were you and that yank talking about?" Butcher asks.

"What?"

It was difficult to talk to him when he was standing so close to you, but at least now he was wearing one of his signature Hawaiian shirts, soaked a little bit under the collar.

You were sure that if he was still shirtless you wouldn't have been able to make a sound, then again you could still see a delicious peak of chest hair sprouting beneath the two unbuttoned top buttons of the shirt.

The thud of your heartbeat thunders in your ears as you scramble for some lie, anxiety bubbling in your stomach the longer you look at Butcher, because there was no way in hell you could blurt out:

"Oh Ben agreed to fake date me so that you'll see me more than just a teammate or a little kid!"

"Well-" Butcher starts again.

Ben's arm comes around your waist so fast you don't have time to wonder how he snuck up on you. He tugs you back easily against his warm chest, still wet from his shower, and presses a kiss directly under your right ear, lingering a little bit too long to just be friendly. His beard scrapes against the sensitive skin of your neck, wet hair falling forward to tickle against the sides of your face, leaving the spicy scent of his shampoo under your nose.

"Showers free." He smirks at Butcher, before dropping his gaze to you, green eyes locking on yours and his lips pulling up in a mischievous smirk. "You ready for bed baby?"

Ben's other hand wanders just under the edge of your cotton t-shirt, pushing it up enough that the rough skin of his fingers finds the soft and supple flesh of your hips.

"Um-" You squeak in alarm.

Your face was so warm you were sure that if someone cracked an egg it would be fried to perfection in seconds.

Oh holy guacamole. This was so not what I meant. I meant maybe flirty talking or maybe him bringing me coffee and pretending to laugh with me about something! We need boundaries and maybe one of those squirt bottles you get for a cat that's unruly!

"I'm not really tired-" You choke out, still not able to make eye contact with Butcher. All you could think about Ben's very wet and naked chest pressed against you and the water from his shower soaking into your t-shirt.

This is worse than the snail genitals.

"Good." Ben purrs, the word rumbling up through where your back is pressed against his muscular torso. He leans closer to you, smirk widening. "I'm not either. Figured we could wear each other out first."

Butcher's body goes stock straight in surprise, eyes shifting from you to Ben for some kind of explanation.

"W-well-" You stammer.

Ben's eyes twinkle in the light streaming through the kitchen windows that picks up the flecks of gold hidden in the deep green that you'd never noticed.

"Fuck baby, I love that cute little stutter." His lips trail down your throat sucking a mark just below the shadow of your jaw, the prickle of his beard against your skin making a shiver travel down you spine.

Oh my sweet potato pie.

Unconsciously your body leans back into him, your hands falling to where his rest on your waist, as you try to control the heat wafting off of your face. An uncontrolled sound comes up through your chest as Ben's mouth continues to work down the column of your throat, earning a dark chuckle from the man behind you.

"Wait a minute are you two-" Butcher clears his throat as if he can't quite stomach it, the look on this face somewhere between someone choking and someone trying to pass a kidney stone.

"Have been for a while." Ben flashes a lazy smile. "She wanted to keep it quiet, but I said fuck it. I want everyone to know who she belongs to." His hand slides down your back to squeeze a handful of your ass.

Another uncontrollable squeak erupts from somewhere deep inside.

Time of Death 18:35:00. Goodbye cruel world.

Right about now you no longer believed that the universe was throwing you a bone with Ben pretending to date you, because this was beyond mortifying. You couldn't imagine Butcher giving a single fuck about the two of you. If anything Butcher was probably only worried about the one person on the team who could build whatever he wanted at the drop of a hat getting killed in a sex related accident.

Your throat closed a little tighter with the thought, because Ben was the strongest supe in the world now after everything with Homelander had fizzled out, and you couldn't imagine him being able to control himself in the throws of passion. Not when he barely had the self control to keep his temper in check.

But with it came the memory of what Ben had told you outside with a gentleness you didn't think he had, when he said that he wasn't going to hurt you or make you do anything that made you uncomfortable.

And maybe you were crazy, but you believed him.

You're not going to have sex with him.

You remind yourself, but with Ben's entire body wrapped around yours and the ghost of his beard against your throat, it seemed like you were going to have to remind him of that little thing all over again.

“But I thought you were-" Butcher tries again, but Ben interrupts him.

“Bring the cereal.” Ben nips at your earlobe, ignoring the man standing in front of the two of you. “I’ve got a feeling we’re going to work up an appetite.”

He smacks your ass before sauntering off to the bedroom he’d been sleeping in the past few nights, his towel slung low over his hips.

The idea of crawling under the refrigerator with the bits of marshmallow cereal resurfaces, but you were sure that even if you were under there they'd still be able to feel your embarrassment and anxiety all the way in Antarctica.

Butcher was staring at you open mouthed, unable to process. He closed it, then opened it again, looking far too much like a fish gasping for air on a beach.

If the error message on a computer had a picture assigned to it, Butcher's face would be smack dab in the middle of the screen.

Error. Does Not Compute. Please Try Again Later.

There was nothing you could say, nothing you could do to relieve the oppressive anxiety and embarrassment building in your chest with every second that passed following Ben's disappearance into his bedroom.

Maybe I was too soon to think that the universe was throwing me a bone, maybe it's beating me with it into submission.

Butcher coughs awkwardly. "I'm sorry. I think I just hallucinated, love. Did that wanker just say the two of you were-"

"Dating?" Your voice comes out high pitched. "Yeah."

"But he's-" Butcher searches for the word. "He's-"

"Older?"

It was the exact reason why you believed Butcher would never date you, because he was older and experienced. But it made you hopeful that Butcher would stop seeing you as just "kiddo" and "poppet" if he saw you with Ben.

"I was going to say a dick."

"Oh well Ben is- um- he's um-" You stutter, eyes dropping to the multicolored Hawaiian shirt Butcher was wearing trying to find some courage written in the chaotic colors swirling together. "He grows on you after a while."

"Like a fungus."

"He can actually be kind of sweet-" As soon as the words pass through your lips, Butcher laughs so loud you're sure that people would be able to hear it all the way back in NYC.

"You're joking right? Him? Mr. Casual Fuck? Mr. I'm Going To Disintegrate Everyone On My Old Team?"

Butcher lets out a deep sigh and rests his hip against the counter, while crossing his arms over his chest. You watch his eyes trace over you, inquisitive and somewhat curious.

"I don't think you should-" Butcher clears his throat. "I don’t think you should be with him, poppet."

If you'd been drinking something you would have done a spit take for sure.

"What?"

"He's-" Butcher tries to find his words, but you can see how difficult it is for him. "He's a prick and you're- I mean, you're nothing like him. Not to mention he's literally a walking Chernobyl waiting to 'appen."

"I think he has it under control." You say slowly. It was easier to talk to Butcher when you didn't have to talk about yourself. "He's just a little rough around the edges, um- like an onion!"

"Or a hand-grenade."

Ben appears in the doorway of his bedroom, still wearing the towel and a bored expression. But instead of saying anything or calling your name, he strides again over to where Butcher and you are standing, and unceremoniously slings you over his shoulder.

"Ben what are you doing?!" You screech.

"I told you. We're going to bed. I'm sick of hearing you and that British fuck talking. Not when you and I could be doing something a hell of a lot more satisfying."

"But-"

Hughie picks that exact moment to open the door of the bedroom he's been sharing with Butcher for the past few days. "Hey, what's-" He looks at Ben and you squinting in confusion. "Going on?"

"Pay attention you might learn something." Ben has the audacity to wink, all the while you're praying that his towel doesn't fall open.

At this point, I’d rather face the locusts.

Your gaze flicks up to where Butcher stands in the kitchen one last time before the bedroom door shuts.

His arms are still crossed over his chest, mouth turning down into a frown, jaw tight, but just as it closes you see something flicker across his face, an emotion that breaks through the usual mask of hardened grizzle that Butcher wore all the time.

What the hell was that?

Your body goes flying onto the bed with a deranged scream of Ben’s name passing through your lips followed by the pterodactyl like screech of the ancient bed when you land on top.

The spicy smell of Ben’s signature cologne, sweat, and mothballs comes wafting up in a cloud with the motion as one of the springs digs into your spinal cord.

"That's right baby. Keep saying it just like that." Ben reaches for the end of his towel and you scramble off the bed with flushed cheeks.

"Ben!" You hiss, eyes flitting to the door beyond, knowing that Butcher and Hughie can hear everything. "I told you that I wasn't going to- We aren't going to-"

"Relax princess." He gruffs out. "Didn't mean to ruffle your delicate sensibilities."

"You didn't-" Your eyes squeeze shut in frustration and anxiety, the embarrassment washing over you all over again when the events of everything that just happened two minutes ago out in the kitchen comes roaring back. "Damn it I- I mean I-. What are you doing?"

Ben's smirk dips into a bored frown. "You told me that you wanted me to pretend to date you. That's what I was doing."

"Pretend to date me yes! Not throw me around like some sort of Caveman-"

"Butcher isn't going to give two fucks about any of it, if he doesn't think I'm fucking you." Ben huffs. "Which I still think would be better than doing whatever the fuck this is."

He walks over to where his suitcase sits in a state of unpacking on the threadbare chest of drawers squeezed into the corner of the room. Underwear, t-shirts, and several pairs of jeans spurt out of the black bag like multicolored fish erupting from a tank.

The rest of the cabin is oddly silent and you wonder if Butcher and Hughie are out there whispering about what just happened to avoid Ben and you hearing.

Jokes on them, I'm gonna make Ben eavesdrop and then tell me everything.

"I just think that we need to make some boundaries-" You start to say at the exact moment Ben decides to drop his towel.

Holy. Fucking. No-

You slap your hand over your eyes so loudly that the clap ricochets through the bedroom, however, not quick enough to block the image of Ben's muscular ass assaulting your mind. "This is exactly what I was talking about."

"Aww come on princess, I'm giving you an inside look. A million girls would dream to be where you are."

"I'm pretty sure they already have." You mutter under your breath, earning a chuckle from Ben.

"You could be a million and one."

"No thanks. I'm all good."

The tell-tale signs of Ben getting dressed fill the room, but you refuse to take a peak. You knew it was exactly what he wanted, but at the same time something stirred in the pit of your stomach that you'd never felt before, a small flutter of something unnamable when you thought about Ben being naked in the same space as you.

The bed screeches again as Ben slips onto the creaky mattress with an audible sigh. You take this as confirmation that it's safe to open your eyes, but still wait another beat before you do.

He's leaning back against the wooden headboard, smirking at you, eyes tracing over your body. Ben's chosen not to wear a shirt, instead he's clad only in a pair of gray sweatpants. Again, how he can do that in a cabin that has absolutely no air conditioning, you have no idea.

The full sized bed looks even smaller with Ben's hulking figure laid across it, leaving very little space beside him or even space for you to walk around the bed back to the door that lead back out into the living room without hitting his feet that hang over the end. It was enough to make you think that the four of you were trapped in Green Acres rather than a small mountain cabin in the armpit of America.

Ben pats the dusty quilt beside him.The space is barely fit for a toddler let alone another person. 

“Come on. I don’t bite.” His smirk turns mischievous. “Unless you ask me to baby.”

You swallow, biting your lip.

A part of you wanted to go back out to the living room, but that meant you'd have to face Butcher again. And with you stuck smack dab between:

Telling Butcher that Ben and you had sex quickly.

Telling Butcher that you asked Ben to pretend to be in a relationship with you to get his attention.

You were trapped in this little bedroom with Ben until sunrise… or until Jack Nicholson started breaking down the front door with an axe.

Ben sighs heavily and drops his voice into a whisper, aware that Butcher and Hughie are listening. “Okay come on. I’m not going to fucking do anything.”

"I'm not sure I trust that and I'm okay over here." You point down at the floor, feeling the uneven wooden floorboards anxiously with the tip of your big toe.

"You can't stand there all night."

"You don’t know that! Maybe I could learn to sleep standing up like a Flamingo or something."

Ben crosses his arms over his chest. "Look I might be an asshole, but I'm not the kind of asshole that's gonna let you sleep on the floor. So just get in the fucking bed."

You mentally calculate the options in your head all over again. "Not before we make some rules."

"Told you I wasn't too good with those sweetheart."

Ignoring him seems to be a skill that you'd been developing forever, so instead you say, "First, no sex."

"You said that already. Kinda sounds like you're trying to convince yourself not me." The smirk pulls at the ends of his lips again, making you narrow your eyes.

"Second, no touching-"

"Okay wait a damn minute." Ben sits up. "I have to be able to touch you."

"Why?"

"Because nobody is going to believe that you and me are together if I can’t touch you."

He did have a point, you knew that. You'd seen Ben a few times with women in the office that he'd gone home with, not to mention the guy was a walking HR violation.

"Okay fine." You hold up one finger. "No inappropriate touching."

"What the fuck does that mean? I can't slip my finger under your panties when we're in a meeting or something? Because I didn't really peg you as the type who wanted to get hot and heavy at the office princess."

A wave of heat blooms beneath your cheeks. "No! I mean-"

"You want to get hot and heavy at the office." He tilts his head to the side. "Because I could make that happen."

"Let me finish!" You begin to pace back and forth in front of the bed. Moving seemed like a good option right now, the anxious energy flickering through your body needed places to go and because you were stuck in this room that might as well be a jail cell you were making do with what you had. "You can touch me, just no squeezing my butt or anything like that. Maybe hugging me from behind or holding my hand-"

"Holding your hand? You've got to be fucking with me."

"Ben, please." You whisper, eyes darting to the bedroom door. "You said you would do this."

"I said that I would pretend to fucking date you, not pretend to be a fucking pussy." He grouses. "Nobody is going to believe that you and me are together if you don't let me be the way I am. I've got a reputation to uphold princess."

You stand there for another beat, because he was right. Who was going to believe this? The anxiety was back lacing around your ribcage and pulling tight.

The memory of all the years you spent watching Butcher walk around the office dreaming of something that was never going to happen comes washing over you. The nicknames Butcher called you ring in your ears things that made you feel like a little kid in fourth grade who had a crush on the high schooler who occasionally smiled at her.

He's right. I should just let this go. It's never going to happen. Why do I keep doing this to myself?

"You're right, this is a ridiculous idea, there's no way it's going to work and-" You begin to say, but Ben interrupts you.

"Shut up and get in bed." Ben says bluntly.

"Huh?" You clear your throat, fighting the tears that were already beginning to blur your eyes like the heartache that ate away at your chest. "

"Get in the fucking bed."

"Why?"

"Because I can't stand seeing you look all fucking pathetic like that. So you can either get in this bed or I can throw you in all over again."

"I'm not pathetic." You mutter, but you did feel that way. After all, you'd asked Soldier Boy to fake date you. Soldier Boy.

"Yes, you are. You've wanted Winston Churchill to fuck you for the past two years and you're obviously too fucked in the head to figure out how to do that so come here."

"Why?"

Ben starts to get up.

"Okay fine!" You sit on the end of the bed. "There. I'm in the bed, but I don't understand how this is going to-"

Ben's arm suddenly wraps around your waist and he pulls you back against his chest, to where he leans back against the headboard.

"Whoa, wait a minute-"

His hand clamps down over your mouth.

Your body immediately goes into fight or flight, eyes widening, beginning to struggle against his grip.

"I'm not going to hurt you. How many fucking times do I have to say that?" He grumbles, his voice a pleasant low rumble in your ear. "Just relax for one second."

Ben's face is so close to yours that you can feel the warmth of his breath on your face and the rough prickle of his beard against the curve of your ear. His eyes meet yours the flecks of gold inside like falling stars and a sprinkle of cinnamon colored freckles brushed over his nose and the top of his cheeks that you'd never noticed.

"You're too much in your head." Ben breathes. "Now moan."

He removes his hand from your mouth.

"But-"

He pokes your forehead with a frown. "No. Too much in here. Shut up and moan."

You open your mouth to probably to ask him why, but then you catch his gaze again. Something twinkles in his eyes, something that’s different than the bored or angry or aroused expressions that you’d seen before. It looks almost, amused.

So instead you moan and feel like a complete idiot.

"Good, now try a little louder." Ben's arm around your waist gives you an encouraging squeeze.

You do as he says, emboldened by his motivation.

Ben's other hand reaches back to hit the headboard once up against the wall, before he lets loose a moan that makes your entire body flush and an awkward giggle bubble up past your lips.

"You laughing at me sweetheart?" Ben chuckles, hitting the headboard up against the wall again, and motioning for you to moan again, which you comply without a second thought.

"No."  You whisper back with a smile.

"Kinda sounded like you were."

"I'd never do that."

This time Ben moans your name loudly, sending a thrill up your spine, before hitting the headboard against the wall.

You’d never heard anyone say your name like that before, and even though you know that Ben is pretending, for the first time in a long time you don't feel like the awkward girl that seemed to stumble through life, the one that was only 'just' and nothing else, the one who chose to pretend not to like someone because it was easier than the reality, and the one who was always so behind everyone else when it came to the opposite sex they might as well be on another planet.

So you take a chance and moan back his name just as loud as he did yours.

Ben's eyes darken, the arm he has around your waist tightening slightly, before he hits the headboard against the wall again.

"Fuck. You feel so good baby." Ben groans, the headboard banging so hard it makes dust from the ceiling flutter down onto the two of you.

"Ben!" You moan back, leaning into his chest and feeling the heat from his skin envelop you like a warm blanket.

The smell of Ben's shampoo is everywhere around you, soaking through your body, going up your nose with every inhale of breath. It was almost overwhelming. This was the first time that you'd ever been close to someone else of the opposite sex, besides the awkward hug you gave your study partner when the two of you graduated and he told you that he had feelings for you and you blurted out "How about those Yankees?" to cover, even though you'd never been to a game.

*Bang*

"You want more baby?" He growls.

*Bang*

"Please!"

*Bang*

"I love how polite you are sweetheart, even when I'm fucking you like this."

You cover your mouth to stop an awkward squeak from breaking through your lips, that only makes Ben's smirk grow as he hits the headboard against the wall.

"You like that?" He says it just as loud, but you know that it’s not directed at the two men in the other room listening to your performance.

Maybe. A little voice whispers inside your head, but you don't answer, because you're not sure where it came from. Not when Ben and you are in here trying to make someone jealous and the same someone that you can't remember the name of with Ben looking at you like that.

"Ready for the grand finale?" Ben mutters.

*Bang*

You nod.

"Ladies first."

"What a gentleman." You whisper back.

"Always." He winks at you, squeezing you tighter against him.

The sound that comes out of your mouth doesn't sound like you at all, but you don't care. Something about being here with Ben didn't make you feel like you, and it made you feel almost relieved.

Ben mirrors the moan, all the while looking at you with the same smile/smirk combo that only made you smile back at him. You couldn't remember the last time that you had smiled this much. He knocks the headboard one more time up against the wall for good measure before letting go and relaxing his arm beside where you sit between his outstretched legs.

"Look" Ben shakes his head, relaxing back against the headboard that left a pretty good sized dent in the peeling poorly painted wall behind it. "I get it, you really want Butcher to fuck you. But you're not going to get him with those silly rules of yours."

"But-"

"I'm not asking you to do something like shoot a porno in the office. All I'm asking is for you to trust me."

"Trust you?" You snort, raising an eyebrow.

"I know men sweetheart, and you don't. Me holding your hand isn't going to do anything to him." Ben leans in a little closer to you, mouth pulling up in the same mischievous smirk that he's had all night. "But him hearing me fuck you, it'll drive him crazy, not to mention keep him up all night."

You bite the inside of your cheek. As much as you didn't want to admit it, Ben might be right. Okay, maybe a whole lot more than right. Butcher wasn't going to think of you 'experienced' with Ben only holding your hand. It was things like what the two of you had just done that was going to get his attention.

Oddly enough, the usual embarrassment and anxiety that came wasn't there. You were waiting for it, waiting to feel shame, but you didn't have any.

That's weird.

"You might be right." You say slowly.

"I'm sorry, say that a little louder sweetheart."

"Shut up!" You smack him across his muscular chest. "And pinky swear."

"Pinky swear?"

"Yes. Pinky swear, because you won't let me make rules."

His eyes flick from your outstretched pinky to your face, looking as if you'd suggested hand holding all over again.

"Are you sure we can't just seal the deal with a good fuck instead?"

"Isn't that what we just did?"

"No." Ben chuckles, the low rumble vibrating against your back where it rests against his chest. "Trust me sweetheart, if we really had, you wouldn't be able to say anything, much less move."

But he wraps his pinky around yours, dwarfing your hand slightly, with a sigh.

There's a part of you that wishes that you had a camera to capture the moment of Soldier Boy pinky swearing with you. It was up there with photos of Bigfoot and flying saucers, something that even the experts couldn't prove impossible.

"Thank you."

"Don't mention it." Ben sighs retracting his pinky from yours, eyes narrowing. "Really, don't fucking tell anyone I did that."

"I won't promise that." You say with a giggle, before trying to slide away into the space beside Ben, but he doesn't move his arm from around your waist.

"Where are you going?" He smirks.

"To bed?"

It seemed obvious given the fact that you couldn't go back into the living room and you figured you might as well stay in here with Ben. All inhibitions you had about staying in here with him seemed to completely evaporate in the wake of your mutual (fake) orgasms.

"Not a chance princess. Need to let them catch an earful of round two, I've got a reputation to uphold after all."

A/N: And by rules of engagement I mean, THERE ARE NO RULES! It was so fun to come back to these two, I really missed seeing Ben with the fake dating trope. Also, I tried to make sure that I tagged everyone who asked, but if I missed you, please be sure to let me know! 💗

Thank you so much for reading! Likes, Reblogs, and Comments are not required, but are always appreciated! I love hearing what y'all think! 😊 If you'd liked to be added to my taglist for this series please let me know!

Taglist:

@zepskies @jollyhunter @waynes-multiverse @globetrotter98 @lunaleah

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@the-super-who-locked-wizard @suckitands33 @spnaquakindgdom @garlicbreaddd1

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[lamentationsofalonelypotato]

Chapter 2: The Rules Of Engagement

Pairing: Soldier Boy x f!reader / Billy Butcher x f!reader

Summary:When you first joined Butcher's team the last thing you expected was to develop a crush on him, but after two years of pining, you get a proposition from the last person you'd expect to care. This is Chapter 2 of my Promise Not To Fall In Love With Me Series!

Tropes: Fake Dating, Pining, Faking It, Awkward/Shyish Reader, Friends To Lovers

Word Count: 6.4K

Warnings: I'm gonna label this 18+ (For the S-E-X, and by the S-E-X I mean FAKE sex), Cursing, Sexual innuendo, References to sex, Snail Genitals (had to be there), Toaster Bath Joke, Just A Hint Of Soft!Ben, Reader is a little anxious/anxiety/socially awkward?, Reader has Self Deprecating Thoughts, Soldier Boy being Soldier Boy (He's a warning, we all know it and somehow still love him for it).

Note:This is told from Reader's perspective. Any references to the reader is made using you or your. I tried my best to proofread, but nobody's perfect. If you don’t like, don’t read, but if you do like, you’re my favorite!

Internal monologue is in italics and is in first person.

A/N: It's been a while since I wrote a chapter for this one, but I really wanted to take a little break and go back to Ben, because I've missed him.

Series Masterlist

Main Masterlist

Reader POV

How can we be out of milk? I just went to the grocery store!

You think to yourself with a sigh, scanning the dismal array of products on the shelves of the rusted refrigerator in front of you. All you really wanted was a bowl of cereal and like hell you were going to have it with water like some kind of psychopath.

I bet Homelander ate his cereal with water instead of milk. Or maybe he was one of those freaky dry cereal eaters who drink a glass of milk at the same time.

You shudder.

It was easier to focus on things like the lack of cereal now that you were inside the cabin and no longer drooling over Butcher chopping wood outside. The image begins to tiptoe back across your mind,  the tensing of his muscles with each mighty swing, the sweat that curved down his perfectly tan and muscular body, catching in his thick dusting of chest hair, that leads down to-

Nope, nope, nope. Not going back down that road.

Instead of fantasizing about being a drop of sweat you force yourself to focus on the conversation that Ben and you had earlier, when he agreed to fake date you. Which was maybe the oddest conversation you’d had with anyone… and you’d had an argument with Hughie over the possibility of making a lightsaber. Something that Hughie was sure the government was hiding and that you knew how to do.

Because obviously my engineering degree came with a minor in lasers, lightsabers, and Luke Skywalker.

But you’d thought the universe was throwing you a bone by letting you stare at Butcher's gloriously sweaty body with no consequences. Which meant that maybe Ben agreeing to fake date you was again the universe apologizing for the two years of you trying to get Butcher's attention (without trying to get his attention). 

Maybe things are looking up.

You think to yourself with a smile and then remember the current dilemma:

Dry cereal, no milk.

Your shoulders droop in defeat. It wasn't enough that there wasn't a coffee maker in this cabin, which meant you were dragging your body around the grounds like a blob, now you had to eat your cereal dry because no one else in this damn cabin went grocery shopping!

AND NO ONE ELSE DOES THE DISHES! I swear no one helps me in this house.

The small poorly stocked grocery store is twenty miles from the cabin down a bumpy back road that curves around a mountain so tight that you thought you were going to go soaring off when Ben took the turn too fast. You’d gone two days ago, walking down the three measly aisles trying to find something edible while Ben complained and said grocery shopping was a woman’s job.

Why he thought that and came with you anyway, you had no idea, but it was his fault you were out of milk.

You'd already caught him contaminating the jug with his man germs last night when you found him drinking straight from the carton like an animal.

Probably finished the job when I fell asleep. Damn it.

It often surprised you how someone who was supposed to be from a more cultured and upstanding generation still had the manners of a horny sailor who hadn't felt the touch of a woman in six months and the attitude of a toddler who just wanted his mom to buy him a lollipop at the checkout.

The man in question was in the (for all intents and purposes) "shower." The warm water pattered against the rusted tub below and steam rose from under the curtained area that was separated from the rest of the great room in the corner, confusing you further over the way the cabin was built.

