𝓴𝓮𝓻𝓵𝔂

(Source: TheBoysTV on Twitter)

Me whenever I look at Dean or Soldier Boy 👉🏻👈🏻

Warnings: This might be triggering for someone who've lost someone due to depression, or has been feeling in the dark lately - please know, there's always help out there, there's someone who cares. and if you can't seem to think of anyone, feel free to message me. I love ya okay! With that being said, enjoy this chapter, and thanks for reading, if it made you feel something, feel free to comment and like. But please don't copy my work. love y'all so much. xxx <3

Since that moment in the hospital with Nathan, I haven’t stopped running.

Not physically—no, I mean the kind of running you do from yourself.

I threw myself into work, let the chaos fill the cracks, anything to stop the noise in my head. I haven’t seen him since that night. But sometimes, when I close my eyes, I still feel the press of his lips… the weight of what I shouldn’t have wanted.

When I can’t sleep—and lately, that’s most nights—I run. Or I hit the gym until my body’s too sore to think. Because everything feels too loud, too close, too damn much. And I feel nothing.

It’s all of it—Tom, Mark, Nathan, this cursed case, the nightmares that claw through my sleep.

But if you looked at me, you’d never know. I still smile in all the right places. Still laugh like the woman I was before life got ugly. Before the fear became a part of me.

No one knows how many times I’ve—

“Hey, you with us?” Mark’s voice cut through the fog. Of course it was him.

I blinked, focusing on his face, on Oliveras next to him. “Yeah,” I lied softly. “Just tired.”

He tilted his head. “We’re checking out that lead, remember?”

“Right. Sure,” I said, forcing a smile and trailing after them like some damn lost puppy.

The car ride was full of their usual bickering—Mark teasing, Oliveras snapping back—but it all faded into white noise. My mind was somewhere else, my fingertips tracing the faint scar along my neck.

The one Tom left.

Sometimes I still feel the cold blade against my skin, the weight of his breath in my ear.

Sometimes I wish I hadn’t fought back. Wish I’d just… let it happen.

At least then, maybe I’d finally be done running.

We came to a stop, and my body moved like it wasn’t even mine anymore. On autopilot.

Strangely, I was grateful for it—because as long as I kept moving, it looked like I was fine.

Damn, I hate that word. Fine.

After about an hour, the so-called lead turned into a dead end. Figures. While Mark and Oliveras argued over next steps, I wandered off, letting my feet choose for me. The warehouse was hollow and cold, just like I felt inside. Somehow, I ended up on the roof, looking down.

Gravity had this way of calling to me—softly, almost kindly. And for a split second, the thought crept in. The dark one.

No one ever tells you this part about surviving trauma. They patch you up, clear you to leave, and tell you you’re lucky. But they don’t tell you that when you check out of the hospital… sometimes, you’ve already checked out on living.

My phone buzzed, cutting through the fog. I took a step back, feet finding solid ground again.

“Yeah?” I answered, voice flat.

“Where the hell are you?” Mark’s tone was gruff.

“Coming. Thought I saw something—sorry.”

“Move your ass.”

I rolled my eyes. “Keep your whiskers in check, damn it,” I muttered under my breath, hanging up.

And just like that, I went back down—back to pretending. Slipped into the SUV without a word, like nothing had happened. Like I hadn’t almost leaned too far over the edge.

We walked into the office, and there he was — Nathan.

Back already. Too soon, if you ask me.

Funny, huh? I care about everyone else but can’t seem to give a damn about myself.

The team swarmed him, clapping his back, cracking jokes like he hadn’t almost died a few days ago. When it was my turn, I held out my hand, all business.

“Welcome back, sir.”

My voice came out too professional, too polished — like I’d rehearsed it.

He took my hand, mumbled a thank you. The smile on his lips didn’t match his eyes.

Those eyes looked… hurt.

And of course they did.

Because of me.

But I can’t. I can’t let him in. I can’t let him see the mess I am underneath the badge and the brave face. How could I let him feel something for me — me — when I don’t even know what I am anymore?

I sank into my chair, eyes fixed on the evidence board, though I didn’t see a damn thing. Just a blur of photos and red string and exhaustion.

I know it’s getting worse.

Damn, I’m a trained clinical psychologist — I know.

But how do you treat yourself, huh? Someone tell me.

Because I don’t know.

Hours bled together. Everyone around me moved like ghosts, talking, laughing, pretending.

I interacted when I had to.

Smiled when expected.

Hell, I should get an Oscar.