The layout alone was odd.

It had one big room that served as a living area furnished only with a couch that had more than a few questionable stains, a kitchen, and a dining room. Two thinnly walled bedrooms were off the main room holding beds that creaked even when you weren't moving.

Every single sound was amplified, and you’d heard more than enough sounds coming from Ben's bedroom over the past three days to last you a lifetime.

But the "bathroom" was nothing more than a sectioned off area in the far corner of the living room with the toilet and shower shielded from view by a faded floral curtain.

You were thankful for the curtain, but at the same time you really hated that you couldn't go to the bathroom without everyone hearing everything. It made you feel like you were living in a frat house.

All you wanted was to go back to the city where Annie and you shared an apartment that always had toilet paper in the bathroom and where the seat was always down so the possibility of falling into the toilet in the middle of the night was zero.

Because no matter how many times you told Ben to actually put the seat down, he never did.

It's a wonder that he's still single…

But you liked living with Annie. You'd grown up with three sisters so you had no qualms with living with another woman, not to mention Annie and you had grown into good friends since your time working at Supe Affairs, and you were kinda scared to live alone as a single woman in New York.

Sure you had an engineering degree and you worked on a team that took down supes, but what were you supposed to do if someone broke in? Start talking about the quadratic formula and hope the intruder fell asleep? Or maybe start a debate with him over the structural integrity of a washing machine?

It wasn't that you couldn't handle yourself if the situation called for it,  more that there were other people on the team who handled that kind of thing before you needed to.

And by people it was usually Ben, because he never cared to listen to what Butcher was saying and because you were so whipped someone might as well give you the nickname Dole, you listened to everything Butcher said and stayed out of the line of fire.

You audibly sigh when you shut the refrigerator door.

Dry cereal it is.

The Lucky Charms box sitting pretty on the wooden countertop is a welcome sight. One little piece of civilization you'd found in the grocery store that was still selling dried meal kits and gas masks from World War I.  Ben hadn't thought it was funny when you held one up and asked if he was happy to see something familiar.

"Hey." Butcher's voice shatters the welcome silence in a low rumble that sends the prickle of goosebumps over your arms.

You gasp and jump at the sudden intrusion of his voice, sending bits of marshmallow raining down over the counter. Pieces roll under the refrigerator from the now empty box in your hand, taking your last wisp of hope of a good meal in this godforsaken place.

"Shit. Sorry Poppet. Didn't mean to sneak up on you." He apologizes.

The heady smell of sweat and Butcher's musk wafts over you with his close proximity, the heat from his sun-kissed skin buzzing through the air around you and making your throat tighten. You fight the heat that kisses your cheeks, hoping that you don't look too much like a startled doe.

Butcher raises a hand to wipe away the drops that curl across his forehead, the sleeve of his brightly colored Hawaiian shirt pulling with the flex of his muscular bicep.

He flashes a sheepish smile that makes it difficult for you to breathe, words evaporating from the tip of your tongue as you stare at him for a moment too long, the silence stretching between the two of you.

You drop to the ground to avoid his gaze, frantically scrapping the bits of cereal together while trying to stop the collection of emotions scrambling around your head screaming: "Defcon 1, alert, he's talking to us! This is not a drill!"

"It-it's okay. Totally fine-" You wave a hand anxiously. "I meant to do that."

Cleaning the cereal from the floor had been a good idea in theory, until Butcher dropped down next to you to help you clean up the mess.

It was another reason why you couldn't seem to shake the crush that you had on him, because William Butcher was different whenever it was just the two of you. He'd go out of his way to help you, he always had your back in the field, and on the nights when you were up late tinkering on something Butcher would talk to you softly, so different than the harsh growl he had whenever Ben was around.

Breathe. In and out- He's just a person. I can talk to a person. I do that everyday, no big deal...

Unfortunately the rest of your body thought it was a very big deal because deep breathing only seemed to make things worse. Now you could smell the sweat you’d dreamed about being twenty minutes ago when you'd shamelessly watched Butcher chopping wood outside.

There was something underlying it, a strong masculine scent, something heady, the way the earth smells before a storm when thunder rumbles in the distance, rainwater rippling through a quiet forest.

You could feel your mouth water, imagining the salty tang against the tip of your tongue if you were to taste it.

What is wrong with me?

"Meant to spill the cereal on the floor?" Butcher asks amused. His large hands are mirroring your frantic movements with a clean precision, over the ground as he picks up bits of your dinner.

"Yeah. You don't do that? It's good luck, like throwing salt over your shoulder-"

You had no idea what you were saying, just that you were babbling and you wanted it to stop, because you knew that you were only digging a deeper hole and that none of this was attractive to Butcher.

In the two years that you'd been dying to get his attention, you'd seen a few of the women that Butcher usually hung around. Beautiful, confident women. Women who looked like they chewed the world up and spat it back out. Women who actually owned tight-fighting designer clothes, were confident, wore bold colored lipsticks, clicked around in high heels, and knew how to do more makeup than just the random flick of mascara.

None of them were like you.

You didn't think that you were beautiful or sexy.

Cute, occasionally, when you weren't putting your foot in your mouth.

Pretty maybe on a good day when you tried a little harder and the aforementioned mascara didn't smear under your eyes and your hair actually cooperated.

Awkward, always... unfortunately.

Your sisters had always been like those women, you not so much.

Not to mention all of those women were older and probably knew how to do things to men in the bedroom that made the limited experience (ie. none) with men look like a single grain of sand sitting at the feet of the Statue of Liberty.

"Did you know that there are some kinds of snails that chew each others genitals off during sexual intercourse and-"

You continue, not sure how in the hell you got here in the past minute since the cereal fell and you kept screeching along like a broken record, but you were desperately wishing that you were one of the marshmallow bits that rolled deep underneath the refrigerator.

At least under there Butcher wouldn't be able to hear the ridiculous psychobabble you were spouting because every damn time you were in his vicinity, your mind seemed to forget things like boundaries and appropriate small talk and your phd and instead switched to the B side cassette tape where all the random info you'd learned at four am on YouTube resided in the dark recesses of your brain.

Please somebody make it stop.

Butcher's face has gone from amused to confused within seconds, an awkward chuckle working it's way up through his chest, because honestly how do you respond to that juicy little tidbit of info?

A wave of embarrassment and shame has already began to work it's way through your body, the urge to cry building in the back of your throat.

Why am I like this? Why can’t I just talk to someone without it turning into the fifty shades of how much of a freak I am?

You stand from the ground with a handful of dusty cereal in your hand, before throwing it away in the small rusting trashcan on the other side of the creaky kitchen table.

At this point you would have just run away to the bathroom or another room, but given that Ben was still in the shower, and Hughie was in one of the bedrooms, and you were sleeping on the couch so basically Butcher was in your bedroom right now, there wasn't anywhere to go.

Maybe Ben will get out of the shower long enough to let me commit toaster bath.

Butcher stands from the ground. "I didn't know that."

"Now you do." You clear your throat, avoiding eye contact the best you can.

The small kitchen seems to grow even smaller with his presence and the open window above the sink does little to cool down the wave of heat that travels through you at Butcher's close proximity to you. Your fingertips fidget at your sides when the silence grows.

You hated that this only happened whenever you were talking to Butcher. You never had problems keeping up with Frenchie and Kimiko, laughing with Hughie or Annie, or even just talking to Ben, but whenever you were around Butcher it was like your brain ejected things like common sense and wit. Sometimes you wondered if Butcher noticed and was just too polite to say anything to you.

Then again he probably just thinks I'm a freak that enjoys snail porn.

"So what were you and that yank talking about?" Butcher asks.

"What?"

It was difficult to talk to him when he was standing so close to you, but at least now he was wearing one of his signature Hawaiian shirts, soaked a little bit under the collar.

You were sure that if he was still shirtless you wouldn't have been able to make a sound, then again you could still see a delicious peak of chest hair sprouting beneath the two unbuttoned top buttons of the shirt.

The thud of your heartbeat thunders in your ears as you scramble for some lie, anxiety bubbling in your stomach the longer you look at Butcher, because there was no way in hell you could blurt out:

"Oh Ben agreed to fake date me so that you'll see me more than just a teammate or a little kid!"

"Well-" Butcher starts again.

Ben's arm comes around your waist so fast you don't have time to wonder how he snuck up on you. He tugs you back easily against his warm chest, still wet from his shower, and presses a kiss directly under your right ear, lingering a little bit too long to just be friendly. His beard scrapes against the sensitive skin of your neck, wet hair falling forward to tickle against the sides of your face, leaving the spicy scent of his shampoo under your nose.

"Showers free." He smirks at Butcher, before dropping his gaze to you, green eyes locking on yours and his lips pulling up in a mischievous smirk. "You ready for bed baby?"

Ben's other hand wanders just under the edge of your cotton t-shirt, pushing it up enough that the rough skin of his fingers finds the soft and supple flesh of your hips.

"Um-" You squeak in alarm.

Your face was so warm you were sure that if someone cracked an egg it would be fried to perfection in seconds.

Oh holy guacamole. This was so not what I meant. I meant maybe flirty talking or maybe him bringing me coffee and pretending to laugh with me about something! We need boundaries and maybe one of those squirt bottles you get for a cat that's unruly!

"I'm not really tired-" You choke out, still not able to make eye contact with Butcher. All you could think about Ben's very wet and naked chest pressed against you and the water from his shower soaking into your t-shirt.

This is worse than the snail genitals.

"Good." Ben purrs, the word rumbling up through where your back is pressed against his muscular torso. He leans closer to you, smirk widening. "I'm not either. Figured we could wear each other out first."

Butcher's body goes stock straight in surprise, eyes shifting from you to Ben for some kind of explanation.

"W-well-" You stammer.

Ben's eyes twinkle in the light streaming through the kitchen windows that picks up the flecks of gold hidden in the deep green that you'd never noticed.

"Fuck baby, I love that cute little stutter." His lips trail down your throat sucking a mark just below the shadow of your jaw, the prickle of his beard against your skin making a shiver travel down you spine.

Oh my sweet potato pie.

Unconsciously your body leans back into him, your hands falling to where his rest on your waist, as you try to control the heat wafting off of your face. An uncontrolled sound comes up through your chest as Ben's mouth continues to work down the column of your throat, earning a dark chuckle from the man behind you.

"Wait a minute are you two-" Butcher clears his throat as if he can't quite stomach it, the look on this face somewhere between someone choking and someone trying to pass a kidney stone.

"Have been for a while." Ben flashes a lazy smile. "She wanted to keep it quiet, but I said fuck it. I want everyone to know who she belongs to." His hand slides down your back to squeeze a handful of your ass.

Another uncontrollable squeak erupts from somewhere deep inside.

Time of Death 18:35:00. Goodbye cruel world.

Right about now you no longer believed that the universe was throwing you a bone with Ben pretending to date you, because this was beyond mortifying. You couldn't imagine Butcher giving a single fuck about the two of you. If anything Butcher was probably only worried about the one person on the team who could build whatever he wanted at the drop of a hat getting killed in a sex related accident.

Your throat closed a little tighter with the thought, because Ben was the strongest supe in the world now after everything with Homelander had fizzled out, and you couldn't imagine him being able to control himself in the throws of passion. Not when he barely had the self control to keep his temper in check.

But with it came the memory of what Ben had told you outside with a gentleness you didn't think he had, when he said that he wasn't going to hurt you or make you do anything that made you uncomfortable.

And maybe you were crazy, but you believed him.

You're not going to have sex with him.

You remind yourself, but with Ben's entire body wrapped around yours and the ghost of his beard against your throat, it seemed like you were going to have to remind him of that little thing all over again.

“But I thought you were-" Butcher tries again, but Ben interrupts him.

“Bring the cereal.” Ben nips at your earlobe, ignoring the man standing in front of the two of you. “I’ve got a feeling we’re going to work up an appetite.”

He smacks your ass before sauntering off to the bedroom he’d been sleeping in the past few nights, his towel slung low over his hips.

The idea of crawling under the refrigerator with the bits of marshmallow cereal resurfaces, but you were sure that even if you were under there they'd still be able to feel your embarrassment and anxiety all the way in Antarctica.

Butcher was staring at you open mouthed, unable to process. He closed it, then opened it again, looking far too much like a fish gasping for air on a beach.

If the error message on a computer had a picture assigned to it, Butcher's face would be smack dab in the middle of the screen.

Error. Does Not Compute. Please Try Again Later.

There was nothing you could say, nothing you could do to relieve the oppressive anxiety and embarrassment building in your chest with every second that passed following Ben's disappearance into his bedroom.

Maybe I was too soon to think that the universe was throwing me a bone, maybe it's beating me with it into submission.

Butcher coughs awkwardly. "I'm sorry. I think I just hallucinated, love. Did that wanker just say the two of you were-"

"Dating?" Your voice comes out high pitched. "Yeah."

"But he's-" Butcher searches for the word. "He's-"

"Older?"

It was the exact reason why you believed Butcher would never date you, because he was older and experienced. But it made you hopeful that Butcher would stop seeing you as just "kiddo" and "poppet" if he saw you with Ben.

"I was going to say a dick."

"Oh well Ben is- um- he's um-" You stutter, eyes dropping to the multicolored Hawaiian shirt Butcher was wearing trying to find some courage written in the chaotic colors swirling together. "He grows on you after a while."

"Like a fungus."

"He can actually be kind of sweet-" As soon as the words pass through your lips, Butcher laughs so loud you're sure that people would be able to hear it all the way back in NYC.

"You're joking right? Him? Mr. Casual Fuck? Mr. I'm Going To Disintegrate Everyone On My Old Team?"

Butcher lets out a deep sigh and rests his hip against the counter, while crossing his arms over his chest. You watch his eyes trace over you, inquisitive and somewhat curious.

"I don't think you should-" Butcher clears his throat. "I don’t think you should be with him, poppet."

If you'd been drinking something you would have done a spit take for sure.

"What?"

"He's-" Butcher tries to find his words, but you can see how difficult it is for him. "He's a prick and you're- I mean, you're nothing like him. Not to mention he's literally a walking Chernobyl waiting to 'appen."

"I think he has it under control." You say slowly. It was easier to talk to Butcher when you didn't have to talk about yourself. "He's just a little rough around the edges, um- like an onion!"

"Or a hand-grenade."

Ben appears in the doorway of his bedroom, still wearing the towel and a bored expression. But instead of saying anything or calling your name, he strides again over to where Butcher and you are standing, and unceremoniously slings you over his shoulder.

"Ben what are you doing?!" You screech.

"I told you. We're going to bed. I'm sick of hearing you and that British fuck talking. Not when you and I could be doing something a hell of a lot more satisfying."

"But-"

Hughie picks that exact moment to open the door of the bedroom he's been sharing with Butcher for the past few days. "Hey, what's-" He looks at Ben and you squinting in confusion. "Going on?"

"Pay attention you might learn something." Ben has the audacity to wink, all the while you're praying that his towel doesn't fall open.

At this point, I’d rather face the locusts.

Your gaze flicks up to where Butcher stands in the kitchen one last time before the bedroom door shuts.

His arms are still crossed over his chest, mouth turning down into a frown, jaw tight, but just as it closes you see something flicker across his face, an emotion that breaks through the usual mask of hardened grizzle that Butcher wore all the time.

What the hell was that?

Your body goes flying onto the bed with a deranged scream of Ben’s name passing through your lips followed by the pterodactyl like screech of the ancient bed when you land on top.

The spicy smell of Ben’s signature cologne, sweat, and mothballs comes wafting up in a cloud with the motion as one of the springs digs into your spinal cord.

"That's right baby. Keep saying it just like that." Ben reaches for the end of his towel and you scramble off the bed with flushed cheeks.

"Ben!" You hiss, eyes flitting to the door beyond, knowing that Butcher and Hughie can hear everything. "I told you that I wasn't going to- We aren't going to-"

"Relax princess." He gruffs out. "Didn't mean to ruffle your delicate sensibilities."

"You didn't-" Your eyes squeeze shut in frustration and anxiety, the embarrassment washing over you all over again when the events of everything that just happened two minutes ago out in the kitchen comes roaring back. "Damn it I- I mean I-. What are you doing?"

Ben's smirk dips into a bored frown. "You told me that you wanted me to pretend to date you. That's what I was doing."

"Pretend to date me yes! Not throw me around like some sort of Caveman-"

"Butcher isn't going to give two fucks about any of it, if he doesn't think I'm fucking you." Ben huffs. "Which I still think would be better than doing whatever the fuck this is."

He walks over to where his suitcase sits in a state of unpacking on the threadbare chest of drawers squeezed into the corner of the room. Underwear, t-shirts, and several pairs of jeans spurt out of the black bag like multicolored fish erupting from a tank.

The rest of the cabin is oddly silent and you wonder if Butcher and Hughie are out there whispering about what just happened to avoid Ben and you hearing.

Jokes on them, I'm gonna make Ben eavesdrop and then tell me everything.

"I just think that we need to make some boundaries-" You start to say at the exact moment Ben decides to drop his towel.

Holy. Fucking. No-

You slap your hand over your eyes so loudly that the clap ricochets through the bedroom, however, not quick enough to block the image of Ben's muscular ass assaulting your mind. "This is exactly what I was talking about."

"Aww come on princess, I'm giving you an inside look. A million girls would dream to be where you are."

"I'm pretty sure they already have." You mutter under your breath, earning a chuckle from Ben.

"You could be a million and one."

"No thanks. I'm all good."

The tell-tale signs of Ben getting dressed fill the room, but you refuse to take a peak. You knew it was exactly what he wanted, but at the same time something stirred in the pit of your stomach that you'd never felt before, a small flutter of something unnamable when you thought about Ben being naked in the same space as you.

The bed screeches again as Ben slips onto the creaky mattress with an audible sigh. You take this as confirmation that it's safe to open your eyes, but still wait another beat before you do.

He's leaning back against the wooden headboard, smirking at you, eyes tracing over your body. Ben's chosen not to wear a shirt, instead he's clad only in a pair of gray sweatpants. Again, how he can do that in a cabin that has absolutely no air conditioning, you have no idea.

The full sized bed looks even smaller with Ben's hulking figure laid across it, leaving very little space beside him or even space for you to walk around the bed back to the door that lead back out into the living room without hitting his feet that hang over the end. It was enough to make you think that the four of you were trapped in Green Acres rather than a small mountain cabin in the armpit of America.

Ben pats the dusty quilt beside him.The space is barely fit for a toddler let alone another person. 

“Come on. I don’t bite.” His smirk turns mischievous. “Unless you ask me to baby.”

You swallow, biting your lip.

A part of you wanted to go back out to the living room, but that meant you'd have to face Butcher again. And with you stuck smack dab between:

Telling Butcher that Ben and you had sex quickly.

Telling Butcher that you asked Ben to pretend to be in a relationship with you to get his attention.

You were trapped in this little bedroom with Ben until sunrise… or until Jack Nicholson started breaking down the front door with an axe.

Ben sighs heavily and drops his voice into a whisper, aware that Butcher and Hughie are listening. “Okay come on. I’m not going to fucking do anything.”

"I'm not sure I trust that and I'm okay over here." You point down at the floor, feeling the uneven wooden floorboards anxiously with the tip of your big toe.

"You can't stand there all night."

"You don’t know that! Maybe I could learn to sleep standing up like a Flamingo or something."

Ben crosses his arms over his chest. "Look I might be an asshole, but I'm not the kind of asshole that's gonna let you sleep on the floor. So just get in the fucking bed."

You mentally calculate the options in your head all over again. "Not before we make some rules."

"Told you I wasn't too good with those sweetheart."

Ignoring him seems to be a skill that you'd been developing forever, so instead you say, "First, no sex."

"You said that already. Kinda sounds like you're trying to convince yourself not me." The smirk pulls at the ends of his lips again, making you narrow your eyes.

"Second, no touching-"

"Okay wait a damn minute." Ben sits up. "I have to be able to touch you."

"Why?"

"Because nobody is going to believe that you and me are together if I can’t touch you."

He did have a point, you knew that. You'd seen Ben a few times with women in the office that he'd gone home with, not to mention the guy was a walking HR violation.

"Okay fine." You hold up one finger. "No inappropriate touching."

"What the fuck does that mean? I can't slip my finger under your panties when we're in a meeting or something? Because I didn't really peg you as the type who wanted to get hot and heavy at the office princess."

A wave of heat blooms beneath your cheeks. "No! I mean-"

"You want to get hot and heavy at the office." He tilts his head to the side. "Because I could make that happen."

"Let me finish!" You begin to pace back and forth in front of the bed. Moving seemed like a good option right now, the anxious energy flickering through your body needed places to go and because you were stuck in this room that might as well be a jail cell you were making do with what you had. "You can touch me, just no squeezing my butt or anything like that. Maybe hugging me from behind or holding my hand-"

"Holding your hand? You've got to be fucking with me."

"Ben, please." You whisper, eyes darting to the bedroom door. "You said you would do this."

"I said that I would pretend to fucking date you, not pretend to be a fucking pussy." He grouses. "Nobody is going to believe that you and me are together if you don't let me be the way I am. I've got a reputation to uphold princess."

You stand there for another beat, because he was right. Who was going to believe this? The anxiety was back lacing around your ribcage and pulling tight.

The memory of all the years you spent watching Butcher walk around the office dreaming of something that was never going to happen comes washing over you. The nicknames Butcher called you ring in your ears things that made you feel like a little kid in fourth grade who had a crush on the high schooler who occasionally smiled at her.

He's right. I should just let this go. It's never going to happen. Why do I keep doing this to myself?

"You're right, this is a ridiculous idea, there's no way it's going to work and-" You begin to say, but Ben interrupts you.

"Shut up and get in bed." Ben says bluntly.

"Huh?" You clear your throat, fighting the tears that were already beginning to blur your eyes like the heartache that ate away at your chest. "

"Get in the fucking bed."

"Why?"

"Because I can't stand seeing you look all fucking pathetic like that. So you can either get in this bed or I can throw you in all over again."

"I'm not pathetic." You mutter, but you did feel that way. After all, you'd asked Soldier Boy to fake date you. Soldier Boy.

"Yes, you are. You've wanted Winston Churchill to fuck you for the past two years and you're obviously too fucked in the head to figure out how to do that so come here."

"Why?"

Ben starts to get up.

"Okay fine!" You sit on the end of the bed. "There. I'm in the bed, but I don't understand how this is going to-"

Ben's arm suddenly wraps around your waist and he pulls you back against his chest, to where he leans back against the headboard.

"Whoa, wait a minute-"

His hand clamps down over your mouth.

Your body immediately goes into fight or flight, eyes widening, beginning to struggle against his grip.

"I'm not going to hurt you. How many fucking times do I have to say that?" He grumbles, his voice a pleasant low rumble in your ear. "Just relax for one second."

Ben's face is so close to yours that you can feel the warmth of his breath on your face and the rough prickle of his beard against the curve of your ear. His eyes meet yours the flecks of gold inside like falling stars and a sprinkle of cinnamon colored freckles brushed over his nose and the top of his cheeks that you'd never noticed.

"You're too much in your head." Ben breathes. "Now moan."

He removes his hand from your mouth.

"But-"

He pokes your forehead with a frown. "No. Too much in here. Shut up and moan."

You open your mouth to probably to ask him why, but then you catch his gaze again. Something twinkles in his eyes, something that’s different than the bored or angry or aroused expressions that you’d seen before. It looks almost, amused.

So instead you moan and feel like a complete idiot.

"Good, now try a little louder." Ben's arm around your waist gives you an encouraging squeeze.

You do as he says, emboldened by his motivation.

Ben's other hand reaches back to hit the headboard once up against the wall, before he lets loose a moan that makes your entire body flush and an awkward giggle bubble up past your lips.

"You laughing at me sweetheart?" Ben chuckles, hitting the headboard up against the wall again, and motioning for you to moan again, which you comply without a second thought.

"No."  You whisper back with a smile.

"Kinda sounded like you were."

"I'd never do that."

This time Ben moans your name loudly, sending a thrill up your spine, before hitting the headboard against the wall.

You’d never heard anyone say your name like that before, and even though you know that Ben is pretending, for the first time in a long time you don't feel like the awkward girl that seemed to stumble through life, the one that was only 'just' and nothing else, the one who chose to pretend not to like someone because it was easier than the reality, and the one who was always so behind everyone else when it came to the opposite sex they might as well be on another planet.

So you take a chance and moan back his name just as loud as he did yours.

Ben's eyes darken, the arm he has around your waist tightening slightly, before he hits the headboard against the wall again.

"Fuck. You feel so good baby." Ben groans, the headboard banging so hard it makes dust from the ceiling flutter down onto the two of you.

"Ben!" You moan back, leaning into his chest and feeling the heat from his skin envelop you like a warm blanket.

The smell of Ben's shampoo is everywhere around you, soaking through your body, going up your nose with every inhale of breath. It was almost overwhelming. This was the first time that you'd ever been close to someone else of the opposite sex, besides the awkward hug you gave your study partner when the two of you graduated and he told you that he had feelings for you and you blurted out "How about those Yankees?" to cover, even though you'd never been to a game.

*Bang*

"You want more baby?" He growls.

*Bang*

"Please!"

*Bang*

"I love how polite you are sweetheart, even when I'm fucking you like this."

You cover your mouth to stop an awkward squeak from breaking through your lips, that only makes Ben's smirk grow as he hits the headboard against the wall.

"You like that?" He says it just as loud, but you know that it’s not directed at the two men in the other room listening to your performance.

Maybe. A little voice whispers inside your head, but you don't answer, because you're not sure where it came from. Not when Ben and you are in here trying to make someone jealous and the same someone that you can't remember the name of with Ben looking at you like that.

"Ready for the grand finale?" Ben mutters.

*Bang*

You nod.

"Ladies first."

"What a gentleman." You whisper back.

"Always." He winks at you, squeezing you tighter against him.

The sound that comes out of your mouth doesn't sound like you at all, but you don't care. Something about being here with Ben didn't make you feel like you, and it made you feel almost relieved.

Ben mirrors the moan, all the while looking at you with the same smile/smirk combo that only made you smile back at him. You couldn't remember the last time that you had smiled this much. He knocks the headboard one more time up against the wall for good measure before letting go and relaxing his arm beside where you sit between his outstretched legs.

"Look" Ben shakes his head, relaxing back against the headboard that left a pretty good sized dent in the peeling poorly painted wall behind it. "I get it, you really want Butcher to fuck you. But you're not going to get him with those silly rules of yours."

"But-"

"I'm not asking you to do something like shoot a porno in the office. All I'm asking is for you to trust me."

"Trust you?" You snort, raising an eyebrow.

"I know men sweetheart, and you don't. Me holding your hand isn't going to do anything to him." Ben leans in a little closer to you, mouth pulling up in the same mischievous smirk that he's had all night. "But him hearing me fuck you, it'll drive him crazy, not to mention keep him up all night."

You bite the inside of your cheek. As much as you didn't want to admit it, Ben might be right. Okay, maybe a whole lot more than right. Butcher wasn't going to think of you 'experienced' with Ben only holding your hand. It was things like what the two of you had just done that was going to get his attention.

Oddly enough, the usual embarrassment and anxiety that came wasn't there. You were waiting for it, waiting to feel shame, but you didn't have any.

That's weird.

"You might be right." You say slowly.

"I'm sorry, say that a little louder sweetheart."

"Shut up!" You smack him across his muscular chest. "And pinky swear."

"Pinky swear?"

"Yes. Pinky swear, because you won't let me make rules."

His eyes flick from your outstretched pinky to your face, looking as if you'd suggested hand holding all over again.

"Are you sure we can't just seal the deal with a good fuck instead?"

"Isn't that what we just did?"

"No." Ben chuckles, the low rumble vibrating against your back where it rests against his chest. "Trust me sweetheart, if we really had, you wouldn't be able to say anything, much less move."

But he wraps his pinky around yours, dwarfing your hand slightly, with a sigh.

There's a part of you that wishes that you had a camera to capture the moment of Soldier Boy pinky swearing with you. It was up there with photos of Bigfoot and flying saucers, something that even the experts couldn't prove impossible.

"Thank you."

"Don't mention it." Ben sighs retracting his pinky from yours, eyes narrowing. "Really, don't fucking tell anyone I did that."

"I won't promise that." You say with a giggle, before trying to slide away into the space beside Ben, but he doesn't move his arm from around your waist.

"Where are you going?" He smirks.

"To bed?"

It seemed obvious given the fact that you couldn't go back into the living room and you figured you might as well stay in here with Ben. All inhibitions you had about staying in here with him seemed to completely evaporate in the wake of your mutual (fake) orgasms.

"Not a chance princess. Need to let them catch an earful of round two, I've got a reputation to uphold after all."

A/N: And by rules of engagement I mean, THERE ARE NO RULES! It was so fun to come back to these two, I really missed seeing Ben with the fake dating trope. Also, I tried to make sure that I tagged everyone who asked, but if I missed you, please be sure to let me know! 💗

Thank you so much for reading! Likes, Reblogs, and Comments are not required, but are always appreciated! I love hearing what y'all think! 😊 If you'd liked to be added to my taglist for this series please let me know!

Taglist:

@zepskies @jollyhunter @waynes-multiverse @globetrotter98 @lunaleah

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@the-super-who-locked-wizard @suckitands33 @spnaquakindgdom @garlicbreaddd1

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@alediao @yassqueen1303

[lamentationsofalonelypotato]

Chapter 2: The Rules Of Engagement

Pairing: Soldier Boy x f!reader / Billy Butcher x f!reader

Summary:When you first joined Butcher's team the last thing you expected was to develop a crush on him, but after two years of pining, you get a proposition from the last person you'd expect to care. This is Chapter 2 of my Promise Not To Fall In Love With Me Series!

Tropes: Fake Dating, Pining, Faking It, Awkward/Shyish Reader, Friends To Lovers

Word Count: 6.4K

Warnings: I'm gonna label this 18+ (For the S-E-X, and by the S-E-X I mean FAKE sex), Cursing, Sexual innuendo, References to sex, Snail Genitals (had to be there), Toaster Bath Joke, Just A Hint Of Soft!Ben, Reader is a little anxious/anxiety/socially awkward?, Reader has Self Deprecating Thoughts, Soldier Boy being Soldier Boy (He's a warning, we all know it and somehow still love him for it).

Note:This is told from Reader's perspective. Any references to the reader is made using you or your. I tried my best to proofread, but nobody's perfect. If you don’t like, don’t read, but if you do like, you’re my favorite!

Internal monologue is in italics and is in first person.

A/N: It's been a while since I wrote a chapter for this one, but I really wanted to take a little break and go back to Ben, because I've missed him.

Series Masterlist

Main Masterlist

Reader POV

How can we be out of milk? I just went to the grocery store!

You think to yourself with a sigh, scanning the dismal array of products on the shelves of the rusted refrigerator in front of you. All you really wanted was a bowl of cereal and like hell you were going to have it with water like some kind of psychopath.

I bet Homelander ate his cereal with water instead of milk. Or maybe he was one of those freaky dry cereal eaters who drink a glass of milk at the same time.

You shudder.

It was easier to focus on things like the lack of cereal now that you were inside the cabin and no longer drooling over Butcher chopping wood outside. The image begins to tiptoe back across your mind,  the tensing of his muscles with each mighty swing, the sweat that curved down his perfectly tan and muscular body, catching in his thick dusting of chest hair, that leads down to-

Nope, nope, nope. Not going back down that road.

Instead of fantasizing about being a drop of sweat you force yourself to focus on the conversation that Ben and you had earlier, when he agreed to fake date you. Which was maybe the oddest conversation you’d had with anyone… and you’d had an argument with Hughie over the possibility of making a lightsaber. Something that Hughie was sure the government was hiding and that you knew how to do.

Because obviously my engineering degree came with a minor in lasers, lightsabers, and Luke Skywalker.

But you’d thought the universe was throwing you a bone by letting you stare at Butcher's gloriously sweaty body with no consequences. Which meant that maybe Ben agreeing to fake date you was again the universe apologizing for the two years of you trying to get Butcher's attention (without trying to get his attention). 

Maybe things are looking up.

You think to yourself with a smile and then remember the current dilemma:

Dry cereal, no milk.

Your shoulders droop in defeat. It wasn't enough that there wasn't a coffee maker in this cabin, which meant you were dragging your body around the grounds like a blob, now you had to eat your cereal dry because no one else in this damn cabin went grocery shopping!

AND NO ONE ELSE DOES THE DISHES! I swear no one helps me in this house.

The small poorly stocked grocery store is twenty miles from the cabin down a bumpy back road that curves around a mountain so tight that you thought you were going to go soaring off when Ben took the turn too fast. You’d gone two days ago, walking down the three measly aisles trying to find something edible while Ben complained and said grocery shopping was a woman’s job.

Why he thought that and came with you anyway, you had no idea, but it was his fault you were out of milk.

You'd already caught him contaminating the jug with his man germs last night when you found him drinking straight from the carton like an animal.

Probably finished the job when I fell asleep. Damn it.

It often surprised you how someone who was supposed to be from a more cultured and upstanding generation still had the manners of a horny sailor who hadn't felt the touch of a woman in six months and the attitude of a toddler who just wanted his mom to buy him a lollipop at the checkout.

The man in question was in the (for all intents and purposes) "shower." The warm water pattered against the rusted tub below and steam rose from under the curtained area that was separated from the rest of the great room in the corner, confusing you further over the way the cabin was built.

The layout alone was odd.

It had one big room that served as a living area furnished only with a couch that had more than a few questionable stains, a kitchen, and a dining room. Two thinnly walled bedrooms were off the main room holding beds that creaked even when you weren't moving.

Every single sound was amplified, and you’d heard more than enough sounds coming from Ben's bedroom over the past three days to last you a lifetime.

But the "bathroom" was nothing more than a sectioned off area in the far corner of the living room with the toilet and shower shielded from view by a faded floral curtain.

You were thankful for the curtain, but at the same time you really hated that you couldn't go to the bathroom without everyone hearing everything. It made you feel like you were living in a frat house.

All you wanted was to go back to the city where Annie and you shared an apartment that always had toilet paper in the bathroom and where the seat was always down so the possibility of falling into the toilet in the middle of the night was zero.

Because no matter how many times you told Ben to actually put the seat down, he never did.

It's a wonder that he's still single…

But you liked living with Annie. You'd grown up with three sisters so you had no qualms with living with another woman, not to mention Annie and you had grown into good friends since your time working at Supe Affairs, and you were kinda scared to live alone as a single woman in New York.

Sure you had an engineering degree and you worked on a team that took down supes, but what were you supposed to do if someone broke in? Start talking about the quadratic formula and hope the intruder fell asleep? Or maybe start a debate with him over the structural integrity of a washing machine?

It wasn't that you couldn't handle yourself if the situation called for it,  more that there were other people on the team who handled that kind of thing before you needed to.

And by people it was usually Ben, because he never cared to listen to what Butcher was saying and because you were so whipped someone might as well give you the nickname Dole, you listened to everything Butcher said and stayed out of the line of fire.

You audibly sigh when you shut the refrigerator door.

Dry cereal it is.

The Lucky Charms box sitting pretty on the wooden countertop is a welcome sight. One little piece of civilization you'd found in the grocery store that was still selling dried meal kits and gas masks from World War I.  Ben hadn't thought it was funny when you held one up and asked if he was happy to see something familiar.

"Hey." Butcher's voice shatters the welcome silence in a low rumble that sends the prickle of goosebumps over your arms.

You gasp and jump at the sudden intrusion of his voice, sending bits of marshmallow raining down over the counter. Pieces roll under the refrigerator from the now empty box in your hand, taking your last wisp of hope of a good meal in this godforsaken place.

"Shit. Sorry Poppet. Didn't mean to sneak up on you." He apologizes.

The heady smell of sweat and Butcher's musk wafts over you with his close proximity, the heat from his sun-kissed skin buzzing through the air around you and making your throat tighten. You fight the heat that kisses your cheeks, hoping that you don't look too much like a startled doe.

Butcher raises a hand to wipe away the drops that curl across his forehead, the sleeve of his brightly colored Hawaiian shirt pulling with the flex of his muscular bicep.

He flashes a sheepish smile that makes it difficult for you to breathe, words evaporating from the tip of your tongue as you stare at him for a moment too long, the silence stretching between the two of you.

You drop to the ground to avoid his gaze, frantically scrapping the bits of cereal together while trying to stop the collection of emotions scrambling around your head screaming: "Defcon 1, alert, he's talking to us! This is not a drill!"

"It-it's okay. Totally fine-" You wave a hand anxiously. "I meant to do that."

Cleaning the cereal from the floor had been a good idea in theory, until Butcher dropped down next to you to help you clean up the mess.

It was another reason why you couldn't seem to shake the crush that you had on him, because William Butcher was different whenever it was just the two of you. He'd go out of his way to help you, he always had your back in the field, and on the nights when you were up late tinkering on something Butcher would talk to you softly, so different than the harsh growl he had whenever Ben was around.

Breathe. In and out- He's just a person. I can talk to a person. I do that everyday, no big deal...

Unfortunately the rest of your body thought it was a very big deal because deep breathing only seemed to make things worse. Now you could smell the sweat you’d dreamed about being twenty minutes ago when you'd shamelessly watched Butcher chopping wood outside.

There was something underlying it, a strong masculine scent, something heady, the way the earth smells before a storm when thunder rumbles in the distance, rainwater rippling through a quiet forest.

You could feel your mouth water, imagining the salty tang against the tip of your tongue if you were to taste it.

What is wrong with me?

"Meant to spill the cereal on the floor?" Butcher asks amused. His large hands are mirroring your frantic movements with a clean precision, over the ground as he picks up bits of your dinner.

"Yeah. You don't do that? It's good luck, like throwing salt over your shoulder-"

You had no idea what you were saying, just that you were babbling and you wanted it to stop, because you knew that you were only digging a deeper hole and that none of this was attractive to Butcher.

In the two years that you'd been dying to get his attention, you'd seen a few of the women that Butcher usually hung around. Beautiful, confident women. Women who looked like they chewed the world up and spat it back out. Women who actually owned tight-fighting designer clothes, were confident, wore bold colored lipsticks, clicked around in high heels, and knew how to do more makeup than just the random flick of mascara.

None of them were like you.

You didn't think that you were beautiful or sexy.

Cute, occasionally, when you weren't putting your foot in your mouth.

Pretty maybe on a good day when you tried a little harder and the aforementioned mascara didn't smear under your eyes and your hair actually cooperated.

Awkward, always... unfortunately.

Your sisters had always been like those women, you not so much.

Not to mention all of those women were older and probably knew how to do things to men in the bedroom that made the limited experience (ie. none) with men look like a single grain of sand sitting at the feet of the Statue of Liberty.

"Did you know that there are some kinds of snails that chew each others genitals off during sexual intercourse and-"

You continue, not sure how in the hell you got here in the past minute since the cereal fell and you kept screeching along like a broken record, but you were desperately wishing that you were one of the marshmallow bits that rolled deep underneath the refrigerator.

At least under there Butcher wouldn't be able to hear the ridiculous psychobabble you were spouting because every damn time you were in his vicinity, your mind seemed to forget things like boundaries and appropriate small talk and your phd and instead switched to the B side cassette tape where all the random info you'd learned at four am on YouTube resided in the dark recesses of your brain.

Please somebody make it stop.

Butcher's face has gone from amused to confused within seconds, an awkward chuckle working it's way up through his chest, because honestly how do you respond to that juicy little tidbit of info?

A wave of embarrassment and shame has already began to work it's way through your body, the urge to cry building in the back of your throat.

Why am I like this? Why can’t I just talk to someone without it turning into the fifty shades of how much of a freak I am?

You stand from the ground with a handful of dusty cereal in your hand, before throwing it away in the small rusting trashcan on the other side of the creaky kitchen table.

At this point you would have just run away to the bathroom or another room, but given that Ben was still in the shower, and Hughie was in one of the bedrooms, and you were sleeping on the couch so basically Butcher was in your bedroom right now, there wasn't anywhere to go.

Maybe Ben will get out of the shower long enough to let me commit toaster bath.

Butcher stands from the ground. "I didn't know that."

"Now you do." You clear your throat, avoiding eye contact the best you can.

The small kitchen seems to grow even smaller with his presence and the open window above the sink does little to cool down the wave of heat that travels through you at Butcher's close proximity to you. Your fingertips fidget at your sides when the silence grows.

You hated that this only happened whenever you were talking to Butcher. You never had problems keeping up with Frenchie and Kimiko, laughing with Hughie or Annie, or even just talking to Ben, but whenever you were around Butcher it was like your brain ejected things like common sense and wit. Sometimes you wondered if Butcher noticed and was just too polite to say anything to you.

Then again he probably just thinks I'm a freak that enjoys snail porn.

"So what were you and that yank talking about?" Butcher asks.

"What?"

It was difficult to talk to him when he was standing so close to you, but at least now he was wearing one of his signature Hawaiian shirts, soaked a little bit under the collar.

You were sure that if he was still shirtless you wouldn't have been able to make a sound, then again you could still see a delicious peak of chest hair sprouting beneath the two unbuttoned top buttons of the shirt.

The thud of your heartbeat thunders in your ears as you scramble for some lie, anxiety bubbling in your stomach the longer you look at Butcher, because there was no way in hell you could blurt out:

"Oh Ben agreed to fake date me so that you'll see me more than just a teammate or a little kid!"

"Well-" Butcher starts again.

Ben's arm comes around your waist so fast you don't have time to wonder how he snuck up on you. He tugs you back easily against his warm chest, still wet from his shower, and presses a kiss directly under your right ear, lingering a little bit too long to just be friendly. His beard scrapes against the sensitive skin of your neck, wet hair falling forward to tickle against the sides of your face, leaving the spicy scent of his shampoo under your nose.

"Showers free." He smirks at Butcher, before dropping his gaze to you, green eyes locking on yours and his lips pulling up in a mischievous smirk. "You ready for bed baby?"

Ben's other hand wanders just under the edge of your cotton t-shirt, pushing it up enough that the rough skin of his fingers finds the soft and supple flesh of your hips.

"Um-" You squeak in alarm.

Your face was so warm you were sure that if someone cracked an egg it would be fried to perfection in seconds.

Oh holy guacamole. This was so not what I meant. I meant maybe flirty talking or maybe him bringing me coffee and pretending to laugh with me about something! We need boundaries and maybe one of those squirt bottles you get for a cat that's unruly!

"I'm not really tired-" You choke out, still not able to make eye contact with Butcher. All you could think about Ben's very wet and naked chest pressed against you and the water from his shower soaking into your t-shirt.

This is worse than the snail genitals.

"Good." Ben purrs, the word rumbling up through where your back is pressed against his muscular torso. He leans closer to you, smirk widening. "I'm not either. Figured we could wear each other out first."

Butcher's body goes stock straight in surprise, eyes shifting from you to Ben for some kind of explanation.

"W-well-" You stammer.

Ben's eyes twinkle in the light streaming through the kitchen windows that picks up the flecks of gold hidden in the deep green that you'd never noticed.

"Fuck baby, I love that cute little stutter." His lips trail down your throat sucking a mark just below the shadow of your jaw, the prickle of his beard against your skin making a shiver travel down you spine.

Oh my sweet potato pie.

Unconsciously your body leans back into him, your hands falling to where his rest on your waist, as you try to control the heat wafting off of your face. An uncontrolled sound comes up through your chest as Ben's mouth continues to work down the column of your throat, earning a dark chuckle from the man behind you.

"Wait a minute are you two-" Butcher clears his throat as if he can't quite stomach it, the look on this face somewhere between someone choking and someone trying to pass a kidney stone.

"Have been for a while." Ben flashes a lazy smile. "She wanted to keep it quiet, but I said fuck it. I want everyone to know who she belongs to." His hand slides down your back to squeeze a handful of your ass.

Another uncontrollable squeak erupts from somewhere deep inside.

Time of Death 18:35:00. Goodbye cruel world.

Right about now you no longer believed that the universe was throwing you a bone with Ben pretending to date you, because this was beyond mortifying. You couldn't imagine Butcher giving a single fuck about the two of you. If anything Butcher was probably only worried about the one person on the team who could build whatever he wanted at the drop of a hat getting killed in a sex related accident.

Your throat closed a little tighter with the thought, because Ben was the strongest supe in the world now after everything with Homelander had fizzled out, and you couldn't imagine him being able to control himself in the throws of passion. Not when he barely had the self control to keep his temper in check.

But with it came the memory of what Ben had told you outside with a gentleness you didn't think he had, when he said that he wasn't going to hurt you or make you do anything that made you uncomfortable.

And maybe you were crazy, but you believed him.

You're not going to have sex with him.

You remind yourself, but with Ben's entire body wrapped around yours and the ghost of his beard against your throat, it seemed like you were going to have to remind him of that little thing all over again.

“But I thought you were-" Butcher tries again, but Ben interrupts him.

“Bring the cereal.” Ben nips at your earlobe, ignoring the man standing in front of the two of you. “I’ve got a feeling we’re going to work up an appetite.”

He smacks your ass before sauntering off to the bedroom he’d been sleeping in the past few nights, his towel slung low over his hips.

The idea of crawling under the refrigerator with the bits of marshmallow cereal resurfaces, but you were sure that even if you were under there they'd still be able to feel your embarrassment and anxiety all the way in Antarctica.

Butcher was staring at you open mouthed, unable to process. He closed it, then opened it again, looking far too much like a fish gasping for air on a beach.

If the error message on a computer had a picture assigned to it, Butcher's face would be smack dab in the middle of the screen.

Error. Does Not Compute. Please Try Again Later.

There was nothing you could say, nothing you could do to relieve the oppressive anxiety and embarrassment building in your chest with every second that passed following Ben's disappearance into his bedroom.

Maybe I was too soon to think that the universe was throwing me a bone, maybe it's beating me with it into submission.

Butcher coughs awkwardly. "I'm sorry. I think I just hallucinated, love. Did that wanker just say the two of you were-"

"Dating?" Your voice comes out high pitched. "Yeah."

"But he's-" Butcher searches for the word. "He's-"

"Older?"

It was the exact reason why you believed Butcher would never date you, because he was older and experienced. But it made you hopeful that Butcher would stop seeing you as just "kiddo" and "poppet" if he saw you with Ben.

"I was going to say a dick."

"Oh well Ben is- um- he's um-" You stutter, eyes dropping to the multicolored Hawaiian shirt Butcher was wearing trying to find some courage written in the chaotic colors swirling together. "He grows on you after a while."

"Like a fungus."

"He can actually be kind of sweet-" As soon as the words pass through your lips, Butcher laughs so loud you're sure that people would be able to hear it all the way back in NYC.

"You're joking right? Him? Mr. Casual Fuck? Mr. I'm Going To Disintegrate Everyone On My Old Team?"

Butcher lets out a deep sigh and rests his hip against the counter, while crossing his arms over his chest. You watch his eyes trace over you, inquisitive and somewhat curious.

"I don't think you should-" Butcher clears his throat. "I don’t think you should be with him, poppet."

If you'd been drinking something you would have done a spit take for sure.

"What?"

"He's-" Butcher tries to find his words, but you can see how difficult it is for him. "He's a prick and you're- I mean, you're nothing like him. Not to mention he's literally a walking Chernobyl waiting to 'appen."

"I think he has it under control." You say slowly. It was easier to talk to Butcher when you didn't have to talk about yourself. "He's just a little rough around the edges, um- like an onion!"

"Or a hand-grenade."

Ben appears in the doorway of his bedroom, still wearing the towel and a bored expression. But instead of saying anything or calling your name, he strides again over to where Butcher and you are standing, and unceremoniously slings you over his shoulder.

"Ben what are you doing?!" You screech.

"I told you. We're going to bed. I'm sick of hearing you and that British fuck talking. Not when you and I could be doing something a hell of a lot more satisfying."

"But-"

Hughie picks that exact moment to open the door of the bedroom he's been sharing with Butcher for the past few days. "Hey, what's-" He looks at Ben and you squinting in confusion. "Going on?"

"Pay attention you might learn something." Ben has the audacity to wink, all the while you're praying that his towel doesn't fall open.

At this point, I’d rather face the locusts.

Your gaze flicks up to where Butcher stands in the kitchen one last time before the bedroom door shuts.

His arms are still crossed over his chest, mouth turning down into a frown, jaw tight, but just as it closes you see something flicker across his face, an emotion that breaks through the usual mask of hardened grizzle that Butcher wore all the time.

What the hell was that?

Your body goes flying onto the bed with a deranged scream of Ben’s name passing through your lips followed by the pterodactyl like screech of the ancient bed when you land on top.

The spicy smell of Ben’s signature cologne, sweat, and mothballs comes wafting up in a cloud with the motion as one of the springs digs into your spinal cord.

"That's right baby. Keep saying it just like that." Ben reaches for the end of his towel and you scramble off the bed with flushed cheeks.

"Ben!" You hiss, eyes flitting to the door beyond, knowing that Butcher and Hughie can hear everything. "I told you that I wasn't going to- We aren't going to-"

"Relax princess." He gruffs out. "Didn't mean to ruffle your delicate sensibilities."

"You didn't-" Your eyes squeeze shut in frustration and anxiety, the embarrassment washing over you all over again when the events of everything that just happened two minutes ago out in the kitchen comes roaring back. "Damn it I- I mean I-. What are you doing?"

Ben's smirk dips into a bored frown. "You told me that you wanted me to pretend to date you. That's what I was doing."

"Pretend to date me yes! Not throw me around like some sort of Caveman-"

"Butcher isn't going to give two fucks about any of it, if he doesn't think I'm fucking you." Ben huffs. "Which I still think would be better than doing whatever the fuck this is."

He walks over to where his suitcase sits in a state of unpacking on the threadbare chest of drawers squeezed into the corner of the room. Underwear, t-shirts, and several pairs of jeans spurt out of the black bag like multicolored fish erupting from a tank.

The rest of the cabin is oddly silent and you wonder if Butcher and Hughie are out there whispering about what just happened to avoid Ben and you hearing.

Jokes on them, I'm gonna make Ben eavesdrop and then tell me everything.

"I just think that we need to make some boundaries-" You start to say at the exact moment Ben decides to drop his towel.

Holy. Fucking. No-

You slap your hand over your eyes so loudly that the clap ricochets through the bedroom, however, not quick enough to block the image of Ben's muscular ass assaulting your mind. "This is exactly what I was talking about."

"Aww come on princess, I'm giving you an inside look. A million girls would dream to be where you are."

"I'm pretty sure they already have." You mutter under your breath, earning a chuckle from Ben.

"You could be a million and one."

"No thanks. I'm all good."

The tell-tale signs of Ben getting dressed fill the room, but you refuse to take a peak. You knew it was exactly what he wanted, but at the same time something stirred in the pit of your stomach that you'd never felt before, a small flutter of something unnamable when you thought about Ben being naked in the same space as you.

The bed screeches again as Ben slips onto the creaky mattress with an audible sigh. You take this as confirmation that it's safe to open your eyes, but still wait another beat before you do.

He's leaning back against the wooden headboard, smirking at you, eyes tracing over your body. Ben's chosen not to wear a shirt, instead he's clad only in a pair of gray sweatpants. Again, how he can do that in a cabin that has absolutely no air conditioning, you have no idea.

The full sized bed looks even smaller with Ben's hulking figure laid across it, leaving very little space beside him or even space for you to walk around the bed back to the door that lead back out into the living room without hitting his feet that hang over the end. It was enough to make you think that the four of you were trapped in Green Acres rather than a small mountain cabin in the armpit of America.

Ben pats the dusty quilt beside him.The space is barely fit for a toddler let alone another person. 

“Come on. I don’t bite.” His smirk turns mischievous. “Unless you ask me to baby.”

You swallow, biting your lip.