Nathan wrapped up the day with, “Tomorrow’s another day. Get some rest.”

And just like that, I was gone.

First one out the door — because facing him? Yeah, not happening. Call it cowardice if you want. I call it survival.

I grabbed my gym bag and disappeared.

The punching bag didn’t stand a chance.

Every swing landed harder, faster — like I could beat back the noise in my head if I just hit hard enough. But the truth? The damn thing wasn’t my enemy. My problems were — and they were winning.

Sweat stung my eyes. My knuckles were raw, split, bleeding. I kept going anyway, until suddenly a pair of strong arms wrapped around me from behind.

I screamed, fought, kicked.

Then—

“Would you stop fighting?”

Nathan.

Damn, that was loaded in all the wrong ways.

“Leave me the hell alone,” I spat, still thrashing. But he didn’t let go. His voice dropped low, gentle.

“Please… please listen to me. You’re destroying yourself.”

That stopped me cold.

“What?”

He turned me around in one swift movement, his blue eyes burning straight through me.

“You think I don’t see what’s happening to you?”

I looked away, staring at the gym floor, because anywhere was better than his eyes. But he lifted my chin with one finger, brushed the sweaty hair from my face with the other.

“It literally hurts to see you like this,” he said, voice rough. “If you’d just talk to me — to someone.”

My lip trembled. Damn it.

“I… I don’t know where to start. How to start.”

He exhaled slowly, eyes softening. “Take my hand. We’ll take baby steps, okay? Please.”

Tears blurred my vision.

“Nathan… please. We—we can’t.”

He shook his head. “This isn’t about us. Or what happened in the hospital. This is about you.”

Barely a whisper: “I don’t know what to do next.”

He extended his hand.

I stared at it.

Then placed mine in his.

I was too tired to resist.The ride to his place was quiet. He didn’t say much — just that I could shower, crash in the spare room.

But his tone said everything:

I can’t let you be alone tonight.

What Could've Been - Part Four 🐞❤️

@jackles010378 @winchesterwild78 @angelbabyyy99 @cutedisneygirl

The medics moved fast, shouting codes and numbers I couldn’t process. Everything blurred — lights, blood, panic — and in that mess of motion, I realized something I hadn’t let myself admit.

I cared.

Was it romantic?

I don’t know. Maybe.

Hell, I don’t know anything anymore.

All I knew was that I couldn’t lose anyone else. Not him. Not another person I cared about.

By the time we hit the hospital, Nathan was still alive — barely. The heart monitor beeped faint, irregular, desperate. They rushed him into surgery while I stood frozen, my fingers slick with his blood, my mind spinning.

I texted the team. My hands shook so badly I could hardly type.

“Blythe’s been stabbed. He’s in surgery.”

Tears slid down before I even realized they’d started.

Of course, the first to show up was Mark.

Of course it was.

One look, and he pulled me into his arms — and I let him. For a moment. For one stupid, fragile heartbeat. Because no matter what happened between us, he’d always been my safe place.

But then I smelled her. Amber’s perfume.

Familiar. Expensive. Suffocating.

I stiffened, stepping back fast. His eyes widened. He knew I knew.

I cleared my throat, voice cracking. “The others are on their way.”

He nodded, rubbing the back of his neck. “What happened?”

I shook my head, still seeing flashes of blood. “I-I don’t know. There was so much blood. He flatlined, Mark. He flatlined.”

He swore under his breath, dragging his hand through his hair. “Shit.”

I sank into the nearest chair, legs barely holding. My body felt detached — like it wasn’t mine anymore. “The doctors said they’ll try everything to save him,” I whispered. Then, softer, “He’s a good man. He doesn’t deserve to—”

The words caught, breaking apart. I couldn’t finish.

The others began arriving, voices low, faces grim. I couldn’t handle it — their pity, their questions, their noise. So I slipped out, down the sterile hallway, searching for somewhere to breathe.

The bathroom mirror hit me like a slap. The blood on my hands. The streaks on my shirt. The shaking that wouldn’t stop.

I turned on the tap, scrubbing until the water ran pink, then clear. But it didn’t help. The images came anyway — Nathan on that stretcher. The little boy I couldn’t save. The sound of the gunshot. Tom’s laugh.

They all blended together — blood and guilt and breath I couldn’t catch.

My chest tightened, vision tunneling. I clawed at my shirt, trying to pull in air that wouldn’t come. The walls tilted, my knees buckled—

and then everything went black.

When I came to, the first thing I saw were a pair of wide hazel eyes staring down at me. Oliveras. Her voice sounded distant, muffled, like it was coming through water.