A part of you wanted to go back out to the living room, but that meant you'd have to face Butcher again. And with you stuck smack dab between:

Telling Butcher that Ben and you had sex quickly.

Telling Butcher that you asked Ben to pretend to be in a relationship with you to get his attention.

You were trapped in this little bedroom with Ben until sunrise… or until Jack Nicholson started breaking down the front door with an axe.

Ben sighs heavily and drops his voice into a whisper, aware that Butcher and Hughie are listening. “Okay come on. I’m not going to fucking do anything.”

"I'm not sure I trust that and I'm okay over here." You point down at the floor, feeling the uneven wooden floorboards anxiously with the tip of your big toe.

"You can't stand there all night."

"You don’t know that! Maybe I could learn to sleep standing up like a Flamingo or something."

Ben crosses his arms over his chest. "Look I might be an asshole, but I'm not the kind of asshole that's gonna let you sleep on the floor. So just get in the fucking bed."

You mentally calculate the options in your head all over again. "Not before we make some rules."

"Told you I wasn't too good with those sweetheart."

Ignoring him seems to be a skill that you'd been developing forever, so instead you say, "First, no sex."

"You said that already. Kinda sounds like you're trying to convince yourself not me." The smirk pulls at the ends of his lips again, making you narrow your eyes.

"Second, no touching-"

"Okay wait a damn minute." Ben sits up. "I have to be able to touch you."

"Why?"

"Because nobody is going to believe that you and me are together if I can’t touch you."

He did have a point, you knew that. You'd seen Ben a few times with women in the office that he'd gone home with, not to mention the guy was a walking HR violation.

"Okay fine." You hold up one finger. "No inappropriate touching."

"What the fuck does that mean? I can't slip my finger under your panties when we're in a meeting or something? Because I didn't really peg you as the type who wanted to get hot and heavy at the office princess."

A wave of heat blooms beneath your cheeks. "No! I mean-"

"You want to get hot and heavy at the office." He tilts his head to the side. "Because I could make that happen."

"Let me finish!" You begin to pace back and forth in front of the bed. Moving seemed like a good option right now, the anxious energy flickering through your body needed places to go and because you were stuck in this room that might as well be a jail cell you were making do with what you had. "You can touch me, just no squeezing my butt or anything like that. Maybe hugging me from behind or holding my hand-"

"Holding your hand? You've got to be fucking with me."

"Ben, please." You whisper, eyes darting to the bedroom door. "You said you would do this."

"I said that I would pretend to fucking date you, not pretend to be a fucking pussy." He grouses. "Nobody is going to believe that you and me are together if you don't let me be the way I am. I've got a reputation to uphold princess."

You stand there for another beat, because he was right. Who was going to believe this? The anxiety was back lacing around your ribcage and pulling tight.

The memory of all the years you spent watching Butcher walk around the office dreaming of something that was never going to happen comes washing over you. The nicknames Butcher called you ring in your ears things that made you feel like a little kid in fourth grade who had a crush on the high schooler who occasionally smiled at her.

He's right. I should just let this go. It's never going to happen. Why do I keep doing this to myself?

"You're right, this is a ridiculous idea, there's no way it's going to work and-" You begin to say, but Ben interrupts you.

"Shut up and get in bed." Ben says bluntly.

"Huh?" You clear your throat, fighting the tears that were already beginning to blur your eyes like the heartache that ate away at your chest. "

"Get in the fucking bed."

"Why?"

"Because I can't stand seeing you look all fucking pathetic like that. So you can either get in this bed or I can throw you in all over again."

"I'm not pathetic." You mutter, but you did feel that way. After all, you'd asked Soldier Boy to fake date you. Soldier Boy.

"Yes, you are. You've wanted Winston Churchill to fuck you for the past two years and you're obviously too fucked in the head to figure out how to do that so come here."

"Why?"

Ben starts to get up.

"Okay fine!" You sit on the end of the bed. "There. I'm in the bed, but I don't understand how this is going to-"

Ben's arm suddenly wraps around your waist and he pulls you back against his chest, to where he leans back against the headboard.

"Whoa, wait a minute-"

His hand clamps down over your mouth.

Your body immediately goes into fight or flight, eyes widening, beginning to struggle against his grip.

"I'm not going to hurt you. How many fucking times do I have to say that?" He grumbles, his voice a pleasant low rumble in your ear. "Just relax for one second."

Ben's face is so close to yours that you can feel the warmth of his breath on your face and the rough prickle of his beard against the curve of your ear. His eyes meet yours the flecks of gold inside like falling stars and a sprinkle of cinnamon colored freckles brushed over his nose and the top of his cheeks that you'd never noticed.

"You're too much in your head." Ben breathes. "Now moan."

He removes his hand from your mouth.

"But-"

He pokes your forehead with a frown. "No. Too much in here. Shut up and moan."

You open your mouth to probably to ask him why, but then you catch his gaze again. Something twinkles in his eyes, something that’s different than the bored or angry or aroused expressions that you’d seen before. It looks almost, amused.

So instead you moan and feel like a complete idiot.

"Good, now try a little louder." Ben's arm around your waist gives you an encouraging squeeze.

You do as he says, emboldened by his motivation.

Ben's other hand reaches back to hit the headboard once up against the wall, before he lets loose a moan that makes your entire body flush and an awkward giggle bubble up past your lips.

"You laughing at me sweetheart?" Ben chuckles, hitting the headboard up against the wall again, and motioning for you to moan again, which you comply without a second thought.

"No."  You whisper back with a smile.

"Kinda sounded like you were."

"I'd never do that."

This time Ben moans your name loudly, sending a thrill up your spine, before hitting the headboard against the wall.

You’d never heard anyone say your name like that before, and even though you know that Ben is pretending, for the first time in a long time you don't feel like the awkward girl that seemed to stumble through life, the one that was only 'just' and nothing else, the one who chose to pretend not to like someone because it was easier than the reality, and the one who was always so behind everyone else when it came to the opposite sex they might as well be on another planet.

So you take a chance and moan back his name just as loud as he did yours.

Ben's eyes darken, the arm he has around your waist tightening slightly, before he hits the headboard against the wall again.

"Fuck. You feel so good baby." Ben groans, the headboard banging so hard it makes dust from the ceiling flutter down onto the two of you.

"Ben!" You moan back, leaning into his chest and feeling the heat from his skin envelop you like a warm blanket.

The smell of Ben's shampoo is everywhere around you, soaking through your body, going up your nose with every inhale of breath. It was almost overwhelming. This was the first time that you'd ever been close to someone else of the opposite sex, besides the awkward hug you gave your study partner when the two of you graduated and he told you that he had feelings for you and you blurted out "How about those Yankees?" to cover, even though you'd never been to a game.

*Bang*

"You want more baby?" He growls.

*Bang*

"Please!"

*Bang*

"I love how polite you are sweetheart, even when I'm fucking you like this."

You cover your mouth to stop an awkward squeak from breaking through your lips, that only makes Ben's smirk grow as he hits the headboard against the wall.

"You like that?" He says it just as loud, but you know that it’s not directed at the two men in the other room listening to your performance.

Maybe. A little voice whispers inside your head, but you don't answer, because you're not sure where it came from. Not when Ben and you are in here trying to make someone jealous and the same someone that you can't remember the name of with Ben looking at you like that.

"Ready for the grand finale?" Ben mutters.

*Bang*

You nod.

"Ladies first."

"What a gentleman." You whisper back.

"Always." He winks at you, squeezing you tighter against him.

The sound that comes out of your mouth doesn't sound like you at all, but you don't care. Something about being here with Ben didn't make you feel like you, and it made you feel almost relieved.

Ben mirrors the moan, all the while looking at you with the same smile/smirk combo that only made you smile back at him. You couldn't remember the last time that you had smiled this much. He knocks the headboard one more time up against the wall for good measure before letting go and relaxing his arm beside where you sit between his outstretched legs.

"Look" Ben shakes his head, relaxing back against the headboard that left a pretty good sized dent in the peeling poorly painted wall behind it. "I get it, you really want Butcher to fuck you. But you're not going to get him with those silly rules of yours."

"But-"

"I'm not asking you to do something like shoot a porno in the office. All I'm asking is for you to trust me."

"Trust you?" You snort, raising an eyebrow.

"I know men sweetheart, and you don't. Me holding your hand isn't going to do anything to him." Ben leans in a little closer to you, mouth pulling up in the same mischievous smirk that he's had all night. "But him hearing me fuck you, it'll drive him crazy, not to mention keep him up all night."

You bite the inside of your cheek. As much as you didn't want to admit it, Ben might be right. Okay, maybe a whole lot more than right. Butcher wasn't going to think of you 'experienced' with Ben only holding your hand. It was things like what the two of you had just done that was going to get his attention.

Oddly enough, the usual embarrassment and anxiety that came wasn't there. You were waiting for it, waiting to feel shame, but you didn't have any.

That's weird.

"You might be right." You say slowly.

"I'm sorry, say that a little louder sweetheart."

"Shut up!" You smack him across his muscular chest. "And pinky swear."

"Pinky swear?"

"Yes. Pinky swear, because you won't let me make rules."

His eyes flick from your outstretched pinky to your face, looking as if you'd suggested hand holding all over again.

"Are you sure we can't just seal the deal with a good fuck instead?"

"Isn't that what we just did?"

"No." Ben chuckles, the low rumble vibrating against your back where it rests against his chest. "Trust me sweetheart, if we really had, you wouldn't be able to say anything, much less move."

But he wraps his pinky around yours, dwarfing your hand slightly, with a sigh.

There's a part of you that wishes that you had a camera to capture the moment of Soldier Boy pinky swearing with you. It was up there with photos of Bigfoot and flying saucers, something that even the experts couldn't prove impossible.

"Thank you."

"Don't mention it." Ben sighs retracting his pinky from yours, eyes narrowing. "Really, don't fucking tell anyone I did that."

"I won't promise that." You say with a giggle, before trying to slide away into the space beside Ben, but he doesn't move his arm from around your waist.

"Where are you going?" He smirks.

"To bed?"

It seemed obvious given the fact that you couldn't go back into the living room and you figured you might as well stay in here with Ben. All inhibitions you had about staying in here with him seemed to completely evaporate in the wake of your mutual (fake) orgasms.

"Not a chance princess. Need to let them catch an earful of round two, I've got a reputation to uphold after all."

A/N: And by rules of engagement I mean, THERE ARE NO RULES! It was so fun to come back to these two, I really missed seeing Ben with the fake dating trope. Also, I tried to make sure that I tagged everyone who asked, but if I missed you, please be sure to let me know! 💗

Thank you so much for reading! Likes, Reblogs, and Comments are not required, but are always appreciated! I love hearing what y'all think! 😊 If you'd liked to be added to my taglist for this series please let me know!

Taglist:

@zepskies @jollyhunter @waynes-multiverse @globetrotter98 @lunaleah

@ladykitana90 @kmc1989 @megara0224 @angrydragon90 @roseblue373

@the-super-who-locked-wizard @suckitands33 @spnaquakindgdom @garlicbreaddd1

@moodyquesadilla @52ndstreeet @chiraz @incandxscents @wildtigerlili @xxmusic13luverxx

@j2ash @jmoonk @maddie0101 @love2liz @justthere1956

@funkenniffler @beakaleak32 @elle14-blog1 @spnbabe67 @reidtomewinchester

@alediao @yassqueen1303 @mrsjenniferwinchester

[lamentationsofalonelypotato]

@zepskies

Alex, I'm always so blown away by your masterlists, and this one is no exception. The color coordination through the title and the use of the gifs with the background of LA is just *chefs kiss.* I think my favorite thing about your blog is that no matter what it's so pretty to look at and I'm always blown away (and then I get to read your incredible fics so there is no downside). I cannot wait to start reading this series with your take on Mark! 💗

'TIL WHEN DO US PART || Masterlist

A collection of one-shots in the same story-verse . . .

Series Summary: Two weeks before the wedding, Mark broke your heart with the best of intentions. Now, nine months later, you have to decide if what you two have is worth fighting for, in the time he has left.

Series Tags/Warnings: 18+ only for major angst (medical and emotional), smut, hurt/comfort, references to cheating, strong language, and other chapter-specific tags.

AN: This was only supposed to be a few one-shots, but this series is rapidly becoming my outlet for how much Mark Meachum's angst is breaking my heart throughout this show, so I finally caved on creating a masterlist. 🤣💙

Reading Order: Start with Downgrade. Trust me. 😉

Listen while you read: YouTube | Playlist Poster | Spotify

❤️‍🔥 = Smut

Pedal Down Mark’s idea of a first date isn’t exactly what you expected.

. . .

Downgrade There it was. The beginning of the end, and neither of you saw it coming.

Catastrophic Blues Nine months isn’t as long as it sounds. When you run into your ex-fiancé at a bar, he finds out what you've become. You find out the truth.

Sister, Sister ❤️‍🔥 You and Mark have an emotional reconnection after he finally comes clean. But that also means you have some unfinished business to take care of with your sister, Rachel.

If You Leave Me Now ❤️‍🔥 After struggling not to "label it," you and Mark come to an understanding about salvaging your relationship.

The Final Blow ❤️‍🔥 - Read now on Patreon! | Coming to Tumblr: 8/07 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?

A Once and Future Thing - TBD

Hurt For Me - TBD

And more to come...

⋆˙⟡ Get notified when every new story drops! Add yourself to my Tag Lists ⟡ Follow my fic library blog - @zepskieswrites - with notifications on.

Join My Patreon ⟡ Get early access to new stories, bonus content, and first looks at upcoming stories. Top-tier patrons can even send me requests!

Mark Meachum Masterlist

Main Masterlist

Mark Meachum Masterlist (Part 1):

@luci-in-trenchcoats @lamentationsofalonelypotato @winchestergirl2 @deans-spinster-witch @roseblue373

@waynes-multiverse @hobby27 @kazsrm67 @foxyjwls007 @mostlymarvelgirl

@midnightmadwoman @lyarr24 @ladysparkles78 @waywardxwords @twinkleinadiamondsky

@rizlowwritessortof @jackles010378 @nancymcl @spnaquakindgdom @bettystonewell

@this-is-me19 @spnwoman @illicithallways @pieandmonsters @deansbbyx

@stoneyggirl2 @cheynovak @jollyhunter @deanwinchestersgirl87 @rachiem4-blog

@leigh70 @aylacavebear @kmc1989 @siampie @masked-lost-girl

@spnbabe67 @deanbrainrotwritings @alwaystiredandconfused @supernotnatural2005 @globetrotter28

@cookiechipdough @winchesterwild78 @samanddeaninatrenchcoat

@mrsjenniferwinchester @fromcaintodean @kiddieclaws @gabavaldman

[lamentationsofalonelypotato]

@jollyhunter

Cannot thank you enough for this reaction image because I am SCREAMING!!! Ahh! I'm so excited! And I am obsessed with this moodboard! It's such a pretty color scheme and it really does encapsulate the cottagecore/small town vibes and I am frothing at the mouth 😆 Sending you a huge hug back my amazing friend. I can't wait to sink my teeth into this one!

Gunpowder Tea ❀ Series Masterlist

Main Masterlist ❀ Mark Meachum Masterlist

PAIRING Mark Meachum x fem!Reader

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.

SERIES TAGS / TROPES Only 18+ !! Angst | bittersweet Fluff | eventually Smut | Trauma Healing | Slow Burn | Forbidden love | Forced proximity | Rural Cottagecore x Autumn Vibe | No use of Y/N

GENERAL WARNINGS [ Warnings will be updated on each fic, please always check them ! ] Canon-divergent | Reader is an Ex-Detective in the WitSec program | Heavy topics !! ; Reader's got a bit of a morally grey backstory (undercover mission) with PTSD / Trauma / Panic Attacks | Mention of terminal illness | Reader and Mark are both a bit self-deprecating | Language | Canon Violence | Mark likes to call Reader "Sunny" / "Sunshine" | Mark might be a bit OOC (consider this my personal take on him from what I’ve seen so far!) | English is not my native language.

J / NOTES My biggest hug to @lamentationsofalonelypotato for motivating and helping me take this leap of faith and start writing my first ever series! Also a big shoutout to @bettystonewell, @sorryitsmyfirstdayonearth and @ambiguous-avery , for your pep talks and your song recs (and even playlist, Beth!!). And thanks to @zepskies for your color prompt with Mark (which inspired the first chapter!), without it, I would have never had this series idea and wherever it may lead... 😉 I'm terrified but also hoping to improve myself on this new writing journey. So please be lenient. And I appreciate every reblog, comment and feedback! 🧡

CHAPTERS

[coming !] ⛾ New Life, Old Herbs & Same Bullet

↬ Let me know if you're interested in anything I post for the universe of Gunpowder Tea! Or you may add yourself to the Taglist. ♡

Mark Meachum Tag List

@ambiguous-avery @lamentationsofalonelypotato @lori19 @fleurenoir @royaler1999 @writtenbyhollywood @ralilda @mostlymarvelgirl

[lamentationsofalonelypotato]

@luci-in-trenchcoats

Oh I love this! So many angsty ideas propping up in my head, so little time 😆

AU's & Tropes Ideas

[lamentationsofalonelypotato]

@beakaleak32

Girl, it's rough let me tell you. I'm already crying just thinking about it- just the *beeepppppp* and when he *beeeeppppp,* and then she *beeeppppp* goodness it's so bad 😭 (I censored for spoilers lol). Sometimes I wonder how I come up with this stuff and then I think "it's fine someone else will be emotionally destroyed with me and then I don't have to be alone in my misery" and post it LOL 🤣

But thank you Beaks! I really loved how this chapter turned out, but again the slow burn will destroy me 😭

I Want To Be The One To Light Up The Dark In You

Pairing: Mark Meachum x f!reader, Reader POV, Mark Meachum POV

Summary: As much as you hate to admit it, the Warden might be right. This is the second fic in my Jailhouse Rock Series!

Tropes: Slow Burn, Forbidden Love, A Smidge Of Touch Her And Die Trope, Mutual Pining.

Word Count: 4.4K

Warnings: Manspreading 😒, Mentions of Sex/ Sexual Innuendo, Mentions of Blood and Prison Fights, Cursing, Angst, Inmate Says A Few *ahem* Unpleasant Things, Warden Also Says A Few Unpleasant Things, Reader trying not to be in love with a hot man in prison? Mark might be a little bit OOC.

Note: This is told from Reader's perspective. Any references to the reader is made using you or your. There is no use of y/n! I tried my best to proofread, but nobody's perfect. If you don’t like, don’t read, but if you do like, you’re my favorite! I'm just starting to write for Mark, so please be gentle.

Internal monologue is in italics and is in first person.

Listen While You Read 🚨: Light Up The Dark By Gabrielle Aplin title of fic is taken from this song!

Jailhouse Rock Playlist 🚨

Main Masterlist

Jailhouse Rock Masterlist

A/N: Oh my goodness, thank you so much everyone for all the reblogs and the wonderful feedback on part one of this fic series! I'm so happy that so many of you have decided to strap in to this angsty ride! 😊

Reader POV

Have you ever noticed that closing your eyes and counting to ten does little when you're talking to the most odious person alive?

That by some miracle, closing your eyes and pretending that they aren't there standing in front of you, breathing the same air, chattering on and on in the most annoying and condescending voice about something that makes your teeth grind down together and your insides suddenly want to be your outsides will help you find some way to maintain your composure?

Right now you wished it did.

Black coffee steamed from the ancient chipped mug sitting on the tanker desk in front of you, curling and twisting in the mid-day sun that floated through the barred windows of the Warden's office.

It did little to obscure the man scowling at you from under his mustache, but you wished that by some miracle the steam would grow into a cloud to hide you from the judgmental gaze of your employer.

What you'd done, you had no idea, but you noticed that the warden was often pulling you into his office to discuss things that seemed trivial in the grand scheme of things.

Things like:

You forgot to clean off your desk before you went home.

You brought a tuna fish sandwich from home and he could somehow smell it two floors down.

Your socks were distracting and therefore counterproductive to the work environment.

Basically, the warden was the mean cheerleader who dated all the jocks and never grew up.

Lovely.

So when he called you into his office you knew you were in for another tongue lashing that would later make you roll your eyes so hard that they'd get stuck in the back of your head.

He sits across from you, hands entwined on the top of his desk, beady eyes skating across you as if he can sense your internal monologue.

"I hear that you had to patch up Walker again yesterday." He says it like an accusation, as if it isn't your job to take care of the inmates, to patch them up when things get a little too fight club for your taste.

No disrespect to Brad Pitt and Ed Norton of course.

"Yes sir."

You'd learned by now to call him anything other than Warden or Sir would earn you a taste of the famous anger (re temper tantrums) the Warden had.

You'd been on the receiving end of them far too many times and despite not caring if he was mad at you or not, you didn't have time to sit here in his office and wait around, not when you were trying to leave early because your sister Margo and you had your weekly book club meeting tonight at your apartment.

The Warden takes a sip of his coffee, mustache rippling over the curve of the chipped cup, not breaking eye contact with you as he does.

There's an odd energy in the room, something oppressive and faintly masculine. It's cloying presence pulls at your limbs, shifts over the dark wood cabinet behind the desk, and drags over the concrete slab floor that ran the length of the prison. It was the same kind of energy that you'd only found in your physics professor's office, the one who told you that you'd never be able to pass his course with your academic record and you then spent the semester proving him wrong.

The walls of his office are painted in the same dreary gray that ghosted along the infirmary. You supposed that it was to make the room look bigger, but it only made it feel small, choking.

Instead of closing your eyes and counting to ten, you busy yourself with reading the titles of the books that line the dark wooden cabinet behind the Warden's head.

Anything is better than looking into those creepy beady eyes.

Especially not when you knew that the Warden was fishing for something to hold over you. Even though the only thing you'd done with Walker was your job. At least on paper, the things you'd done in your head were a little more PG-13 than the Warden needed to know about. Hell, you still were trying your best not to let your mind go to those places.

The Warden's gaze shifts over your body again. It worms beneath your skin, oppressive, squirmy. It was the same look that he gave the rest of the inmates within the walls of the prison to keep them in submission. You briefly wonder if he's always been like this or if he's having marital problems that he projects on everyone else.

"I also hear that you've been-" He clears his throat, beady eyes on you. "a little more friendly with him." His lip curls up in distaste at the word "friendly."

Oh so that's what this is about.

You choose to let your face remain impassive, not giving the man across from you eyeing you like a predatory bird the satisfaction.

"Sir?"

The Warden stands from his desk. "Do you know what the most dangerous thing in our profession is?"

"Shanks?"

The word came out before you could stop it, slipping out with the ghost of a smile on your lips.

His frown deepens. "Now isn't the time for your exhaustive wit."

Looks like somebody has been talking to my mother.

He comes around the desk, every step measured, before finally he's leaning against the front in the ultimate form of man-spreading, the highest level, also known as 'the douchebag professor who thinks that he knows everything, but really just stares down your blouse and likes keeping you quiet and submissive.'

"It's getting comfortable, believing that they can be your friends, not seeing them for what they really are-"

"What they really are?"

"Inconveniences, nuisances, trash, rubbish- the undesirables." The Warden shrugs. "But what they can never be is your friends."

Your jaw tightens.

The truth was, you had heard all of this before from your mother, usually when she was trying to talk you out of keeping your job at the prison.  She'd told you countless times how all of the inmates didn't deserve you as a doctor and therefore you should move on, but you couldn't. You took an oath to help people, to heal, to care, and you felt like you were where you needed to be.

The bigger problem, was hearing this kind of talk from someone who not only was supposed to oversee and run the prison, but also see the worth of his job, of seeing the positives as well as the negatives. He was not supposed to look down on the inmates.

Who does he think he is? The President of the United States?! He has no right to judge these men that way. Not when he's supposed to be the voice of reason, the leader, the one person in this damn prison who actually gives a fuck.

"Sir-" Anger flares in your chest, beating against your ribcage like the wings of a bird.

"Come on." He stands from the desk and walks to his office door behind him.

"What?"

"I want to show you something."

The Warden doesn't wait for you, in fact he continues to walk down the maze of hallways with you running to catch up with him. You had no idea why he couldn't just chew you out in his office for something that you didn't deserve to be chewed out for.

For actually giving a shit about his inmates... well maybe caring a little bit too much.

Your thoughts immediately shift to Walker as they always did whenever all went quiet in your mind and you couldn't think of anyone else.

There was a little part of you that you didn't want to heed, the rational part of your brain that said that Walker was playing you like a fiddle, that he didn't care about you and all he wanted was to charm you so it would be easier for him to use you.

That part usually warred with the other part, the part that kept letting the green-eyed man slip into your thoughts when you felt discouraged and disappointed by the other men in your life that never quite seemed to get you.

The Warden opens a door at the end of the hallway, the brilliant sunlight blinding you for a moment, before you realize that the two of you are standing in the inner gate looking out onto the yard.

Inmates mill around in groups while others move in a grayish blue blur through the crowds with the sun baking from above. Some play a game of basketball in the far corner while others lift weights.

Dust kicks up in twisted clouds around their feet with the wind that blows from the East, wicking the sweat that gathers on the back of your neck. Grass pushes up through the coarse earth in sporadic patches only to be stomped into submission by the white canvas prison regulation tennis shoes the inmates wore. The murmur of the prisoners, the heavy clink of weights, and bounce of a basketball against pavement is lost on the wind.

You find Walker almost immediately. It’s a compulsion, like magnets, as if you can’t help but look for the scruffy green-eyed man who’s entered your subconscious despite all the times you’ve told yourself that it can’t happen. Your mind automatically seeking him out for some relief, a bad habit you can't seem to break.

He's sitting on top of one of the concrete picnic tables on the far end of the yard, talking to a younger guy with hair so black it's almost the color of charcoal.

The breeze rustles through Walker's hair that blazes a honeyed chestnut in the mid-day sun, the same sun that paints his body in a golden glow. You know that if you were standing beside him you’d be able to see the flecks of gold like falling stars around his eyes, that crinkle with his boisterous laugh.

Walker laughs at something the dark-haired inmate says, his warm chuckle somehow finding the curve of your ear as if he's standing right next to you and even though you haven’t been able to hear anything else it comes across clear as day.

An alarm bell goes off in your head, because you know this is crazy. You knew better than to start thinking about an inmate the way you thought about Walker. Even if he was incredibly charming, funny, and had eyes that seemed to see through everything you were.

Damn it.

There was only one place that this could head, and it was already circling the drain, you just needed to pull the plug before you were in too deep.

Feels like it might be too late for that.

Walker's gaze flicks up from his companion to you, finding your eyes within seconds of you finding him, as if he sensed it. You hold his gaze, a smile twitching at the end of his mouth just for a moment, before he looks back at the man beside him. If you’d blinked you would have missed it.

Unfortunately, the Warden didn't miss it either.

"That's exactly what I'm talking about." He says.

"What?"

"You give them too much leash."

"They're not dogs." You grumble under your breath.

"You're right. They're not. They're wolves." The Warden spits, eyes narrowed as he turns to look at you. He takes a step in your direction, backing you up against the chain link fence. "You can't tame them and the second you turn your back, they'll rip your throat out."

His eyes are two blackened pits, the sunlight no longer a soft glow, but a striking white that blinds you momentarily as you look up into his face. The planes of his face are sharpened in the dark shadow of his gray cowboy hat. He looks every bit the Warden role he'd chosen to play.

"You don't know that. Just because they're prisoners does not make them any less human than you and me!" You snap back.

Anger flared red hot beneath your skin, bubbling up from the pit of your stomach like a volcano ready to erupt. You hated the way that he spoke about the inmates, haughty, prideful, arrogant, as if they were below him somehow when all they were was just men. Men who maybe had made a few mistakes, but you were willing to believe that with the bad came the good, that not all of them could be psychos that were locked up for the "betterment of society."

"Yes I do. I've been here a hell of a lot longer than you. See this happen time and time again." He snarls taking another step towards you. The chain link cuts through the back of you scrubs, harsh and unyielding, meant to keep the inmates in but somehow now feel like it's trying to keep you out. "Let me guess, you think that life has been unkind to them. That not one of them deserves to be within these walls."

"That's not what I'm-"

"Did I say that I was done?" He barks.

Your jaw tenses so tightly together that you're sure you'll get TMJ.

He spoke to you like you were a little girl who'd done something wrong and was sent to the principal's office as if you were living in some imaginary world filled with rainbows and unicorns or still believed in Santa.

There were only a few moments in your life that you admitted to absolutely hating someone, and this would go right on the list as number five. Number one was Sally Caruthers in second grade who took your pudding cup at snack time.

This is much worse than someone stealing my chocolate, and that's saying something.

But worse still was that he was assuming you only saw the good in the world, but he was wrong. Your father had told you enough stories from his job growing up, things that were said to you in warning to prepare you for when you struck out on your own. You weren't naïve, far from it, but you didn't believe that everyone was rotten to the core, you wanted to believe that everyone had some good hidden somewhere.

It was that way with Walker. You'd seen his file, knew what he did, but there was a part of you that wanted to believe that he wasn't all bad.

The thought stutters to a halt.

Do I really believe that? Or do I think that just because of the way he's always nice to me… Only when he needs something.

You glance over your shoulder to look at where Walker is sitting with the other inmate, but instead of being locked in conversation, Walker's entire body has gone rigid.

He's staring at where the Warden has you cornered against the chain length fence, eyes dark, with his hand curled against the concrete slab that serves as the top of the table pulled so tight that his knuckles look white. Something dark dances in his eyes that sends a shiver down your spine.

You’d never seen him like that before. Easy smiles, windswept hair, green eyes so bright they seemed to dance yes. But this? Seeing Walker with something akin to murder in his eyes, never.

It made your throat tighten.

"You think they hate being in here? That it’s some dark twist of fate that they’re imprisoned here?” The Warden asks with a sneer. "They aren’t. In here they think they're kings, gods, who assert their power however they see fit. Because out there they are nothing,  but in here they think they're untouchable, and Walker is the worst of them all."

"You don't know that-" Your voice comes out in a whisper, heart sinking.

"I do." The Warden towers over you, placing one of his hands against the unyielding metal of the chain-length fence. His fingers curl into the space to cage you in. The warmth of his breath wafts across your face, bringing the distinct smell of coffee.

It made your stomach feel like it was flopping around, a fish out of water.

"He doesn't give a shit about you, none of the prisoners do. It might be all smiles and jokes now, but the second the status quo changes, the exact moment there aren't any guards looking, no one to stop him, well-" The Warden smiles cruelly. "I'm sure Walker will have a lot of fun getting his hands on a pretty little thing like you, with no one to stop him and no one to hear you scream. And for men like him," Something dark flickers in his eyes sending a shudder down your spine as he leans down towards you. "Hearing those screams makes them feel alive."

The sunlight soaking into your bones has suddenly gone cold, fear tracing along the curve of your spine with a chilled fingertip.

Memories of the stories your father told you from years in this world come whispering against your ear, stories that used to keep your sister up at night and made her the kind of woman that had a bright pink keychain loaded with every self-defense tool known to man.

When you'd taken this job your father had issued the same warning, told you about the dangers of desperate men who had nothing to lose.

"They're wrong," He'd said one night while the two of you watched an episode of the Walking Dead, sighing at the screen. "Men like that don't come around when everything falls apart. They already exist and the dangerous ones aren't the ones that wear it proudly on their sleeves. The dangerous ones are the men who hide in plain sight with easy smiles and gentle touches, because when they flip the switch, you don't see it coming."

On some level you knew that the Warden was right, men like that existed everywhere, but you didn't want to believe that Walker was one of them. Just as you didn't want to believe that everyone was out to get you all the time, that would lead to a very lonely existence, a sad and somewhat dark existence.

A flash of Walker's dark eyes comes roaring back through your subconscious before you can stop it. In his gaze you hadn't seen the Walker you knew, you'd seen someone else. And the longer you thought about it, the more it snagged in your chest that maybe Walker wasn't as charming as he let on and maybe he was getting you exactly where he wanted before the façade dropped.

An alarm sounds from across the yard, shattering through the sounds of mid-day and sending the crows that gathered on the top of the barbed wire fences flocking across the sun.

"Look at him." The Warden grabs your shoulder and turns you around so fast that you feel dizzy for a moment. "You think that man is a puppy? He's a damn wolf in sheep's clothing sweetheart and the second you turn your back they'll be nothing you can do."

Your gaze focuses on Walker, who sits atop another inmate splayed out beneath him on the ground. Walker's eyes have gone dark, the playful gleam you'd grown to love vanishing, his mischievous smirk morphed into an angry scowl as he throws his fist into the other inmate's face. Blood flecks over his cheeks and across his knuckles, and despite the guards that try to pull him off the other man, Walker fights back hard.

His eyes flicker across the yard once again finding you, but this time it doesn't bring the same warmth that it usually does, all it does is bring the chill scuttling down the length of your spine. Because the man staring back at you, has not one shred of the Walker you know, and it brings the doubt surging back up to swallow you whole.

Mark POV

*Five Minutes Ago*

It was moments like this that Mark hated being undercover.

He wasn't one to complain, and truthfully he liked a lot of things about being undercover: the improv as he slipped into character, the bravado he exuded, the rush of adrenaline that snapped and crackled through his veins when things were going his way and also the same lightning bolt that energized him when things weren't…

But not right now.

Especially not now.

It wasn't the sun that baked against his freckled skin, it wasn't the inmates that whispered death threats under their breath whenever they passed or the ones that actually had the balls to act on, it wasn't the chill that came in the dead of night creeping beneath the metal doors and seeped through the cinderblock when he tried to tug the hole riddled blanket up over his body, and it wasn't the headache that pinched between his eyebrows, the same headaches that came at the most inopportune times and reminded him of the thing he was trying to forget.

The axe that hung over the chopping block, the ticking time bomb in his head with a nuclear level countdown sequence that no one could stop.

But he wasn't thinking about any of that, all he was thinking about was you.

Mark knew the second you appeared on the edge of the chain length fence enclosing the yard following after the Warden something was wrong.

Because you weren't smiling.

There was never one moment that Mark had seen you with a frown on your face, not when each time you smiled he felt something deep down inside of him break open and flood the cavity in his chest with warmth. Which only made him feel a hell of a lot of guilt. He was undercover for fucks sake, he needed to focus on what he was doing not get distracted by someone like you…

But he was.

You were so unlike any person he'd ever met, someone who shouldn't exist somewhere like this. Not with your sincere smiles, warm personality, and genuine caring attitude that you carried with you through the dismal halls of the prison. It was almost like there was this one bright light that flickered and shone despite the thick mortar and cinderblock that enclosed the rest of the inmates, a light that could so easily be blown out at a moment's notice.

She wears crazy socks for fucks sake! A woman like her should be working in one of the top hospitals in the country, not here!

And Mark knew that he shouldn't care about you as much as he did, not when he was undercover and especially not because his days were numbered.

Because where could this go? He finally gets out of prison only to tell you that he's on death row? A dead man walking? Might as well just throw him right back in the fucking clink, he was already waiting out a death sentence and as long as he was making some kind of difference who cares?

What was the point if he couldn't give you what you deserved?

But that did nothing to stop you from slipping into his subconscious. The sound of your laugh a soothing melody, the brief glimpse of your smile like a star falling from heaven, and the gentle touch of your fingers over his skin a calming balm whenever you patched him up.

Mark had to keep reminding himself that you were nothing but a distraction, not to mention a complication that he never saw coming, blindsided by your kindness and gentle demeanor.

I'm a fucking professional not some cockeyed rookie. I've done this multiple times why is she different!? Why now?

Mark tried his hardest not to think about you, not when he was supposed to be focused on the job, but he couldn't help it, he worried about you constantly.

Worried that some other inmate or even one of the guards here would catch you alone unaware. Worried that you wouldn't pick up on the signals until it was too late and there was nowhere for you to go and Mark couldn't get to you in time.

Anything could happen in this prison, hell, Mark had seen quite a few things happen already and he couldn't bear the thought of you being involved in any of them.

Mark saw the way the others watched you when they noticed you walking down the hallways, saw the way that even the guards gazes lingered on your form whenever they brought Mark to the infirmary.

And as much as it hurt to get into fights, it was the only way that Mark could ensure seeing that you were okay, that you were still here. He hated the days that he let another inmate land a punch only to find the buffoon with the duct taped Nikes waiting for him in the infirmary.

Talk about disappointing.

Mark also tried not to think too hard that the other reason he went to see you was that it felt so damn good, that he couldn't go without seeing you at least once per week. He felt like an addict of the worst kind, but if this was an addiction he wasn't sure he ever wanted to quit, not when seeing you smile made Mark forget everything wrong in his fucked up life.

The sun kissed your skin giving it a brilliant glow and framing the curves of your body so well that Mark was sure if he closed his eyes the imprint would be stamped across the inside of his eyelids, the wind rustled through the strands of your hair pulling it freely into your face, and Mark dropped his eyes to your ankles barely catching a glimpse of the cactus socks hidden in your pair of signature converse, but still you don't smile.

An ugly feeling swarmed in the pit of Mark's stomach when his gaze drifted to the Warden. He was standing a little too close for Mark's comfort, towering over you, and Mark didn't like the way you seemed to curl slightly in on yourself, folding beneath the Warden's gaze.

He couldn't hear what you two were talking about, but he could sure as hell guess.

Mark's hand curls around the concrete table top of the picnic table when the Warden takes another step in your direction, pressing you further against the fence.

White hot rage begins to flood through his body, the urge to protect you breaking through the little voice inside that was telling him to let you go, let it go, that he's about to blow his cover for all the wrong reasons.

Fuck.

Mark hated the Warden, knew how much of an asshole he was the second Mark met with him before he went undercover, and Mark hated the way you looked.

You looked small.

Mark had never seen you look anything but happy, your laugh always making something inside of Mark feel like he was slowly sliding into a sun soaked beach chair on a remote island.

But not now. Now Mark wanted to stride over there, throw it all away, and nail the Warden once in face for saying whatever the hell it was that he was saying to you, because Mark knew that it wasn't good. It couldn't be, not when the look on your face was something between anger and hurt.

"Yo Walker!" An inmate cat-calls, but Mark ignores him.

Mark is in too deep and he knows it, but he can't look away from you. He's too busy trying to read the Warden's lips to care what someone else says to him.

"Looks like the Warden's got his eye on your little bitch." The inmate continues.

Mark's head snaps in the direction of said inmate, Luis, the man that had come to see you after him yesterday. He was at least three times Mark's size, his mouth splitting in a wide toothless smile on his goon-like face, the snake tattoo that curves up over his left eye flashing in the sunlight, offsetting the black and blue marks around his nose that mirrored the black eye on Mark's face.

"Fuck off."

"Ooo, touchy." Luis continues, rubbing one hand over his bald, sweaty forehead. Mark watches his gaze flick back in your direction, raking over your body without your knowledge. You were far too focused on the Warden who had cornered you against the chain-length fence like you were some kind of animal. "I'll say this, she's cute. Got that kind of body I wouldn't mind having all to myself. Bet she'd moan my name real pretty."

Mark's teeth grit together so hard he can hear the grinding in his ears, but he doesn't give in.

Don't play his game. Don't blow this because of her-

Chen looks from Mark to Luis, eyes wide. He had just started to trust Mark, and Mark didn't want to throw that all away so he ignores the man egging him on and instead watches where you are with the Warden.

"Fuck, I got a semi the other day when she was patching me up." Luis continues, taking another step towards Mark with two of his goons flanking him. "Her hands are so soft, I can't imagine what it'd feel like if she put those hands all over my co-"

The rest of his sentence is lost in the haze of red that washes over Mark's mind. He doesn't remember rising from the picnic table, doesn’t remember tackling Luis to the ground, and doesn't remember the first punch he throws into his face or the second or the third.

All he knows is that the moment the guards pull him off of Luis, whose nose is now broken for the second time, and his eyes find yours across the yard, and he sees the look of horror that crosses your face is that he messed up. Because Mark can lie to himself all day long, tell himself that he doesn't care about you, but seeing you look at him like that makes him want to throw all of this away.

And that's what scares him the most, because he can't, not when this is all he is and ever can be and you're everything else.

A/N: Just a tinsy bit of angst, a sprinkle if you will... Yes I know canonically that the Warden knows that Mark is undercover, I just wanted to make the Warden an even bigger jerk for warning her about Mark.

Taglist:

@jollyhunter @zepskies @waynes-multiverse @roseblue373 @angrydragon90

@kmc1989 @lunaleah @megara0224 @globetrotter98 @ladykitana90

@youroldfashioned @wonderland2022 @hellsbratonthet @moosewithabackstory @wvffles

@beakaleak32 @caroline-brooks @agentorange9595 @spxideyver

@hobby27 @anna-reid23 @britt217 @ralilda @lori19 @iamasimpingh0e

[lamentationsofalonelypotato]

@wvffles

OH MY WORD THANK YOU FOR ALL YOUR LOVELY COMMENTS!

oh goshhhhh the tension, the angst 😩💓

Oh sweetie, you ain't seen nothing yet 😈😭

yesss 🙃 the warden is a grade A dickwad 😭 I really feel for her, she didn’t deserve all that :/

He really is the worst. 😒 We only get a small glimpse of him on Countdown, but literally the man could make milk curdle. And I know! She really didn't deserve that at all. All she's trying to do is be a good person. Warden apparently didn't get the memo.

I really love her personality and her mindset, she such a sweetheart, a light 💖

Aww thank you! I'm a sucker for grumpy x sunshine and I really wanted to write a reader who would contrast Mark's harder exterior while also contrasting the overall dreariness of the prison. Plus I figured that a softer reader would really make Mark's protective instincts take over... and protective Mark really makes me rattle the bars of my cage 🥵

ooooooo I wanna milly rock him so bad, and how dare he cage her in like that ?? acting like she’s on an episode of beyond scared straight or something 🧍🏽‍♀️ she’s working, smh.

First I want to say that your reaction gifs for this one KILLED ME 🤣 But oh OH YES, the Warden really deserves a beat down, or at least someone to smack the shiznit out of him! And exactly! The Warden's out here trying to warn her while also exhibiting predatory behavior...😒

wrong time to be swooning but ahh, protective mark 😩💓💓

Oh no, it's the right time. IT'S THE RIGHT TIME! Because I'm right there with you. That man is about to summon the full wrath of Ares to beat down the Warden for even looking at his girl 🤬

what is his problem omg 😭 he has to have some sort of vendetta. or maybe he’s just envious of mark’s beauty, but idk this warden needs to go take a hike asap no rocky

He's literally the worst. Jean-Ralphio back me up!

Thank you. Anyway... "he's just envious of mark's beauty" ☠️ Probably is. The Warden probably is jealous that Mark can wear a mustache and beard combo like nobodies business and the Warden has to live with that dead caterpillar on his upper lip. The Warden needs to take a long walk off a short pier for realsies.

get back u heathen !!! 🤺🤺🤺 the way the warden described what the men there would be “happy to do to her” oh my goodness, he’s truly a terrible person. it even seemed like he was describing himself for a moment at the end there, vile little man. and then has the audacity to grab her??? he needs to run that fade immediately, like hello 🤨

Yep, yep, yep, that man needs to go *sprays bottle of water* "Get out of here!!" Rancid vibes all around the Warden. And oh my word I know- the predatory behavior, the creepy backing her into a corner, grabbing her... it's the ICK big time.

completely understandable from her current point of view but ahhhhhh 😭 it’s not what it seems likeeee

I knowwww 😭 He's plotting all the ways to kill the Warden not you sweetpea! He just looks hot scary! I'm serious your reaction gifs/memes have been killing me from the get go. I am cackling at the disintegration LOL

awhhh 😩🥺 I got so caught up in their dynamic I completely forgot about the tumor 😭🤦🏽‍♀️ but c’mon mark, better to love for some time than to have never loved at all right ❤️‍🩹:(

Oh my word I know! It's TERRIBLE. I do have a fic idea for later in their relationship as it pertains to the tumor, but until then there's only pain... Correction: there will also be pain there too, but at the moment it's pain all around 🥲 But exactly! Any moment the two of them can spend together can be wonderful and special and filled with love and there I go crying again 😭

another guy who needs to get punched in the throat omg. i’m glad mark beat his ass !! though I hate how it made her feel, how she looked at him 🥺 I feel for them both ❤️‍🩹

For real. Everyone gets to have a smack down!!! Mark is out there handing them out like Oprah handing out cars 🤣 But I know- that reminds me I'm gonna have to put miscommunication on the trope list because I feel like that's where this is heading lol.

i’m undoubtedly hooked, this is so good !!💙💙 can’t wait for them to get into a better situation though, the slow burn is definitely burning lol 😩💗

Oh my goodness thank you so much sweetie!! I'm so happy you loved it! The slow burn is burning and KILLING me at the same time. I just keep coming back for more I guess 🤷🏻‍♀️ But again, thank you so much for all your lovely comments! 💗

I Want To Be The One To Light Up The Dark In You

Pairing: Mark Meachum x f!reader, Reader POV, Mark Meachum POV

Summary: As much as you hate to admit it, the Warden might be right. This is the second fic in my Jailhouse Rock Series!

Tropes: Slow Burn, Forbidden Love, A Smidge Of Touch Her And Die Trope, Mutual Pining.

Word Count: 4.4K

Warnings: Manspreading 😒, Mentions of Sex/ Sexual Innuendo, Mentions of Blood and Prison Fights, Cursing, Angst, Inmate Says A Few *ahem* Unpleasant Things, Warden Also Says A Few Unpleasant Things, Reader trying not to be in love with a hot man in prison? Mark might be a little bit OOC.

Note: This is told from Reader's perspective. Any references to the reader is made using you or your. There is no use of y/n! I tried my best to proofread, but nobody's perfect. If you don’t like, don’t read, but if you do like, you’re my favorite! I'm just starting to write for Mark, so please be gentle.

Internal monologue is in italics and is in first person.

Listen While You Read 🚨: Light Up The Dark By Gabrielle Aplin title of fic is taken from this song!

Jailhouse Rock Playlist 🚨

Main Masterlist

Jailhouse Rock Masterlist

A/N: Oh my goodness, thank you so much everyone for all the reblogs and the wonderful feedback on part one of this fic series! I'm so happy that so many of you have decided to strap in to this angsty ride! 😊

Reader POV

Have you ever noticed that closing your eyes and counting to ten does little when you're talking to the most odious person alive?

That by some miracle, closing your eyes and pretending that they aren't there standing in front of you, breathing the same air, chattering on and on in the most annoying and condescending voice about something that makes your teeth grind down together and your insides suddenly want to be your outsides will help you find some way to maintain your composure?

Right now you wished it did.

Black coffee steamed from the ancient chipped mug sitting on the tanker desk in front of you, curling and twisting in the mid-day sun that floated through the barred windows of the Warden's office.

It did little to obscure the man scowling at you from under his mustache, but you wished that by some miracle the steam would grow into a cloud to hide you from the judgmental gaze of your employer.

What you'd done, you had no idea, but you noticed that the warden was often pulling you into his office to discuss things that seemed trivial in the grand scheme of things.

Things like:

You forgot to clean off your desk before you went home.

You brought a tuna fish sandwich from home and he could somehow smell it two floors down.

Your socks were distracting and therefore counterproductive to the work environment.

Basically, the warden was the mean cheerleader who dated all the jocks and never grew up.

Lovely.

So when he called you into his office you knew you were in for another tongue lashing that would later make you roll your eyes so hard that they'd get stuck in the back of your head.

He sits across from you, hands entwined on the top of his desk, beady eyes skating across you as if he can sense your internal monologue.

"I hear that you had to patch up Walker again yesterday." He says it like an accusation, as if it isn't your job to take care of the inmates, to patch them up when things get a little too fight club for your taste.

No disrespect to Brad Pitt and Ed Norton of course.

"Yes sir."

You'd learned by now to call him anything other than Warden or Sir would earn you a taste of the famous anger (re temper tantrums) the Warden had.

You'd been on the receiving end of them far too many times and despite not caring if he was mad at you or not, you didn't have time to sit here in his office and wait around, not when you were trying to leave early because your sister Margo and you had your weekly book club meeting tonight at your apartment.

The Warden takes a sip of his coffee, mustache rippling over the curve of the chipped cup, not breaking eye contact with you as he does.

There's an odd energy in the room, something oppressive and faintly masculine. It's cloying presence pulls at your limbs, shifts over the dark wood cabinet behind the desk, and drags over the concrete slab floor that ran the length of the prison. It was the same kind of energy that you'd only found in your physics professor's office, the one who told you that you'd never be able to pass his course with your academic record and you then spent the semester proving him wrong.

The walls of his office are painted in the same dreary gray that ghosted along the infirmary. You supposed that it was to make the room look bigger, but it only made it feel small, choking.

Instead of closing your eyes and counting to ten, you busy yourself with reading the titles of the books that line the dark wooden cabinet behind the Warden's head.

Anything is better than looking into those creepy beady eyes.

Especially not when you knew that the Warden was fishing for something to hold over you. Even though the only thing you'd done with Walker was your job. At least on paper, the things you'd done in your head were a little more PG-13 than the Warden needed to know about. Hell, you still were trying your best not to let your mind go to those places.

The Warden's gaze shifts over your body again. It worms beneath your skin, oppressive, squirmy. It was the same look that he gave the rest of the inmates within the walls of the prison to keep them in submission. You briefly wonder if he's always been like this or if he's having marital problems that he projects on everyone else.

"I also hear that you've been-" He clears his throat, beady eyes on you. "a little more friendly with him." His lip curls up in distaste at the word "friendly."

Oh so that's what this is about.

You choose to let your face remain impassive, not giving the man across from you eyeing you like a predatory bird the satisfaction.

"Sir?"

The Warden stands from his desk. "Do you know what the most dangerous thing in our profession is?"

"Shanks?"

The word came out before you could stop it, slipping out with the ghost of a smile on your lips.

His frown deepens. "Now isn't the time for your exhaustive wit."

Looks like somebody has been talking to my mother.

He comes around the desk, every step measured, before finally he's leaning against the front in the ultimate form of man-spreading, the highest level, also known as 'the douchebag professor who thinks that he knows everything, but really just stares down your blouse and likes keeping you quiet and submissive.'

"It's getting comfortable, believing that they can be your friends, not seeing them for what they really are-"

"What they really are?"

"Inconveniences, nuisances, trash, rubbish- the undesirables." The Warden shrugs. "But what they can never be is your friends."

Your jaw tightens.

The truth was, you had heard all of this before from your mother, usually when she was trying to talk you out of keeping your job at the prison.  She'd told you countless times how all of the inmates didn't deserve you as a doctor and therefore you should move on, but you couldn't. You took an oath to help people, to heal, to care, and you felt like you were where you needed to be.

The bigger problem, was hearing this kind of talk from someone who not only was supposed to oversee and run the prison, but also see the worth of his job, of seeing the positives as well as the negatives. He was not supposed to look down on the inmates.

Who does he think he is? The President of the United States?! He has no right to judge these men that way. Not when he's supposed to be the voice of reason, the leader, the one person in this damn prison who actually gives a fuck.

"Sir-" Anger flares in your chest, beating against your ribcage like the wings of a bird.

"Come on." He stands from the desk and walks to his office door behind him.

"What?"

"I want to show you something."

The Warden doesn't wait for you, in fact he continues to walk down the maze of hallways with you running to catch up with him. You had no idea why he couldn't just chew you out in his office for something that you didn't deserve to be chewed out for.

For actually giving a shit about his inmates... well maybe caring a little bit too much.

Your thoughts immediately shift to Walker as they always did whenever all went quiet in your mind and you couldn't think of anyone else.

There was a little part of you that you didn't want to heed, the rational part of your brain that said that Walker was playing you like a fiddle, that he didn't care about you and all he wanted was to charm you so it would be easier for him to use you.