“She’s passed out on the floor—get some help in here!”

I groaned, trying to sit up. “I’m fine, Oliveras.”

She snorted, crossing her arms. “Yeah? You’re so fine you’re lying on a bathroom floor.”

I pushed myself up on shaky elbows. My head spun, but I forced a weak smile. “See? Fine.”

She sighed, slipping an arm around me, steadying me despite her sass. “I’m getting you a doctor.”

I shook my head quickly. “No. Please. I’m fine—just… exhausted.”

A lie, of course.

Exhausted, sure. But also terrified. Triggered. Drowned in flashbacks I can’t seem to claw out of.

Oliveras studied me for a long moment, her gaze sharp enough to cut. “Damn. You and Mark are both stubborn as hell.”

I frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing,” she muttered, just as the door creaked open and Evan Shepherd appeared with a doctor in tow.

They got me off the floor and down the hall, settling me in one of those too-bright hospital rooms that smell like bleach and regret. The nurse checked my vitals, the doctor murmuring something about “severe panic response.”

Yeah. No kidding.

I sat there, feet dangling off the bed, picking at the skin around my nails until they stung. I hated this — the weakness, the spotlight, the eyes.

The door burst open.

Mark.

“What the hell happened? Did you get hurt? What—what happened?” His voice came out sharp, panicked, almost protective.

I rolled my eyes, trying to keep the tremor out of my voice. “I’m fine.”

He stepped closer, scowling. “Fine? Dammit, you—” He stopped mid-sentence, frustration melting into something softer. His hand reached up, tucking a loose strand of hair behind my ear. “You had me worried.”

I swallowed hard, grabbing his wrist, steady but quiet. “Mark… don’t.”

That tiny moment broke like glass when the door opened again.

Oliveras.

“Hey!” she said, slightly breathless. “Blythe’s out of surgery.”

I blinked, the words barely sinking in. “Is he—?”

“He’s going to make it,” she said with a small smile. “The doctors said he’ll pull through. We can see him soon.”

Relief hit so fast it made me dizzy. My shoulders sagged. For the first time in hours, maybe days, the weight I’d been carrying lifted just a little.

Hours passed before we were finally allowed into Nathan’s room. He was sitting up like he hadn’t just almost died, which—don’t ask me why—made me a little angry. He kept saying he was fine, explaining how he’d used the latest evidence to strong-arm the Belurisian government. He’d been on his way to meet Astapov with intel on Volchek when he found Astapov dead in his car. Before he could react, Volchek stabbed him—but got scared off by headlights.

Everyone offered him well-wishes, relief written all over their faces, happy he was okay. I stayed at the back, silent, watching him like he might vanish. He tried to swing his legs out of the bed but the doctors stopped him. Eventually, he relented, saying he’d stay a while but that the team should go follow up leads. One by one, they left.

I was the last. I moved slowly toward the door, trying to keep my composure. But I couldn’t.

I spun around. “You know what? You act like you didn’t almost die.”

He looked at me, brow furrowed. “I didn’t.”

I stepped closer. “But you did.” Softer now. “Almost. You flatlined.”

I watched the realization flicker in those blue eyes.

“Oh,” he croaked. “I don’t remember much after I called it in.”

I swallowed hard. “Oh.”

He paused, voice low, almost a whisper. “Apart from you… your presence. Your hand. Your words.”

I had to look away. I didn’t know what to say.

“Okay,” he murmured, reaching for my hand. “Don’t look away. Look at me.”

I did.

“Damn,” he cursed under his breath.

“What?” I asked.

He chuckled, a little groggy. “Remember I’m still high on the meds, but… you’re beautiful.”

I giggled, a shaky sound. “Okay. Let’s blame the drugs.”

But the lightness cracked. The air shifted between us, our eyes darting from each other’s eyes… to each other’s lips.

I wasn’t sure if it had been minutes or hours, but suddenly he pulled me close. My thigh brushed against the frame of the bed. Breathless, he whispered, “I can’t… I…”

“What man broke your heart so much?” he asked.

I looked away. “I… Nathan… just…”

He cut me off. “Don’t say my name in that breathless tone.”

I met his eyes again. “You’re my boss, and you’re…”

“Older,” he finished my sentence.

“Yes,” I tried to sound unaffected. “And… you’re medicated.”

“I wasn’t this morning,” he croaked, voice rough, “when I held you through your flashback.”

I stepped back. “Stop it.”