That part usually warred with the other part, the part that kept letting the green-eyed man slip into your thoughts when you felt discouraged and disappointed by the other men in your life that never quite seemed to get you.

The Warden opens a door at the end of the hallway, the brilliant sunlight blinding you for a moment, before you realize that the two of you are standing in the inner gate looking out onto the yard.

Inmates mill around in groups while others move in a grayish blue blur through the crowds with the sun baking from above. Some play a game of basketball in the far corner while others lift weights.

Dust kicks up in twisted clouds around their feet with the wind that blows from the East, wicking the sweat that gathers on the back of your neck. Grass pushes up through the coarse earth in sporadic patches only to be stomped into submission by the white canvas prison regulation tennis shoes the inmates wore. The murmur of the prisoners, the heavy clink of weights, and bounce of a basketball against pavement is lost on the wind.

You find Walker almost immediately. It’s a compulsion, like magnets, as if you can’t help but look for the scruffy green-eyed man who’s entered your subconscious despite all the times you’ve told yourself that it can’t happen. Your mind automatically seeking him out for some relief, a bad habit you can't seem to break.

He's sitting on top of one of the concrete picnic tables on the far end of the yard, talking to a younger guy with hair so black it's almost the color of charcoal.

The breeze rustles through Walker's hair that blazes a honeyed chestnut in the mid-day sun, the same sun that paints his body in a golden glow. You know that if you were standing beside him you’d be able to see the flecks of gold like falling stars around his eyes, that crinkle with his boisterous laugh.

Walker laughs at something the dark-haired inmate says, his warm chuckle somehow finding the curve of your ear as if he's standing right next to you and even though you haven’t been able to hear anything else it comes across clear as day.

An alarm bell goes off in your head, because you know this is crazy. You knew better than to start thinking about an inmate the way you thought about Walker. Even if he was incredibly charming, funny, and had eyes that seemed to see through everything you were.

Damn it.

There was only one place that this could head, and it was already circling the drain, you just needed to pull the plug before you were in too deep.

Feels like it might be too late for that.

Walker's gaze flicks up from his companion to you, finding your eyes within seconds of you finding him, as if he sensed it. You hold his gaze, a smile twitching at the end of his mouth just for a moment, before he looks back at the man beside him. If you’d blinked you would have missed it.

Unfortunately, the Warden didn't miss it either.

"That's exactly what I'm talking about." He says.

"What?"

"You give them too much leash."

"They're not dogs." You grumble under your breath.

"You're right. They're not. They're wolves." The Warden spits, eyes narrowed as he turns to look at you. He takes a step in your direction, backing you up against the chain link fence. "You can't tame them and the second you turn your back, they'll rip your throat out."

His eyes are two blackened pits, the sunlight no longer a soft glow, but a striking white that blinds you momentarily as you look up into his face. The planes of his face are sharpened in the dark shadow of his gray cowboy hat. He looks every bit the Warden role he'd chosen to play.

"You don't know that. Just because they're prisoners does not make them any less human than you and me!" You snap back.

Anger flared red hot beneath your skin, bubbling up from the pit of your stomach like a volcano ready to erupt. You hated the way that he spoke about the inmates, haughty, prideful, arrogant, as if they were below him somehow when all they were was just men. Men who maybe had made a few mistakes, but you were willing to believe that with the bad came the good, that not all of them could be psychos that were locked up for the "betterment of society."

"Yes I do. I've been here a hell of a lot longer than you. See this happen time and time again." He snarls taking another step towards you. The chain link cuts through the back of you scrubs, harsh and unyielding, meant to keep the inmates in but somehow now feel like it's trying to keep you out. "Let me guess, you think that life has been unkind to them. That not one of them deserves to be within these walls."

"That's not what I'm-"

"Did I say that I was done?" He barks.

Your jaw tenses so tightly together that you're sure you'll get TMJ.

He spoke to you like you were a little girl who'd done something wrong and was sent to the principal's office as if you were living in some imaginary world filled with rainbows and unicorns or still believed in Santa.

There were only a few moments in your life that you admitted to absolutely hating someone, and this would go right on the list as number five. Number one was Sally Caruthers in second grade who took your pudding cup at snack time.

This is much worse than someone stealing my chocolate, and that's saying something.

But worse still was that he was assuming you only saw the good in the world, but he was wrong. Your father had told you enough stories from his job growing up, things that were said to you in warning to prepare you for when you struck out on your own. You weren't naïve, far from it, but you didn't believe that everyone was rotten to the core, you wanted to believe that everyone had some good hidden somewhere.

It was that way with Walker. You'd seen his file, knew what he did, but there was a part of you that wanted to believe that he wasn't all bad.

The thought stutters to a halt.

Do I really believe that? Or do I think that just because of the way he's always nice to me… Only when he needs something.

You glance over your shoulder to look at where Walker is sitting with the other inmate, but instead of being locked in conversation, Walker's entire body has gone rigid.

He's staring at where the Warden has you cornered against the chain length fence, eyes dark, with his hand curled against the concrete slab that serves as the top of the table pulled so tight that his knuckles look white. Something dark dances in his eyes that sends a shiver down your spine.

You’d never seen him like that before. Easy smiles, windswept hair, green eyes so bright they seemed to dance yes. But this? Seeing Walker with something akin to murder in his eyes, never.

It made your throat tighten.

"You think they hate being in here? That it’s some dark twist of fate that they’re imprisoned here?” The Warden asks with a sneer. "They aren’t. In here they think they're kings, gods, who assert their power however they see fit. Because out there they are nothing,  but in here they think they're untouchable, and Walker is the worst of them all."

"You don't know that-" Your voice comes out in a whisper, heart sinking.

"I do." The Warden towers over you, placing one of his hands against the unyielding metal of the chain-length fence. His fingers curl into the space to cage you in. The warmth of his breath wafts across your face, bringing the distinct smell of coffee.

It made your stomach feel like it was flopping around, a fish out of water.

"He doesn't give a shit about you, none of the prisoners do. It might be all smiles and jokes now, but the second the status quo changes, the exact moment there aren't any guards looking, no one to stop him, well-" The Warden smiles cruelly. "I'm sure Walker will have a lot of fun getting his hands on a pretty little thing like you, with no one to stop him and no one to hear you scream. And for men like him," Something dark flickers in his eyes sending a shudder down your spine as he leans down towards you. "Hearing those screams makes them feel alive."

The sunlight soaking into your bones has suddenly gone cold, fear tracing along the curve of your spine with a chilled fingertip.

Memories of the stories your father told you from years in this world come whispering against your ear, stories that used to keep your sister up at night and made her the kind of woman that had a bright pink keychain loaded with every self-defense tool known to man.

When you'd taken this job your father had issued the same warning, told you about the dangers of desperate men who had nothing to lose.

"They're wrong," He'd said one night while the two of you watched an episode of the Walking Dead, sighing at the screen. "Men like that don't come around when everything falls apart. They already exist and the dangerous ones aren't the ones that wear it proudly on their sleeves. The dangerous ones are the men who hide in plain sight with easy smiles and gentle touches, because when they flip the switch, you don't see it coming."

On some level you knew that the Warden was right, men like that existed everywhere, but you didn't want to believe that Walker was one of them. Just as you didn't want to believe that everyone was out to get you all the time, that would lead to a very lonely existence, a sad and somewhat dark existence.

A flash of Walker's dark eyes comes roaring back through your subconscious before you can stop it. In his gaze you hadn't seen the Walker you knew, you'd seen someone else. And the longer you thought about it, the more it snagged in your chest that maybe Walker wasn't as charming as he let on and maybe he was getting you exactly where he wanted before the façade dropped.

An alarm sounds from across the yard, shattering through the sounds of mid-day and sending the crows that gathered on the top of the barbed wire fences flocking across the sun.

"Look at him." The Warden grabs your shoulder and turns you around so fast that you feel dizzy for a moment. "You think that man is a puppy? He's a damn wolf in sheep's clothing sweetheart and the second you turn your back they'll be nothing you can do."

Your gaze focuses on Walker, who sits atop another inmate splayed out beneath him on the ground. Walker's eyes have gone dark, the playful gleam you'd grown to love vanishing, his mischievous smirk morphed into an angry scowl as he throws his fist into the other inmate's face. Blood flecks over his cheeks and across his knuckles, and despite the guards that try to pull him off the other man, Walker fights back hard.

His eyes flicker across the yard once again finding you, but this time it doesn't bring the same warmth that it usually does, all it does is bring the chill scuttling down the length of your spine. Because the man staring back at you, has not one shred of the Walker you know, and it brings the doubt surging back up to swallow you whole.

Mark POV

*Five Minutes Ago*

It was moments like this that Mark hated being undercover.

He wasn't one to complain, and truthfully he liked a lot of things about being undercover: the improv as he slipped into character, the bravado he exuded, the rush of adrenaline that snapped and crackled through his veins when things were going his way and also the same lightning bolt that energized him when things weren't…

But not right now.

Especially not now.

It wasn't the sun that baked against his freckled skin, it wasn't the inmates that whispered death threats under their breath whenever they passed or the ones that actually had the balls to act on, it wasn't the chill that came in the dead of night creeping beneath the metal doors and seeped through the cinderblock when he tried to tug the hole riddled blanket up over his body, and it wasn't the headache that pinched between his eyebrows, the same headaches that came at the most inopportune times and reminded him of the thing he was trying to forget.

The axe that hung over the chopping block, the ticking time bomb in his head with a nuclear level countdown sequence that no one could stop.

But he wasn't thinking about any of that, all he was thinking about was you.

Mark knew the second you appeared on the edge of the chain length fence enclosing the yard following after the Warden something was wrong.

Because you weren't smiling.

There was never one moment that Mark had seen you with a frown on your face, not when each time you smiled he felt something deep down inside of him break open and flood the cavity in his chest with warmth. Which only made him feel a hell of a lot of guilt. He was undercover for fucks sake, he needed to focus on what he was doing not get distracted by someone like you…

But he was.

You were so unlike any person he'd ever met, someone who shouldn't exist somewhere like this. Not with your sincere smiles, warm personality, and genuine caring attitude that you carried with you through the dismal halls of the prison. It was almost like there was this one bright light that flickered and shone despite the thick mortar and cinderblock that enclosed the rest of the inmates, a light that could so easily be blown out at a moment's notice.

She wears crazy socks for fucks sake! A woman like her should be working in one of the top hospitals in the country, not here!

And Mark knew that he shouldn't care about you as much as he did, not when he was undercover and especially not because his days were numbered.

Because where could this go? He finally gets out of prison only to tell you that he's on death row? A dead man walking? Might as well just throw him right back in the fucking clink, he was already waiting out a death sentence and as long as he was making some kind of difference who cares?

What was the point if he couldn't give you what you deserved?

But that did nothing to stop you from slipping into his subconscious. The sound of your laugh a soothing melody, the brief glimpse of your smile like a star falling from heaven, and the gentle touch of your fingers over his skin a calming balm whenever you patched him up.

Mark had to keep reminding himself that you were nothing but a distraction, not to mention a complication that he never saw coming, blindsided by your kindness and gentle demeanor.

I'm a fucking professional not some cockeyed rookie. I've done this multiple times why is she different!? Why now?

Mark tried his hardest not to think about you, not when he was supposed to be focused on the job, but he couldn't help it, he worried about you constantly.

Worried that some other inmate or even one of the guards here would catch you alone unaware. Worried that you wouldn't pick up on the signals until it was too late and there was nowhere for you to go and Mark couldn't get to you in time.

Anything could happen in this prison, hell, Mark had seen quite a few things happen already and he couldn't bear the thought of you being involved in any of them.

Mark saw the way the others watched you when they noticed you walking down the hallways, saw the way that even the guards gazes lingered on your form whenever they brought Mark to the infirmary.

And as much as it hurt to get into fights, it was the only way that Mark could ensure seeing that you were okay, that you were still here. He hated the days that he let another inmate land a punch only to find the buffoon with the duct taped Nikes waiting for him in the infirmary.

Talk about disappointing.

Mark also tried not to think too hard that the other reason he went to see you was that it felt so damn good, that he couldn't go without seeing you at least once per week. He felt like an addict of the worst kind, but if this was an addiction he wasn't sure he ever wanted to quit, not when seeing you smile made Mark forget everything wrong in his fucked up life.

The sun kissed your skin giving it a brilliant glow and framing the curves of your body so well that Mark was sure if he closed his eyes the imprint would be stamped across the inside of his eyelids, the wind rustled through the strands of your hair pulling it freely into your face, and Mark dropped his eyes to your ankles barely catching a glimpse of the cactus socks hidden in your pair of signature converse, but still you don't smile.

An ugly feeling swarmed in the pit of Mark's stomach when his gaze drifted to the Warden. He was standing a little too close for Mark's comfort, towering over you, and Mark didn't like the way you seemed to curl slightly in on yourself, folding beneath the Warden's gaze.

He couldn't hear what you two were talking about, but he could sure as hell guess.

Mark's hand curls around the concrete table top of the picnic table when the Warden takes another step in your direction, pressing you further against the fence.

White hot rage begins to flood through his body, the urge to protect you breaking through the little voice inside that was telling him to let you go, let it go, that he's about to blow his cover for all the wrong reasons.

Fuck.

Mark hated the Warden, knew how much of an asshole he was the second Mark met with him before he went undercover, and Mark hated the way you looked.

You looked small.

Mark had never seen you look anything but happy, your laugh always making something inside of Mark feel like he was slowly sliding into a sun soaked beach chair on a remote island.

But not now. Now Mark wanted to stride over there, throw it all away, and nail the Warden once in face for saying whatever the hell it was that he was saying to you, because Mark knew that it wasn't good. It couldn't be, not when the look on your face was something between anger and hurt.

"Yo Walker!" An inmate cat-calls, but Mark ignores him.

Mark is in too deep and he knows it, but he can't look away from you. He's too busy trying to read the Warden's lips to care what someone else says to him.

"Looks like the Warden's got his eye on your little bitch." The inmate continues.

Mark's head snaps in the direction of said inmate, Luis, the man that had come to see you after him yesterday. He was at least three times Mark's size, his mouth splitting in a wide toothless smile on his goon-like face, the snake tattoo that curves up over his left eye flashing in the sunlight, offsetting the black and blue marks around his nose that mirrored the black eye on Mark's face.

"Fuck off."

"Ooo, touchy." Luis continues, rubbing one hand over his bald, sweaty forehead. Mark watches his gaze flick back in your direction, raking over your body without your knowledge. You were far too focused on the Warden who had cornered you against the chain-length fence like you were some kind of animal. "I'll say this, she's cute. Got that kind of body I wouldn't mind having all to myself. Bet she'd moan my name real pretty."

Mark's teeth grit together so hard he can hear the grinding in his ears, but he doesn't give in.

Don't play his game. Don't blow this because of her-

Chen looks from Mark to Luis, eyes wide. He had just started to trust Mark, and Mark didn't want to throw that all away so he ignores the man egging him on and instead watches where you are with the Warden.

"Fuck, I got a semi the other day when she was patching me up." Luis continues, taking another step towards Mark with two of his goons flanking him. "Her hands are so soft, I can't imagine what it'd feel like if she put those hands all over my co-"

The rest of his sentence is lost in the haze of red that washes over Mark's mind. He doesn't remember rising from the picnic table, doesn’t remember tackling Luis to the ground, and doesn't remember the first punch he throws into his face or the second or the third.

All he knows is that the moment the guards pull him off of Luis, whose nose is now broken for the second time, and his eyes find yours across the yard, and he sees the look of horror that crosses your face is that he messed up. Because Mark can lie to himself all day long, tell himself that he doesn't care about you, but seeing you look at him like that makes him want to throw all of this away.

And that's what scares him the most, because he can't, not when this is all he is and ever can be and you're everything else.

A/N: Just a tinsy bit of angst, a sprinkle if you will... Yes I know canonically that the Warden knows that Mark is undercover, I just wanted to make the Warden an even bigger jerk for warning her about Mark.

Taglist:

@jollyhunter @zepskies @waynes-multiverse @roseblue373 @angrydragon90

@kmc1989 @lunaleah @megara0224 @globetrotter98 @ladykitana90

@youroldfashioned @wonderland2022 @hellsbratonthet @moosewithabackstory @wvffles

@beakaleak32 @caroline-brooks @agentorange9595 @spxideyver

@hobby27 @anna-reid23 @britt217 @ralilda @lori19 @iamasimpingh0e

[lamentationsofalonelypotato]

@simpingforjoel

Thank you sweetie! He needs all the cuddles and hugs! The poor touch starved tinman needs LOVE too, even if he doesn't know how to ask for it!

Thank you so much for the reblog! 😘

What Is This Feeling?

Pairing: Din Djarin x f!reader, Din Djarin/The Mandalorian POV

Summary: Din can't seem to stop running in to you, and he can't figure out why he likes it. Takes place after Season 3 when Din and Grogu have been living in their cabin on Nevarro. This is the second fic in my Sugar, Spice, and Starlight Series!

Tropes: Fluff, Bakery AU, Grumpy vs. Sunshine

Word Count: 2.7K

Warnings: I don't think there's really any? The reader is really soft and likes to bake? Din being a little bit self-deprecating to himself? Din kinda simping and not understanding that he's simping? Din might be a little bit OOC. It's mostly just fluff.

Note: This is told from Reader's perspective. Any references to the reader is made using you or your. There is no use of y/n! I tried my best to proofread, but nobody's perfect. If you don’t like, don’t read, but if you do like, you’re my favorite! This is my second time writing for Din, so please be gentle.

Internal monologue is in italics and is in first person.

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A/N: I really just wanted to write a little fluffy thing from Din's perspective because I can't stop apparently. 🤣

The Mandalorian/Din Djarin POV

"Mando, I don't know why you always seem so upset whenever I ask you to do a small favor for me." Greef Karga says with a chuckle. "I thought you liked being busy."

"Maybe it's because you never bother to return any of the favors I do for you." Din sighs, leaning back against the cool solid wall of the building behind him masked in shadow.

The sounds of the city rattle outside his armor: the vendors who line the crowded streets calling out to the people who walk along the dirt road, the low hum of speeders as they muscle down the street and split the masses of pedestrian, and up ahead Din can hear the happy giggles of children scream and giggle while avoiding the chilling spray of the new fountains in the town square.

Din supposed that Karga put them in to make Navarro more "family friendly," an odd concept given it's colorful history, but Din admitted to himself that it did seem to have a more "comforting" effect on the small city. Every time Din came to town he'd see a new shop, new face, or new addition being added on to the growing sprawl of buildings.

"Oh don't-" Karga begins to reply, but Din hears a laugh ring above the cacophony of sounds and the rest of Karga's statement is lost to the wind.

Din's eyes search for the source, the sound of the laugh vibrating through his bones, familiar, until he finds you. You're sitting on a stone bench just outside where children are weaving through the clear streams of water erupting from the ground in crystal blue arches while parents watch.

There's a book perched on your knee and the sunlight drags across your skin in luminous wave, while the breeze teases through your hair, but you're smiling down at the pages. Today you're wearing a teal-colored dress that reaches your ankles and your arms are covered by a small floral shrug that drifts with each gentle gust of wind from the East. A laugh escapes your parted lips as you turn the page, eyes following the text, each soft exhale of your breath moving your shoulders, oblivious to the world around you, and oblivious to Din's watchful eye.

Din's throat tightens, the sound of your laugh sending a warm feeling he couldn't name swirling in his chest. It was an odd feeling, something that makes his heart thud an extra beat, and something that makes a smile twitch on the end of his lips in the dark beneath his helmet.

Meeting you had been unexpected and although Din hated when Grogu would sneak away from him, he couldn't be upset with Grogu over wandering into your shop, not when it meant that Din got to meet you.

Truthfully, Din would have never set foot in it. He liked living outside of town, liked the quiet it brought, the peace he thought he'd never have after years of fighting and years of looking at his blood stained hands and wondering if there would be rest, if there could be for someone like him.

Of course with that peace came an emptiness that Din had felt before in the years before he'd taken in Grogu, that somehow found him in the cold reaches of space when all was silent, but Din never expected it to return. Not when he was spending his time living with Grogu in the small cabin on the outskirts of town and felt closest to happiness than he ever had.

You laugh again, lips arching in a smile as you read the book in your lap, the sound of it floating through the air above all the other noises in the town square.

Din forgets how to breathe.

It had been a week since he'd met you. Din didn't need to go into town often and didn't like to, but as the days stretched longer and longer he found himself wanting to return.

He didn’t know why that was. He had spent most of his life being self-sufficient and distancing himself from other people, but today when he'd woken up, he'd been unable to stop himself from making the trek back to Nevarro City.

Odd given that fact that Din knew no one wanted him here.

He knew what the residents whispered about him when they thought he couldn't hear, saw the way mothers clutched their children tighter against their chests and walked in a different direction or crossed to the other side of the street when they saw him approach, and felt the stares of people who shrank back into darkened corners to avoid the flash of silver from his Beskar as he walked the streets. Din never used to care about that sort of thing, in fact he was used to it. As both a Mandalorian and a bounty hunter, Din was acutely aware of how people responded to him…

But not you.

Instead of the fear other shown him, you smiled, gave him free pastry, made him feel… seen. It was one thing for someone to gush over Grogu and give him pastry, but you’d done it for Din. The Mandalorian who lived outside of town and who Din was sure you'd heard all about through the gossiping inhabitants of Nevarro.

Din had only met one other who treated him with such kindness, Omera. But Din hadn't felt this when he'd been around her.

He hesitated on the thought, watching you turn another page, and smile at what you found.

You were different than her. You were unlike anyone else that Din had ever met.

You were soft, hands rubbed smooth from kneading pastry and smelling of fresh baked bread. You reminded him of the warmth of the morning rays from the twin suns of Tatooine before they kissed the sands that shifted like an invisible ocean.

Looking at you made the rest of the world feel like it was holding it's breath. Din didn't want to look away. He wanted to study the subtle quirk of your lips, trace the smile lines on your cheeks, and watch the subtle rise and fall of your chest as you read.

Din didn't think people like you existed, let alone to find one on Nevarro of all places. He didn't understand why you'd chosen here to open a bakery, on a planet made of sand and rock, and populated with people Din wouldn't trust for a milli-second.

Well… he didn't really trust anyone anyway.

Din thought he'd imagined you, that's why he'd come back the second time to your shop when Grogu was asleep. He needed to see if you really existed, if the woman he remembered was real flesh and blood and not some figment of his imagination.

But you were there, cleaning, and then when you'd noticed him, you'd smiled at him again as if he wasn't who he was, as if he was your… friend.

He could count the number of friends he had on one hand and none of them made him feel the way you did whenever you smiled at him.

"Mando?"

Din doesn't look away from you, still reveling in these few moments. It was the first time that he'd seen you since he'd visited your bakery a week ago, and Din had been wrestling internally with himself thinking of a reason to stop by. Instead he'd bumped into Greef Karga. 

"Mando!" Karga says again and this time Din turns to look at him.

"What?" He gruffs in the buzzing monotone of his helmet, annoyed that he'd had to look away.

"Did you hear anything I said?" Karga raises an eyebrow with a dubious look.

Din thought about lying. "No."

"What am I going to do with you Mando? You always-"

Din lost whatever Karga was saying again as the memory of you saying his real name washes over him in a soothing wave. He'd been hesitant to tell you, he didn't like telling anyone. He let everyone call him Mando and he didn't mind.

But the moment you'd spoken his name, let the syllables roll from your mouth like running water in a cool pool, Din could feel his body underneath his Beskar relax.

What is wrong with me? She's just someone I met. She probably doesn't even remember-

"Din!"

He'd know your voice anywhere, but he wasn't expecting his body to respond to you the same way it had the moment he met you.

Din looks up over Karga's shoulder again to watch your approach. The book you'd been reading is clasped in your right hand, and you're smiling at him in a way that makes him want to forget everything he'd done.

Forget the work worn hands from years of bounty hunting, forget the scars that covered his body, and forget that he's him.

Your face is crinkled with your smile, eyes bright while the sunlight catches along your skin and hair to make you seem as if you'd floated down from above for just this moment. The teal dress you have hugs your body as if it were made for you and in a way that makes Din's throat tight and makes all other thoughts evaporate from his mind.

You wave with your free-hand while you get closer to where he and Greef Karga are standing as if the smile isn't enough and as if you want him to know that it is him he's talking to. Again, Din is struck with the melancholic feeling of something he can't name pricking in his chest.

"Hey stranger." Your smile wider up at him. "Haven't seen you in a few days. Thought maybe you were sleeping off a sugar coma somewhere."

Din's mouth is dry, he can't think of a way to respond, his hands suddenly sweaty beneath his thick leather gloves-

Din didn't understand why that talking to you made him feel more anxious than when he was facing down Moff Gideon or why whenever you laughed Din felt the same way as when he bit into one of the sweet and tangy squares of Uj'alayi that you'd made.

A warm, melancholic feeling of something that he knew before and something that he thought he'd never have again.

Your eyes shift to where Greef Karga stands, stunned at your friendly words and casual joke towards Din. "Mr. Karga." You nod in greeting. "It's wonderful to see you again. I was hoping you would stop by for your usual Ansionian tea this morning?"

"The day is still young." Greef Karga says, recovering from his shock. "I didn't know you'd met our resident Mandalorian."

"I have." Din watches your eyes drop to where Grogu wriggles in the bag at his side while squealing happily. "And I couldn't forget about my favorite customer."

Grogu wraps his hand around your outstretched fingertip and earns another smile from you. Din feels something inside of him break open. Seeing you with the kid, treating him as if he were your own, made Din feel almost uncomfortably hot.

Din is happy that he's wearing the helmet because there's something akin to a blush on his cheeks that he's not sure where it came from.

"Hey buddy." You giggle softly, before raising your gaze to Din's once more. And even though Din knows he's wearing the helmet there's a part of him that believes you can see through the forged metal and where his face rests within. Your gaze seemed to lay him bare in front of you, and Din didn't understand why he liked it.

Grogu releases your finger and your hand drifts to Din's left forearm laying just over the gauntlet.

As soon as your hand touches his arm, Din feels his cheeks flush while electricity pops and tingles over his skin starting where your hand is laying on his arm. You're not even touching his skin and Din feels like every nerve ending in his body has activated somehow.

You give him another encouraging smile. "You guys should stop by later. I felt like adding a few savory things to the menu and made some Corellian Meat Pies. I'll put together a package so y'all can take some home if you want." You squeeze his gauntlet once so quickly that he thinks he missed it, before dropping your hand to your side.

Din watches your cheeks darken slightly, embarrassed by what you did, but he's not upset that you touched him. It's quite the opposite. He's acutely aware of the part of him you touched, could still feel the pressure of your gentle squeeze through the metal and leather covering on his forearm.

His tongue feels like a wet rag in his mouth, lifeless. He can't think of anything to say or how to find his voice.

You wait a minute for Din's response, but when it doesn't come you give the child a pat on the head stepping closer to Din in the process, so close that the smell of vanilla, fresh bread, and brown sugar comes in through the filters in the bottom of his helmet. "It was nice to see you Mr. Karga." Your eyes flick upwards to where Din suspects you believe his eyes are. "Good to see you too Din."

He can't help, but notice what almost looks like disappointment in your eyes as you turn to go.

Din hates it, but at the same time he's confused as to where it came from.

As you begin to float away from them, Din realizes that he hasn't said a single word since you walked over, he hadn't even waved in your direction when you waved at him, he was too busy feeling like his tongue wasn't more than dead weight in his mouth and surprise at how friendly you were to him again.

"Wait-" Din shouts your name above all the noise, finding his voice at last.

You turn to look at him, eyes wide in surprise. The wind picks up, flickering through your hair and sending the strands forward into your face, while your dress and shawl billows around your body, the sunlight behind you imprinting your figure in Din's mind. He was sure that if he shut his eyes right now, he'd see you on the inside of his eyelids.

"We'll-" Din clears his throat. It was harder for him to find his words when you were looking at him like that. "We'll come by later." Even through the buzzing monotone of the helmet it comes out hesitant.

What is wrong with me?

The smile you have when he says that to you, makes Din forget where he's standing. Everything else on the street fades away, all other sounds rising from the crowds ebbs away, all he can see is you, smiling at him like he wasn't who he was.

Your cheeks darken just a smidge with a blush, both of your arms tightening on the book clasped to your chest. "I’ll look forward to it."

Din watches you walk away through the crowd, his eyes automatically scanning the outskirts of the streets for potential threats. It was a habit of his, but now he didn't do it for himself or for the kid, he did it for you.

There was some primal part of his mind registering that you shouldn’t be left alone in a universe like this, that someone as kind and soft as you needed to be protected.

Protected from people like me.

The thought comes through before he can stop it. Memories of his life before he met the kid playing through his head on a sickening reel. His time with Ran and Xi'an, the early years of his life when he took jobs no matter the cost to keep his belly full and all he had were the clothes on his back. The faces of the people who stood in his way flashing through his mind when he closed his eyes at night.

Din knew he wasn't a good person, not after all the things he'd done. He didn't deserve your kindness or your care. He didn't deserve you.

"Well, well, well." Greef Karga chuckles under his breath. "Mando, didn't know you-" Greef Karga begins to say.

"Shut up." Din clips, his body still turned in the direction of your shop, eyes flicking through the crowds trying to see one final glimpse of you before you vanish into the multitude of people going about their day. "I should go."

He knows he should. He should turn around and go back to his little cabin on the outskirts of the city, go back to the quiet, and to the empty feeling that comes with it. The same feeling he didn't feel when he spoke to you.

But instead of turning back to go where he believes he should, Din begins to walk in the direction of your shop with Grogu cooing in the bag at his side, and Greef Karga watching Din go with a knowing smile on his lips.

Thank you so much for reading! Likes, Reblogs, and Comments are not required, but are always appreciated! If you'd liked to be added to my taglist for fics in this universe please let me know!

Taglist:

@jollyhunter @scoliobean @pressedwater @littlebear423 @bookloverkat

[lamentationsofalonelypotato]

@simpingforjoel

Oh my goodness you're so sweet! Thank you so much for all the positive vibes and the reblogs for my silly lil' stories! 💗😘

Where'd You Come From?

Pairing: Din Djarin x f!reader, Reader POV

Summary: An adorable customer wanders into your bakery and introduces you to someone you'd never met, who piques your curiosity. Takes place after Season 3 when Din and Grogu have been living in their cabin on Nevarro. This is the first fic in my Sugar, Spice, and Starlight Series!

Tropes: Fluff, Meet Cute, Bakery AU, Grumpy vs. Sunshine

Word Count: 4.9K

Warnings: I don't think there's really any? The reader is really soft and likes to bake? The reader simping over a man's voice (as we all should)? Din might be a little bit OOC. It's mostly just fluff.

Note: This is told from Reader's perspective. Any references to the reader is made using you or your. There is no use of y/n! I tried my best to proofread, but nobody's perfect. If you don’t like, don’t read, but if you do like, you’re my favorite! This is my first time writing for Din, so please be gentle.

Internal monologue is in italics and is in first person.

Main Masterlist

Series Masterlist

A/N: Honestly, I've been kinda afraid to post this for a while, but @jollyhunter thank you so much for encouraging me! You're a wonderful friend 💗

The smell of fresh bread, cinnamon, and brown sugar wrapped you in a blanket of warmth as you pulled a tray from one of the large ovens at the back of your bakery. It was not the first tray to be born of flame and love today, nor would it be the last.

You smiled down at the perfect pan of browning pastry with pride swelling in your chest, admiring your handiwork. It had been two days since you opened your small bakery tucked into the corner of a colorful street on Nevarro and you were already convinced that it was the best decision you had ever made, despite your older brother's insistences that you were crazy for doing so.

Sure, Nevarro was in the middle of nowhere, was populated by angry bounty hunters, and probably wasn't the safest place to live, but you loved it. Every day there was a market that opened in the early hours of the morning, close enough that you could wander through the colorful stalls meeting new people, trying food and sweets from all over the galaxy, and browsing through the handcrafted wares the others sold. On weekends the new fountain in the center of town was surrounded by parents while children squealed and ran through the cooling sprays of water. It was a lovely place to sit and soak up the warm sun, while your mind slipped into the soothing prose of a book perched on your knee.

The longer you stayed on Nevarro, the more you felt apart of its growing community and the more you felt like you belonged there. You hadn't felt like you belonged anywhere in years, not after you lost your grandmother, and you were left with an cold empty house filled with echoes of someone long gone, shades of a life you lived that could only exist in your memory.

Your brother had left you years before, angry, fueled with a fire to make the people who destroyed your home and orphaned the two of you pay, choosing rather to leave you with your grandmother than watch from the sidelines.

But you never blamed him for leaving when he was only fifteen and you barely ten. You weren't angry anymore about losing your parents to the war the way so many others had. Maybe it was because you'd lost them when you were too young to remember their faces while your brother was still haunted by the voice of your mother singing him to sleep.

But you supposed that without your grandmother you never would have fallen in love with baking and found the thing that made you feel whole and brought you comfort when everything else seemed to fall apart around you. It was her that fueled your own love of baking, tempered it and helped it grow from a small spark to a burning flame.

Her constant praise and encouragements in the time the two of you spent tucked into her kitchen filled with light and love made you the person you were today. She taught you everything you knew, spoke about opening a bakery of her own for years, but never did. You knew that she would have wanted you to sell the house to do what she couldn't, so you did, and you didn't look back.

The constant flow of customers in and out of the shop, the chatter that rose from patrons sitting on the carved wooden tables made of strong smooth wood, and the people who continued to say how wonderful it was to have you there only supported your decision to move here.

She would have loved this.

You think to yourself with a smile, gaze falling to your grandmother's overstuffed book of recipes that sat with pages fanning on the counter, before you drop your free hand to smooth a wrinkle from the floral apron wrapped around your waist. One of hers that you'd tied there for good luck over your dark blue skirt.

You supposed that it was working given the fact that you'd completely sold out of treats yesterday and now already halfway through the third day, you were out of some of your favorites.

At this rate I'm going to have to hire someone else to work the counter for me.

You never imagined to have this kind of response, but now you lived for it.

The fresh tray you pulled from the oven is heavy, but it's a pleasant weight. You maneuver through the cozy kitchen to place it on the counter where the sweet buns could cool before you iced them with the thick periwinkle colored frosting chilling in the refrigerator in the corner, but as you do, you hear the front door chime.

It was later in the day, and you were taking advantage of the lull before you expected another rush of customers to come in. The last patron had left fifteen minutes ago, placing her ceramic mug in the big plastic bin on top of the trashcan by the front doors, before walking out with a cheerful "goodbye."

The smile you have when you hear the jingle is genuine, the prospect of sharing your gift of baking with someone else warming your heart.

"One minute." You call, arranging the tray on the crowded countertop before you wipe your flour covered hands on the apron at your waist and make your way through the green curtain that hangs in the doorway of the kitchen, dividing the front and back of the shop. Your eyes flick upwards, expecting to see someone standing there behind the counter waiting for service, but the shop is empty.

"Hello?" You ask tentatively, looking over the counter at the empty wooden chairs and tables arranged beyond before the doorway and wide windows at the front of your shop. Sunlight filters through the glass in happy patches of light, illuminating the furniture just inside the door.

But no one answers you.

That's weird.

You hear something make a cooing noise, but you still can't see anyone, and there's a small part of you that's disappointed someone left without asking for help.

The odd noise sounds again, almost like the small multicolored bird-like creatures in the cages hanging above the shop next door.

Maybe one got out and is trapped in here somewhere.

The thought makes your fingers itch for the broom leaning in the corner, expecting something to come swooping down at you from the rafters above. Nothing was worse that finding out at the last minute that something you were trying to shoo could fly.

You walk around the counter looking for the source of the sound while bracing yourself for attack, but stop when you see a little green creature swaddled in brown cloth standing in front of the one of the glass cases loaded with sweets. He turns his gaze in your direction, presses his little three fingered hand against the glass, and coos softly as if asking you for one of the treats that sit in organized rows within.

"Um-" You look around the room hoping to see an adult, someone who he belongs to, but there's no one. "Hey there little guy." You stoop down next to him so you can see him better.

The creature smiles and gurgles happily, tapping his hand against the front of the case filled with pastry again to make a point.

"Where's your mommy?" You pick him up gently, cradling him in your arms. "Did you get lost?"

He coos again and touches your chin with a smile so cute that it's impossible not to return it. The sharp nails catch against your smooth skin, but you don't mind.

He's so cute.

You think to yourself with a soft smile.

I wonder who he belongs to?

You bite the inside of your cheek and contemplate what you should do. You were still relatively new on Nevarro and hadn't introduced yourself to the sheriff yet, but you'd heard of her. The problem was you had no idea where Cara Dune would be at this time of the day and you'd never seen a creature like him walking around when you went to the market or... really seen a creature like him ever.

I can't just keep him! Someone could be looking for him and it wasn't on my agenda today to become a kidnapper. I mean, that's never on my agenda, but today isn't any different!

You raise your eyes to look out the front door and large windows of your bakery, watching a few people pass by, but you don't see anyone resembling the child in your arms.

A sigh builds in your chest, contrasting the thrumming anxiety building in your body.

Maybe I should feed him, he looks hungry. And if his family doesn't come in by the end of the day I'll go find Cara Dune. She's got to know who he belongs to.

It seemed like a good plan, plus you figured the way that the creature was looking at the pastries it wouldn't hurt to give him a little something before you tried to find his family.

"Well, I don't really know how you ended up in here, but somebody's gotta be looking for you." You sigh, softly stroking his green ears. He wriggles in your arms, sighing under his breath and leans into your comforting touch. "Are you hungry?"

He turns and waves his hand at one of the glass cases loaded with multi-colored pastries again.

"Guess that's a yes." You laugh as you walk back around the case to place him on the counter right next to the register resting in between the two glass displays. "Sit here cutie. I'll get you something."

He waits patiently on the counter kicking his little feet where they hang over the edge, while you turn to the case on your left and grab a Uj'alayi square, a traditional Mandalorian sweet, from the display. The brown sticky pastry crumbles in his little hand as you give it to him. "This one's my favorite. It's my mother's recipe."

Your mother had been born on Mandalore years before the Clone Wars, but she'd left when she met your father, taking the traditions from her family with her to start anew. You'd never met any of her family members before and supposed that they died in the purge of Mandalore. The recipe for Uj'alayi was one of the only things you had left of her, something you'd found in the box of belongings pulled from the remnants of your home following it's destruction.

It had taken you years to perfect the recipe, thought that making it would awaken some memory deep inside of your mother, but it never did. Your brother, Ezekiel, remembered the moments that slipped between your fingers like running water, seeping through the cracks in your memory of the fleeting moments you'd spent with your parents before they were killed.

When the creature bites into the square, he gurgles, his dark eyes blinking at you and crinkling slightly from the lights that line the ceiling of your shop.

"I know. Good huh?" You smile and break off a piece of the cake before popping it into your mouth. The crunch of nuts and the tang of the sweet syrup brings a melancholic feeling of nostalgia rising on the crest of a wave, but slowly ebbs out to sea with your exhale.

It wasn't an unusual feeling, you'd been feeling more nostalgic since you'd opened the bakery.

The child munches on the square with a happy giggle and it makes you smile. Sharing your gift of baking always brought joy to your heart, and this was no different.

I wonder where his family is. He's so small, he couldn't have gotten too far, and he shouldn't be out by himself. Something could happen to him.

The thought makes your smile falter. The population of bounty hunters on Navarro had lessened in the months before your arrival, but you weren’t sure that someone as little as him should be walking around by himself.

The front door of the shop opens with a pleasant jingle.

"There you are." Someone sighs in a buzzing monotone.

You glance up from the little one your counter with curiosity, blinking in surprise at who stands in the doorway. Honestly, you weren't expecting it to be a Mandalorian, you were expecting someone else who was maybe a little bit bigger, but also green.

Maybe the little one is a foundling? That or he’s green under that thing.

The thought of the broad shouldered man standing in your shop squeezing pointy ears underneath his helm makes a laugh tickle in the back of your throat.

You'd heard your patrons talk about the Mandalorian who lived just outside of town, in hushed whispers around the crunch of pastry within your shop. The one that everyone steered clear of for fear that he would hurt them and take their children in the night, as if he was a creature that dwelled in a cave crouched over piles of gold. The people in town were all afraid of him, said that he was a blood thirsty bounty hunter who should be avoided at all costs, but seeing him stand here in your shop, arms crossed over his chest, hip cocked to the side, while looking down at the small child on the counter, you don't feel afraid.

The child coos happily and reaches up with two sticky hands opening and closing, asking to be picked up by the intimidating figure.

They never said he was a dad.

Despite their reputation, Mandalorians didn't scare you. When your brother left trying to find an outlet for his anger, he had found solace with a small clan of Mandalorians inhabiting a planet in the Outer Rim. They'd taken him in when he needed a home and given him a place where he could learn to control the rage he kept close to his heart. You were grateful for that, but it didn't make you miss him any less.

Whenever he would visit, he'd bring members of his clan with him all of which who were nothing but kind to you. But you still worried about him.

You worried he wasn't eating enough and when he came you would spend most of your time cooking for him and his new family. It was never a bother, you liked doing that for other people, cooking for them and taking care of them when no one else could. It was a form of comfort and warmth you believed that no one should be deficient of. In your heart everyone deserved to feel at home and have someone who wanted to take care of them.

"He belong to you?" You smile at the man standing just inside the doorway. He's so tall that he'd had to duck when he came in through the front door.

"Yes." He lets out another sigh that pops and crackles in the modulator.

"Well, I'm glad you found him, at the rate he's going, he's probably going to eat everything I have."

The man tilts his head to the side as if confused. You wonder if maybe you came on too strong or if it's just a habit of his, to size up everyone he comes in contact with.

He is a bounty hunter. Probably picked it up along the road somewhere.

His armor is a startling silver, sending flickers of the sunshine behind him over the walls of your bakery. You'd never met a Mandalorian who didn't paint their Beskar. Your own brother's was painted in shades of red and orange, and embossed with his clan sigil in a startling white.

But there was something about this Mandalorian's armor that was almost… pretty, but you supposed it was the same glinting beauty of a knife sitting on a kitchen counter, beautiful but deadly.

You look back down at the creature, who touches your hand and points back at the Uj'alayi in the case as if asking for another. The three fingers are sticky with the remnants of the desert. "Fine. One more. But I don’t want you to spoil your dinner."

You reach back into the case for another crumbling brown square to give to him with a laugh on your lips and watch as the skin around his little black eyes crinkles in gratitude before he bites into the treat.

The Mandalorian approaches cautiously and despite the helmet, you can feel his eyes on you, contemplative and curious.

"Is that Uj cake?" His voice comes out through the harsh buzz of the modulator.

"Yeah it's Uj'alayi. He really seems to like it. Is he your foundling?" When you look up and smile at the helm, you can only see your reflection in the brilliant metal of the armor.

Surprise flickers across your mind. You weren't expecting him to still be wearing the helmet and you're not used to talking to someone who didn't reveal their face to you. It was a little odd.

Whenever your brother or his friend Max were talking to you, they always took off their helmets, but this felt different.

Honestly, even though he had the visor, you still weren't quite sure where to look to make eye to (through the helmet) eye contact.

Is it rude to tell him to take it off?

You'd never been put in this kind of position before, so you decide to ignore it.

"Yes." The helm turns from you to the other Uj cakes in the case. "Did you make it?"

You nod, blushing with pride.

"Are you Mandalorian? Do you speak Mando'a?" The Mandalorian asks, you can't but help notice that he sounds a little bit hopeful.

"No, I'm sorry. My mother was from Mandalore, it's her recipe." You admit sheepishly.

He nods in understanding.

The two of you sit in comfortable silence for a few moments watching the child eat on your counter, the sticky brown cake smeared against his cheeks.

It gives you a moment to size up the Mandalorian out of the corner of your eye. Again, you're struck by how beautiful the armor is. A brilliant silver and polished to a shine, proud, but not haughty. There's a charcoal cowl that wraps around the base of his throat and extends into a cape behind him and he's wearing a set of tan and brown gloves to ensure that no part of his skin is showing.

I wonder if it gets hot under there. Nevarro isn't exactly temperate.

And when the Mandalorian turns to the left to look at the other mulit-colored pastries in the display case and you catch a glimpse of the sigil of a Mudhorn on his shoulder.

Makes sense that someone so formidable would have that as their clan sigil.

Your brother's clan had the sigil of one of the large birds that inhabited the cliffs of their home planet. Each child had to scale the cliffs and bring back the skull when they came of age to prove their strength and prove that they were worthy of the mark.

I wonder what he did to get that as his sigil.

Your eyes fall back on the creature munching happily on the pastry.

"Look at you, you're a mess." You laugh, pulling a napkin from your pocket and wetting it with your tongue before wiping it over the little one's face to clean him.

He squeals indignantly, but you avoid the impetuous swipes of his hand as he tries to push you away.

"He doesn't like it when you do that." The Mandalorian says, but you can hear some humor come through the crackle of the modulator.

"I can see that." You snort, before disposing of the napkin. "Here, you take some. He really likes it and you should try it. It's my favorite thing to make for the shop." You turn back to the case and wrap up several squares for the Mandalorian to take with him. “I’m-” you say your name, busying yourself with folding the tissue paper around the pastry.

He whispers your name back to you as if he's trying it out and you're not prepared for the warmth that travels through your body when he does.

That's weird.

When you give him the bag, he holds out a handful of credits, but you push his fingers into a fist, feeling the rough scrape of his gloves against your fingertips. "It's okay. Free for first time customers. Plus it was payment enough to see this little one."

You give the kid an affectionate pat on the head, who coos and reaches for your face. It makes you laugh at how friendly he is and you pick him up so he can lay his hand on your cheek. He squeezes it between his fingers, crinkling his eyes with a wide smile. "Aww. You gotta go with your dad now okay? But you can come back and visit me any time you want."

The Mandalorian is watching you, and you again wonder why he hasn't removed his helmet to say hello.

I'll ask Ezekiel about it.

You were sure your brother would be showing up soon. When you sent him the transmission that you finally opened the shop, he said he was excited at the prospect of eating sweets for free, as if he already didn't do that.

I miss him.

It had been at a few months since you'd last seen him, right after you sold your grandmother's home and before you moved to Nevarro. He'd tried to talk you out of opening the shop, asked you to stay with him for a little while, but you thought it was about time you went out on your own.

You hand the child to the man standing on the other side of the counter, trying not to notice how his muscles flex beneath his Beskar when he does or how broad and wonderfully tall he is. So broad and strong that you know he could probably lift you just as easily and the thought makes a flush burn against your cheeks.

Get a grip, he's not a piece of meat.

"Thank you." He says in the buzzing monotone, but it makes you long to hear his real voice.

"You're welcome. Come back anytime."

"We will."

"Good. I'll look forward to it. It was nice to meet you-" You hesitate.  "Um- Actually, I didn't catch your name."

The Mandalorian doesn't answer immediately as if he's mulling it over in his head, while the child coos and giggles in his hand touching the bottom of the helmet on his father's head. It was a startling contrast the the formidable form of the Mandalorian to have a wriggling bundle of joy in his arms, one that made you smile just a little wider.

"Din." He says in a whisper.

"Din." You repeat slowly, rolling the name around in your mouth and enjoying how it sounds on the tip of your tongue. "It was nice to meet you Din." You smile widely up into the helmet, watching the reflection of yourself glinting in the metal.

Din doesn't move for a minute, he's hesitating, and it makes your smile falter on the end of your mouth for a moment in confusion.

Did I do something wrong?

But then he nods once and leaves, the only clue that he'd been there is the almost empty batch of Uj Cake and the brown crumbles covering your counter.

The next few days pass in a blur of you baking, cleaning, and selling as many sweets as you can while trying not to think about Din and the kid, but it's proving to be impossible.

You didn't understand why you were so focused on them. You'd had many customers that day and on the days that followed, but for some reason you couldn't get him out of your head.

When you'd lie awake at night you'd remember how he sounded when he said your name, how you wished that he would remove his helmet to look at you and let you see what he looked like, because with a voice like that the man underneath had to be just as beautiful-

Stop.

You cheeks warm as you clean the counters with a wet rag, your back to the door while you try to forget Din and his voice. This had never happened to you before, being unable to stop thinking about someone.  But each time everything went quiet, your mind would flash to the image of Din ducking to get though the front door of your shop and the sound of his voice through the helm.

The clock on the wall behind the register stated that it was exactly two minutes past closing time, which meant that you were about an hour away from crashing in your bed. You still had to clean the ovens, and pack away any leftover supplies. Not to mention the tossing and turning that came when you would lie awake and think about Din, hoping he would come back.

I need to get over this. He's just a man you met one time. Don't romanticize him.

You blamed the stack of books on your bedside table, the ones you read over and over about adventures all over the galaxy and true love. It also didn't help that you'd never once had a relationship, but why would you when it was more exciting to live vicariously through your favorite heroines? Not to mention you didn't have to make a fool of yourself falling for someone who probably thought you were just a weird person who smiled too much and baked for fun.

You wondered if that was why Din hesitated before leaving the other day when you smiled at him, that he couldn't figure out why you were so happy.

The bell on the door rings behind you, pulling you out of your head.

"I'm sorry we're closed." You respond without turning around, fingers scrubbing with the cloth at a particularly stubborn smudge.

"I'm sorry, I didn't realize how late it was." Din's familiar voice floats through the air and makes a shiver travel down your spine.

"Din. Hey." You smile as you turn around, waving a hand, cloth still clasped between your fingers. "It's okay, you're always welcome."

He's still wearing his armor and helmet, the silver catching in the dim lights of the room, contrasting with the yellowed light that streams from the streetlights outside and emphasizes his figure.

Your eyes drop to the bag hanging on his hip expecting to see the child, but it lies empty.

"You're alone today." You say a little disappointed, but still happy that Din is here.

"Grogu's asleep. I didn't want to wake him." Din clears his throat.

"Grogu." You say the name back to him slowly. It didn't seem to fit the small child who swung his little feet on the end of your counter and shoved as much pastry into his mouth as he could. "That's an interesting name."

"Came with the kid." Din's voice shifts a little bit and you wonder if it means he's smiling at a memory. Your mind predictably begins to imagine what Din's smile must look like. "I was wondering if you had any Uj cake left." He continues, oblivious to your train of thought.

"You're in luck, I just pulled a tray out of the oven for tomorrow. Come on back." You motion with your hand for him to follow you through the curtain that divides the front of the shop from the kitchen. "Sorry it's a little bit messy, haven't had time to clean up back here yet."

The kitchen looked exactly as it should, two large ovens on the right wall with fire still burning underneath, a sink filled with dirty mixing bowls, spoons, and utensils, a large table in the center of the room that served as a counter top, and in the corner there was a plush armchair that you had fallen asleep in more than once with a book open on your chest.

Your apartment was a few doors down, but you found yourself spending more time here. So much in fact that you were contemplating moving in to the back of the shop. You didn't have many possessions, mostly books, and seriously started thinking about it last night because the people who lived on top of your basement apartment were so loud that you could see the floor vibrating with the sound of their yelling.

You walk over to the tray of reddish-brown pastry cooling a rack in the center of the kitchen.

"It's alright. You should see where I live." He freezes on the edge of the room, realizing what he said, but you only laugh.

"I'm sure its no worse than my apartment. I’ve lived here a few weeks and I’m still not completely unpacked. Each time I go home I have to avoid stubbing my toe on the boxes”  You pick up a knife to cut the pastry into generous sized pieces. "But I guess you liked the Uj cake to come back here so late." You tease him, glancing up with a smile. "Midnight craving?"

He laughs and it makes your heart stutter to a halt. Even through the helmet it's hypnotic and you want to hear it again. "It was good, it reminded me of-" Din stops mid-sentence.