He raised his hands in surrender, wincing. “I’m sorry… don’t ask me. In my twenty-two years working with people, you’ve got me tied in a knot, and I don’t know why.”

I shook my head. “Stop. Just—stop. You’re complicating things.”

He swung his legs over the bed, standing tall, towering over me. Pain laced his voice. “Look… you think I don’t know that?”

“Just… sit back down, please,” I urged, stepping closer.

Then he cupped my face. And kissed me.

Everything collided—hungry, passionate, soft, desperate. I moaned into him, standing on my tiptoes. His fingers tangled in the back of my neck, pulling me even closer, while my hands gripped his hospital gown like it was my lifeline.

When we finally broke apart, we were both panting, eyes wide. Silence fell between us, heavy and dizzying.

Without a word, I ran. Heart pounding, head spinning—what the hell did I just do?

I left him there.

Part One

Part Two

Part Three

Part Four

Part Five

What Could've Been 🤭 Part Three❤️

@jackles010378 @winchesterwild78 @angelbabyyy99 @cutedisneygirl @monkey-d-hoshizora98

..........

Just before dawn, I’m in the office again. We’re finally getting closer to Volchek. From what I’ve gathered, he’s a bitter man—a man with a grudge against America. Then again, doesn’t every other terrorist?

As the team filters in, I greet each one with a polite smile, keeping my head down, keeping the routine. But then he walks in. Mark. Laughing with Oliveras like the past never happened.

I literally want to puke.

The way he kissed me and just left—like we didn’t share history, like he didn’t taste like goodbye. I glance away, pretend to be busy, refuse to look up. He doesn’t exist to me. Not anymore.

Blythe calls us in for an update. I nod along, but if I’m honest? I don’t hear a damn word. My brain’s too busy replaying the look Oliveras gave him—the same look I used to give him. Like he hung the damn stars.

Now, all he’s hung me on is this jagged sense of brokenness I can’t seem to shake. Not that I’d tell anyone. I prefer to keep it all locked inside where it can’t spill out and ruin what’s left of me.

The room empties out one by one until it’s just me and Nathan. His voice breaks through the fog.

“Hey. You with me?”

I look up, meet his sharp blue eyes. “Yeah.” I try to sound neutral.

He studies me, unimpressed. “I need your head in the game.” Then, after a pause that feels heavier than it should, he adds quietly, “You’ve been seeing someone—for what happened?”

Author’s Note:

Hi loves 💕 This is a one-shot featuring Mark Meachum (from Countdown). I’ve been itching to write something raw, emotional, and messy with him, and this poured straight out of me. Expect angst, heartbreak, unresolved tension, and a hell of a lot of feelings. This piece is told through my OC’s POV—she’s a profiler-turned-teacher dragged back into the field, and guess who she runs into again? 👀 Yeah… you already know it’s going to hurt. Now we also have Mark's POV 🐞🤭

Warnings: (18+)

Anything else let me know.... If you wanna be tagged let me know...

Remember: this is my work, it's truly based on fiction, so please don't take my work. Thank you. 🤭

He left her standing there, hurting, while he escaped like a coward into the office, searching for evidence that wasn’t even his priority.

@jacklesversebingo @winchesterwild78 @angelbabyyy99

But the truth? He hadn’t broken up with her because she was too clingy, or too sensitive. If anything, those were the pieces of her he loved most—the parts that made her human, soft, real. Hell, he still loved them. He still loved her.

But with everything going on, with the darkness breathing down his neck, he couldn’t give her forever. He couldn’t risk it.

He stared down at the papers scattered across the desk—sketches of bombs, maps of high-value targets. His vision blurred, the lines bleeding together as heat pricked his eyes. The pounding in his skull grew louder, heavier, reminding him of his own mortality.

Author’s Note:

Hi loves 💕 This is a one-shot featuring Mark Meachum (from Countdown). I’ve been itching to write something raw, emotional, and messy with him, and this poured straight out of me. Expect angst, heartbreak, unresolved tension, and a hell of a lot of feelings. This piece is told through my OC’s POV—she’s a profiler-turned-teacher dragged back into the field, and guess who she runs into again? 👀 Yeah… you already know it’s going to hurt.