"Of?" You look up into his helm, wanting to hear more.

Truthfully, you were curious about him. You wanted to know more about the Mandalorian who lived on the outskirts of town, the one that everyone else seemed avoid.

"When I was a kid." He says it quieter, almost embarrassed.

"Me too. Whenever I make it I feel like I'm in my grandmother's kitchen again." You smile to yourself as the memory of her washes over you again. "She's been gone for a few years now, but I like to think that I honor her memory by baking, she taught me everything I know. Raised my brother and me by herself." You wrap the squares in tissue paper before placing them in a white paper bag.

"What about your parents?"

His question surprises you, you didn't think that he actually cared enough to listen.

"They-um- they died when I was little. My brother and I were visiting my grandmother when it happened."

"I'm sorry." Din sounds sincere.

You shrug. "I can’t remember them. My brother remembers more..." You trail off a little bit. "It was harder on him, but somehow it all turned out okay." You hand him the bag, but when he tries to reach for the credits at his belt, you push his hand away. "I don't make friends pay."

“But-“

“Din, I refuse to let you pay.” You smile wider, saying it a little more forcefully, but it holds no bite. “Don’t make me ban you for life.” I don't want to do that to Grogu."

He huffs out a laugh. "Thank you." His helmet tilts down towards you and you again try to imagine what he looks like underneath.

Would he have a strong jaw covered in a thick beard? Curly blonde hair that falls past his shoulders? Green eyes with flecks of light that resemble the stars?

No matter how many times you thought about it over the past few days, nothing seemed to fit Din.

There's an audible silence between the both of you as you stand there in the kitchen, and you don't want him to leave yet.

“You’re welcome.” You could feel yourself beginning to blush a little under his gaze. It was odd to feel someone’s eyes on you and not know what they looked like. "Now, don't forget to share with the kid. He deserves some of that too." You say raising an eyebrow and pointing to the white bag in the Mandalorian's hand.

Din chuckles. "Thank you-" He says your name and it makes the warm feeling come rushing back.

Even through the helmet, it was inviting, and made you want to curl up in the feeling it brought over you. You try not to imagine what it might sound like if he wasn't wearing the helmet.

"You're welcome Din. Don't be a stranger."

"I won't." He hesitates again, the same way he did when you'd first met in your shop. Standing in front of you for another few fleeting moments, his head tilted curiously in your direction. And for just a second you think that Din doesn't want to go either.

But he turns and shoulders his way through the curtain hanging in the doorway, boots thudding against the floor, and you hear the jingle of the door as he closes it behind him.

Something inside pricks when he leaves and maybe that scares you the most, the fact that you were already so attached to him and you didn't know anything about him except the rumors everyone in town said. The ones whispered on tremulous breath that condemned the man you were so curious about to be a blood thirsty bounty hunter who couldn't be trusted.

But in your heart those warnings held no power, because the man who'd sincerely cared about you losing your parents, couldn't be the same one.

Could he?

Thank you so much for reading! Likes, Reblogs, and Comments are not required, but are always appreciated! If you'd liked to be added to my taglist for fics in this universe please let me know!

Taglist:

@jollyhunter

[lamentationsofalonelypotato]

I Want To Be The One To Light Up The Dark In You

Pairing: Mark Meachum x f!reader, Reader POV, Mark Meachum POV

Summary: As much as you hate to admit it, the Warden might be right. This is the second fic in my Jailhouse Rock Series!

Tropes: Slow Burn, Forbidden Love, A Smidge Of Touch Her And Die Trope, Mutual Pining.

Word Count: 4.4K

Warnings: Manspreading 😒, Mentions of Sex/ Sexual Innuendo, Mentions of Blood and Prison Fights, Cursing, Angst, Inmate Says A Few *ahem* Unpleasant Things, Warden Also Says A Few Unpleasant Things, Reader trying not to be in love with a hot man in prison? Mark might be a little bit OOC.

Note: This is told from Reader's perspective. Any references to the reader is made using you or your. There is no use of y/n! I tried my best to proofread, but nobody's perfect. If you don’t like, don’t read, but if you do like, you’re my favorite! I'm just starting to write for Mark, so please be gentle.

Internal monologue is in italics and is in first person.

Listen While You Read 🚨: Light Up The Dark By Gabrielle Aplin title of fic is taken from this song!

Jailhouse Rock Playlist 🚨

Main Masterlist

Jailhouse Rock Masterlist

A/N: Oh my goodness, thank you so much everyone for all the reblogs and the wonderful feedback on part one of this fic series! I'm so happy that so many of you have decided to strap in to this angsty ride! 😊

Reader POV

Have you ever noticed that closing your eyes and counting to ten does little when you're talking to the most odious person alive?

That by some miracle, closing your eyes and pretending that they aren't there standing in front of you, breathing the same air, chattering on and on in the most annoying and condescending voice about something that makes your teeth grind down together and your insides suddenly want to be your outsides will help you find some way to maintain your composure?

Right now you wished it did.

Black coffee steamed from the ancient chipped mug sitting on the tanker desk in front of you, curling and twisting in the mid-day sun that floated through the barred windows of the Warden's office.

It did little to obscure the man scowling at you from under his mustache, but you wished that by some miracle the steam would grow into a cloud to hide you from the judgmental gaze of your employer.

What you'd done, you had no idea, but you noticed that the warden was often pulling you into his office to discuss things that seemed trivial in the grand scheme of things.

Things like:

You forgot to clean off your desk before you went home.

You brought a tuna fish sandwich from home and he could somehow smell it two floors down.

Your socks were distracting and therefore counterproductive to the work environment.

Basically, the warden was the mean cheerleader who dated all the jocks and never grew up.

Lovely.

So when he called you into his office you knew you were in for another tongue lashing that would later make you roll your eyes so hard that they'd get stuck in the back of your head.

He sits across from you, hands entwined on the top of his desk, beady eyes skating across you as if he can sense your internal monologue.

"I hear that you had to patch up Walker again yesterday." He says it like an accusation, as if it isn't your job to take care of the inmates, to patch them up when things get a little too fight club for your taste.

No disrespect to Brad Pitt and Ed Norton of course.

"Yes sir."

You'd learned by now to call him anything other than Warden or Sir would earn you a taste of the famous anger (re temper tantrums) the Warden had.

You'd been on the receiving end of them far too many times and despite not caring if he was mad at you or not, you didn't have time to sit here in his office and wait around, not when you were trying to leave early because your sister Margo and you had your weekly book club meeting tonight at your apartment.

The Warden takes a sip of his coffee, mustache rippling over the curve of the chipped cup, not breaking eye contact with you as he does.

There's an odd energy in the room, something oppressive and faintly masculine. It's cloying presence pulls at your limbs, shifts over the dark wood cabinet behind the desk, and drags over the concrete slab floor that ran the length of the prison. It was the same kind of energy that you'd only found in your physics professor's office, the one who told you that you'd never be able to pass his course with your academic record and you then spent the semester proving him wrong.

The walls of his office are painted in the same dreary gray that ghosted along the infirmary. You supposed that it was to make the room look bigger, but it only made it feel small, choking.

Instead of closing your eyes and counting to ten, you busy yourself with reading the titles of the books that line the dark wooden cabinet behind the Warden's head.

Anything is better than looking into those creepy beady eyes.

Especially not when you knew that the Warden was fishing for something to hold over you. Even though the only thing you'd done with Walker was your job. At least on paper, the things you'd done in your head were a little more PG-13 than the Warden needed to know about. Hell, you still were trying your best not to let your mind go to those places.

The Warden's gaze shifts over your body again. It worms beneath your skin, oppressive, squirmy. It was the same look that he gave the rest of the inmates within the walls of the prison to keep them in submission. You briefly wonder if he's always been like this or if he's having marital problems that he projects on everyone else.

"I also hear that you've been-" He clears his throat, beady eyes on you. "a little more friendly with him." His lip curls up in distaste at the word "friendly."

Oh so that's what this is about.

You choose to let your face remain impassive, not giving the man across from you eyeing you like a predatory bird the satisfaction.

"Sir?"

The Warden stands from his desk. "Do you know what the most dangerous thing in our profession is?"

"Shanks?"

The word came out before you could stop it, slipping out with the ghost of a smile on your lips.

His frown deepens. "Now isn't the time for your exhaustive wit."

Looks like somebody has been talking to my mother.

He comes around the desk, every step measured, before finally he's leaning against the front in the ultimate form of man-spreading, the highest level, also known as 'the douchebag professor who thinks that he knows everything, but really just stares down your blouse and likes keeping you quiet and submissive.'

"It's getting comfortable, believing that they can be your friends, not seeing them for what they really are-"

"What they really are?"

"Inconveniences, nuisances, trash, rubbish- the undesirables." The Warden shrugs. "But what they can never be is your friends."

Your jaw tightens.

The truth was, you had heard all of this before from your mother, usually when she was trying to talk you out of keeping your job at the prison.  She'd told you countless times how all of the inmates didn't deserve you as a doctor and therefore you should move on, but you couldn't. You took an oath to help people, to heal, to care, and you felt like you were where you needed to be.

The bigger problem, was hearing this kind of talk from someone who not only was supposed to oversee and run the prison, but also see the worth of his job, of seeing the positives as well as the negatives. He was not supposed to look down on the inmates.

Who does he think he is? The President of the United States?! He has no right to judge these men that way. Not when he's supposed to be the voice of reason, the leader, the one person in this damn prison who actually gives a fuck.

"Sir-" Anger flares in your chest, beating against your ribcage like the wings of a bird.

"Come on." He stands from the desk and walks to his office door behind him.

"What?"

"I want to show you something."

The Warden doesn't wait for you, in fact he continues to walk down the maze of hallways with you running to catch up with him. You had no idea why he couldn't just chew you out in his office for something that you didn't deserve to be chewed out for.

For actually giving a shit about his inmates... well maybe caring a little bit too much.

Your thoughts immediately shift to Walker as they always did whenever all went quiet in your mind and you couldn't think of anyone else.

There was a little part of you that you didn't want to heed, the rational part of your brain that said that Walker was playing you like a fiddle, that he didn't care about you and all he wanted was to charm you so it would be easier for him to use you.

That part usually warred with the other part, the part that kept letting the green-eyed man slip into your thoughts when you felt discouraged and disappointed by the other men in your life that never quite seemed to get you.

The Warden opens a door at the end of the hallway, the brilliant sunlight blinding you for a moment, before you realize that the two of you are standing in the inner gate looking out onto the yard.

Inmates mill around in groups while others move in a grayish blue blur through the crowds with the sun baking from above. Some play a game of basketball in the far corner while others lift weights.

Dust kicks up in twisted clouds around their feet with the wind that blows from the East, wicking the sweat that gathers on the back of your neck. Grass pushes up through the coarse earth in sporadic patches only to be stomped into submission by the white canvas prison regulation tennis shoes the inmates wore. The murmur of the prisoners, the heavy clink of weights, and bounce of a basketball against pavement is lost on the wind.

You find Walker almost immediately. It’s a compulsion, like magnets, as if you can’t help but look for the scruffy green-eyed man who’s entered your subconscious despite all the times you’ve told yourself that it can’t happen. Your mind automatically seeking him out for some relief, a bad habit you can't seem to break.

He's sitting on top of one of the concrete picnic tables on the far end of the yard, talking to a younger guy with hair so black it's almost the color of charcoal.

The breeze rustles through Walker's hair that blazes a honeyed chestnut in the mid-day sun, the same sun that paints his body in a golden glow. You know that if you were standing beside him you’d be able to see the flecks of gold like falling stars around his eyes, that crinkle with his boisterous laugh.

Walker laughs at something the dark-haired inmate says, his warm chuckle somehow finding the curve of your ear as if he's standing right next to you and even though you haven’t been able to hear anything else it comes across clear as day.

An alarm bell goes off in your head, because you know this is crazy. You knew better than to start thinking about an inmate the way you thought about Walker. Even if he was incredibly charming, funny, and had eyes that seemed to see through everything you were.

Damn it.

There was only one place that this could head, and it was already circling the drain, you just needed to pull the plug before you were in too deep.

Feels like it might be too late for that.

Walker's gaze flicks up from his companion to you, finding your eyes within seconds of you finding him, as if he sensed it. You hold his gaze, a smile twitching at the end of his mouth just for a moment, before he looks back at the man beside him. If you’d blinked you would have missed it.

Unfortunately, the Warden didn't miss it either.

"That's exactly what I'm talking about." He says.

"What?"

"You give them too much leash."

"They're not dogs." You grumble under your breath.

"You're right. They're not. They're wolves." The Warden spits, eyes narrowed as he turns to look at you. He takes a step in your direction, backing you up against the chain link fence. "You can't tame them and the second you turn your back, they'll rip your throat out."

His eyes are two blackened pits, the sunlight no longer a soft glow, but a striking white that blinds you momentarily as you look up into his face. The planes of his face are sharpened in the dark shadow of his gray cowboy hat. He looks every bit the Warden role he'd chosen to play.

"You don't know that. Just because they're prisoners does not make them any less human than you and me!" You snap back.

Anger flared red hot beneath your skin, bubbling up from the pit of your stomach like a volcano ready to erupt. You hated the way that he spoke about the inmates, haughty, prideful, arrogant, as if they were below him somehow when all they were was just men. Men who maybe had made a few mistakes, but you were willing to believe that with the bad came the good, that not all of them could be psychos that were locked up for the "betterment of society."

"Yes I do. I've been here a hell of a lot longer than you. See this happen time and time again." He snarls taking another step towards you. The chain link cuts through the back of you scrubs, harsh and unyielding, meant to keep the inmates in but somehow now feel like it's trying to keep you out. "Let me guess, you think that life has been unkind to them. That not one of them deserves to be within these walls."

"That's not what I'm-"

"Did I say that I was done?" He barks.

Your jaw tenses so tightly together that you're sure you'll get TMJ.

He spoke to you like you were a little girl who'd done something wrong and was sent to the principal's office as if you were living in some imaginary world filled with rainbows and unicorns or still believed in Santa.

There were only a few moments in your life that you admitted to absolutely hating someone, and this would go right on the list as number five. Number one was Sally Caruthers in second grade who took your pudding cup at snack time.

This is much worse than someone stealing my chocolate, and that's saying something.

But worse still was that he was assuming you only saw the good in the world, but he was wrong. Your father had told you enough stories from his job growing up, things that were said to you in warning to prepare you for when you struck out on your own. You weren't naïve, far from it, but you didn't believe that everyone was rotten to the core, you wanted to believe that everyone had some good hidden somewhere.

It was that way with Walker. You'd seen his file, knew what he did, but there was a part of you that wanted to believe that he wasn't all bad.

The thought stutters to a halt.

Do I really believe that? Or do I think that just because of the way he's always nice to me… Only when he needs something.

You glance over your shoulder to look at where Walker is sitting with the other inmate, but instead of being locked in conversation, Walker's entire body has gone rigid.

He's staring at where the Warden has you cornered against the chain length fence, eyes dark, with his hand curled against the concrete slab that serves as the top of the table pulled so tight that his knuckles look white. Something dark dances in his eyes that sends a shiver down your spine.

You’d never seen him like that before. Easy smiles, windswept hair, green eyes so bright they seemed to dance yes. But this? Seeing Walker with something akin to murder in his eyes, never.

It made your throat tighten.

"You think they hate being in here? That it’s some dark twist of fate that they’re imprisoned here?” The Warden asks with a sneer. "They aren’t. In here they think they're kings, gods, who assert their power however they see fit. Because out there they are nothing,  but in here they think they're untouchable, and Walker is the worst of them all."

"You don't know that-" Your voice comes out in a whisper, heart sinking.

"I do." The Warden towers over you, placing one of his hands against the unyielding metal of the chain-length fence. His fingers curl into the space to cage you in. The warmth of his breath wafts across your face, bringing the distinct smell of coffee.

It made your stomach feel like it was flopping around, a fish out of water.

"He doesn't give a shit about you, none of the prisoners do. It might be all smiles and jokes now, but the second the status quo changes, the exact moment there aren't any guards looking, no one to stop him, well-" The Warden smiles cruelly. "I'm sure Walker will have a lot of fun getting his hands on a pretty little thing like you, with no one to stop him and no one to hear you scream. And for men like him," Something dark flickers in his eyes sending a shudder down your spine as he leans down towards you. "Hearing those screams makes them feel alive."

The sunlight soaking into your bones has suddenly gone cold, fear tracing along the curve of your spine with a chilled fingertip.

Memories of the stories your father told you from years in this world come whispering against your ear, stories that used to keep your sister up at night and made her the kind of woman that had a bright pink keychain loaded with every self-defense tool known to man.

When you'd taken this job your father had issued the same warning, told you about the dangers of desperate men who had nothing to lose.

"They're wrong," He'd said one night while the two of you watched an episode of the Walking Dead, sighing at the screen. "Men like that don't come around when everything falls apart. They already exist and the dangerous ones aren't the ones that wear it proudly on their sleeves. The dangerous ones are the men who hide in plain sight with easy smiles and gentle touches, because when they flip the switch, you don't see it coming."

On some level you knew that the Warden was right, men like that existed everywhere, but you didn't want to believe that Walker was one of them. Just as you didn't want to believe that everyone was out to get you all the time, that would lead to a very lonely existence, a sad and somewhat dark existence.

A flash of Walker's dark eyes comes roaring back through your subconscious before you can stop it. In his gaze you hadn't seen the Walker you knew, you'd seen someone else. And the longer you thought about it, the more it snagged in your chest that maybe Walker wasn't as charming as he let on and maybe he was getting you exactly where he wanted before the façade dropped.

An alarm sounds from across the yard, shattering through the sounds of mid-day and sending the crows that gathered on the top of the barbed wire fences flocking across the sun.

"Look at him." The Warden grabs your shoulder and turns you around so fast that you feel dizzy for a moment. "You think that man is a puppy? He's a damn wolf in sheep's clothing sweetheart and the second you turn your back they'll be nothing you can do."

Your gaze focuses on Walker, who sits atop another inmate splayed out beneath him on the ground. Walker's eyes have gone dark, the playful gleam you'd grown to love vanishing, his mischievous smirk morphed into an angry scowl as he throws his fist into the other inmate's face. Blood flecks over his cheeks and across his knuckles, and despite the guards that try to pull him off the other man, Walker fights back hard.

His eyes flicker across the yard once again finding you, but this time it doesn't bring the same warmth that it usually does, all it does is bring the chill scuttling down the length of your spine. Because the man staring back at you, has not one shred of the Walker you know, and it brings the doubt surging back up to swallow you whole.

Mark POV

*Five Minutes Ago*

It was moments like this that Mark hated being undercover.

He wasn't one to complain, and truthfully he liked a lot of things about being undercover: the improv as he slipped into character, the bravado he exuded, the rush of adrenaline that snapped and crackled through his veins when things were going his way and also the same lightning bolt that energized him when things weren't…

But not right now.

Especially not now.

It wasn't the sun that baked against his freckled skin, it wasn't the inmates that whispered death threats under their breath whenever they passed or the ones that actually had the balls to act on, it wasn't the chill that came in the dead of night creeping beneath the metal doors and seeped through the cinderblock when he tried to tug the hole riddled blanket up over his body, and it wasn't the headache that pinched between his eyebrows, the same headaches that came at the most inopportune times and reminded him of the thing he was trying to forget.

The axe that hung over the chopping block, the ticking time bomb in his head with a nuclear level countdown sequence that no one could stop.

But he wasn't thinking about any of that, all he was thinking about was you.

Mark knew the second you appeared on the edge of the chain length fence enclosing the yard following after the Warden something was wrong.

Because you weren't smiling.

There was never one moment that Mark had seen you with a frown on your face, not when each time you smiled he felt something deep down inside of him break open and flood the cavity in his chest with warmth. Which only made him feel a hell of a lot of guilt. He was undercover for fucks sake, he needed to focus on what he was doing not get distracted by someone like you…

But he was.

You were so unlike any person he'd ever met, someone who shouldn't exist somewhere like this. Not with your sincere smiles, warm personality, and genuine caring attitude that you carried with you through the dismal halls of the prison. It was almost like there was this one bright light that flickered and shone despite the thick mortar and cinderblock that enclosed the rest of the inmates, a light that could so easily be blown out at a moment's notice.

She wears crazy socks for fucks sake! A woman like her should be working in one of the top hospitals in the country, not here!

And Mark knew that he shouldn't care about you as much as he did, not when he was undercover and especially not because his days were numbered.

Because where could this go? He finally gets out of prison only to tell you that he's on death row? A dead man walking? Might as well just throw him right back in the fucking clink, he was already waiting out a death sentence and as long as he was making some kind of difference who cares?

What was the point if he couldn't give you what you deserved?

But that did nothing to stop you from slipping into his subconscious. The sound of your laugh a soothing melody, the brief glimpse of your smile like a star falling from heaven, and the gentle touch of your fingers over his skin a calming balm whenever you patched him up.

Mark had to keep reminding himself that you were nothing but a distraction, not to mention a complication that he never saw coming, blindsided by your kindness and gentle demeanor.

I'm a fucking professional not some cockeyed rookie. I've done this multiple times why is she different!? Why now?

Mark tried his hardest not to think about you, not when he was supposed to be focused on the job, but he couldn't help it, he worried about you constantly.

Worried that some other inmate or even one of the guards here would catch you alone unaware. Worried that you wouldn't pick up on the signals until it was too late and there was nowhere for you to go and Mark couldn't get to you in time.

Anything could happen in this prison, hell, Mark had seen quite a few things happen already and he couldn't bear the thought of you being involved in any of them.

Mark saw the way the others watched you when they noticed you walking down the hallways, saw the way that even the guards gazes lingered on your form whenever they brought Mark to the infirmary.

And as much as it hurt to get into fights, it was the only way that Mark could ensure seeing that you were okay, that you were still here. He hated the days that he let another inmate land a punch only to find the buffoon with the duct taped Nikes waiting for him in the infirmary.

Talk about disappointing.

Mark also tried not to think too hard that the other reason he went to see you was that it felt so damn good, that he couldn't go without seeing you at least once per week. He felt like an addict of the worst kind, but if this was an addiction he wasn't sure he ever wanted to quit, not when seeing you smile made Mark forget everything wrong in his fucked up life.

The sun kissed your skin giving it a brilliant glow and framing the curves of your body so well that Mark was sure if he closed his eyes the imprint would be stamped across the inside of his eyelids, the wind rustled through the strands of your hair pulling it freely into your face, and Mark dropped his eyes to your ankles barely catching a glimpse of the cactus socks hidden in your pair of signature converse, but still you don't smile.

An ugly feeling swarmed in the pit of Mark's stomach when his gaze drifted to the Warden. He was standing a little too close for Mark's comfort, towering over you, and Mark didn't like the way you seemed to curl slightly in on yourself, folding beneath the Warden's gaze.

He couldn't hear what you two were talking about, but he could sure as hell guess.

Mark's hand curls around the concrete table top of the picnic table when the Warden takes another step in your direction, pressing you further against the fence.

White hot rage begins to flood through his body, the urge to protect you breaking through the little voice inside that was telling him to let you go, let it go, that he's about to blow his cover for all the wrong reasons.

Fuck.

Mark hated the Warden, knew how much of an asshole he was the second Mark met with him before he went undercover, and Mark hated the way you looked.

You looked small.

Mark had never seen you look anything but happy, your laugh always making something inside of Mark feel like he was slowly sliding into a sun soaked beach chair on a remote island.

But not now. Now Mark wanted to stride over there, throw it all away, and nail the Warden once in face for saying whatever the hell it was that he was saying to you, because Mark knew that it wasn't good. It couldn't be, not when the look on your face was something between anger and hurt.

"Yo Walker!" An inmate cat-calls, but Mark ignores him.

Mark is in too deep and he knows it, but he can't look away from you. He's too busy trying to read the Warden's lips to care what someone else says to him.

"Looks like the Warden's got his eye on your little bitch." The inmate continues.

Mark's head snaps in the direction of said inmate, Luis, the man that had come to see you after him yesterday. He was at least three times Mark's size, his mouth splitting in a wide toothless smile on his goon-like face, the snake tattoo that curves up over his left eye flashing in the sunlight, offsetting the black and blue marks around his nose that mirrored the black eye on Mark's face.

"Fuck off."

"Ooo, touchy." Luis continues, rubbing one hand over his bald, sweaty forehead. Mark watches his gaze flick back in your direction, raking over your body without your knowledge. You were far too focused on the Warden who had cornered you against the chain-length fence like you were some kind of animal. "I'll say this, she's cute. Got that kind of body I wouldn't mind having all to myself. Bet she'd moan my name real pretty."

Mark's teeth grit together so hard he can hear the grinding in his ears, but he doesn't give in.

Don't play his game. Don't blow this because of her-

Chen looks from Mark to Luis, eyes wide. He had just started to trust Mark, and Mark didn't want to throw that all away so he ignores the man egging him on and instead watches where you are with the Warden.

"Fuck, I got a semi the other day when she was patching me up." Luis continues, taking another step towards Mark with two of his goons flanking him. "Her hands are so soft, I can't imagine what it'd feel like if she put those hands all over my co-"

The rest of his sentence is lost in the haze of red that washes over Mark's mind. He doesn't remember rising from the picnic table, doesn’t remember tackling Luis to the ground, and doesn't remember the first punch he throws into his face or the second or the third.

All he knows is that the moment the guards pull him off of Luis, whose nose is now broken for the second time, and his eyes find yours across the yard, and he sees the look of horror that crosses your face is that he messed up. Because Mark can lie to himself all day long, tell himself that he doesn't care about you, but seeing you look at him like that makes him want to throw all of this away.

And that's what scares him the most, because he can't, not when this is all he is and ever can be and you're everything else.

A/N: Just a tinsy bit of angst, a sprinkle if you will... Yes I know canonically that the Warden knows that Mark is undercover, I just wanted to make the Warden an even bigger jerk for warning her about Mark.

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