Warnings: (18+)

Heavy angst / heartbreak

Toxic ex energy

Mentions of trauma (gun use hesitation, implied past FBI case)

Violence / gunfire

Death mention (teen victim)

Harsh words / emotional cruelty

Profanity

Enemies-to-lovers tension

If any of these are triggering for you, please read with caution. 🖤

Pairing: Mark Meachum x F!Reader (exes, unresolved feelings)

Genre: Angst | Thriller | Slow-burn | Enemies-to-Lovers Vibes

Word Count: 1325 - Tags: @jackles010378 @winchesterwild78 @cutedisneygirl @angelbabyyy99 @k-slla if anyone else wants to be tagged let me know in the comments.

He stood there, all 6’1 of him, those emerald-green eyes colder than I’d ever seen.

“Sorry, sweetheart.”

Still calling me sweetheart like he didn’t just rip my chest open and leave me bleeding. We were supposed to be forever—forever—and then out of nowhere, he says it. His voice rough, detached, like he’d rehearsed it in front of the mirror.

“I… I just don’t love you anymore. Sorry.”

Before I could breathe, before I could fight, before I could even beg, he shut the door. And just like that, he walked out of my life the same way he came into it—fast, reckless, and without warning.

Hi my friend :)

I definitely have a lot of ideas for this. It's actually weird I've never done it before. Here they are:

Height Difference Prompts

putting their chin on the other's head

tiny hands in big hands

hiding their stuff on the top shelf to annoy them

pulling the other one down for a kiss

trying to get to the same height for a selfie

very big shoes next to really small shoes

bending down a lot to talk to their smaller partner

getting out of housework with the excuse that they can't reach something

pulling the other one down to whisper into their ear

using their partner as a personal ladder

taller partner seeing things long before their shorter partner is able to

wearing their partners clothes has very different outcomes for each partner

Scenarios

It started with their beauty products and now it's their favourite tea. Everything is just slightly out of reach. And their partner will absolutely pay for this prank.

They weren't super short, more like average. But people still thought they were when they saw pictures of them, because they would always see them with their very tall partner.

Why would you need a ladder in your apartment, when you can just call over your very tall partner?

They always said it annoys them, but they secretly enjoyed being lifted up by their partner.

People on the street did look at them funny sometimes, because their height difference became very apparent when they walked next to each other.

Being angry at someone who is so much taller than yourself is not that easy, especially if your partner just thinks it's so cute to see you being furious.

It was hard to take a good selfie when one of them had to stand up on tiptoes and the other one had to bend down very unnaturally.

They definitely had to learn how they could sneak surprise kisses in, when most of the time their partner's mouth is out of reach.

Another problem with a huge height difference was hand-holding while walking. Their hands just did not end in the same realm and one of them would have to bend their arm.

Hugging someone so much smaller meant that they could just embrace all of them so easily.

I'm quite average in my height (1,64m), but most of my loved ones and friends are a lot taller than I am (damn, those tall genes), so I know a lot about height difference.

I really hope you like them and that they are what you had in mind for them! There are also a lot of height difference tools on the internet that you can use to put people next to each other to see how the height difference would look like. It's great to visualize your characters!

Heh… ok bye

warnings: fear play, gun play, ben is a little sadistic

girl there is almost nothing too extreme here i swear

the idea of him threatening you through sex with his gun like russian roulette is so. so sexy..

imagine you’re sucking his cock and he’s gently sliding the pistol in and out of you, cold metal making you tremble. it’s mostly out of fear, though, because you don’t know when he’ll decide to push the trigger.

he pushes it every so often. the first one was immediate to show you the kind of life or death shit he’ll get you into. it cocks, and then he pulls it. nothing but a harsh pressure goes through. you’re flinching and shaking like a leaf, fingernails deep in his hip. you can feel the tears of terror bubbling in your eyes. “you’ll be okay, sweetheart. good girls learn from their mistakes the hard way.” you can only find yourself nodding and dipping your head to pull his cock into your mouth like a binky.

the next time he pulls the trigger is at some random moment when he feels like you’ve forgotten that this isn’t about pleasure. you’re moaning a little too much, toes curling off the bed and thighs trying to close shut. you practically bite down on him in shock. “jesus fuck!” he makes an upset hissing noise, then pulls it again. nothing but air for both shots. “got the instincts of a beached whale. christ almighty.”

the last time he does, you’re practically crying. he has his hand in your hair, gently soothing your emotional pain with his strong fingers buried in your hair. he knows the trick to this: there were never any bullets in the first place. he just likes to see how upset you are when you think you’re in danger. he lets you sniffle and cry as he gives it a final push all the way in as deep as it’ll go, twisting it around. “y’ready?” he asks. he’s calm, collected, and all you can think is ‘why me?’. you open your mouth to speak, but the final shot rings through your ears like a bomb.