radioactivatedspider

[radioactivatedspider]

It's all Pink

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Pairings; soldier boy x Reader, beau arlen x reader, dean winchester x reader

Genre; Domestic fluff, humor, light romance, soft!Mark Meachum, canon divergence

Warnings; Language, suggestive comments, domestic themes, mentions of violence (very mild), Mark being emotionally constipated, glitter in a tactical environment

Summary: Language, suggestive comments, domestic themes, mentions of violence (very mild), Mark being emotionally constipated, glitter in a tactical environment

2679 words

If anyone had told the world’s most dangerous man—the walking nuke himself, Soldier Boy—that his entire kitchen would one day look like a Strawberry Shortcake fever dream, he would’ve laughed in their face. Probably decked them too.

But here he was. Sitting shirtless at the breakfast bar, dog tags dangling over a faint pink stain on his sweats (from yesterday’s strawberry smoothie), sipping black coffee out of a glittery pink cup that said “Hubby of the Year 💕” in cursive.

“Your eggs are shaped like hearts again,” he muttered, eyeing the plate she set down in front of him.

“Yeah,” she said with a satisfied little hum, adjusting the fluffy pink bow on her apron. “Because I love you.”

He popped a forkful into his mouth and grunted, “Damn right you do.”

Across from him, the kitchen glowed with rose tones—pink utensils, pink containers, pink towels, pink fridge magnets. Even the damn dish soap bottle had a pink pump she customized with rhinestones. She didn’t work a traditional job—didn’t need to. He paid for everything. Cards. House. Groceries. Pink-sparkle kitchen stuff.

But she cooked three meals a day, kept the whole place spotless, and went out shopping with an organized list and military-level efficiency. The house never ran out of toilet paper or hot sauce. He never had to lift a finger unless it was to grab her ass when she walked by.

And he liked it that way.

Back home, she was restocking the fridge—pushing cute labeled containers into place, humming some love song under her breath.

“Babe?” he called, dropping his gear at the door.

“In the kitchen!”

He stepped in, still holding the empty pink lunchbox like a trophy. “They saw it today. All of it.”

She turned around, eyes wide. “Oh no. Did they laugh?”

“Hell yeah. I threatened to rip their tongues out.” He smirked, dropping the lunchbox on the counter and wrapping his arms around her waist. “Told ‘em real men drink from glitter cups and eat fruit shaped like stars.”

She smiled against his chest. “You don’t care they tease you?”

“Tease me?” He leaned down to kiss her neck. “They’re just jealous they don’t got a girl who spoils ‘em like you spoil me. They all want what I got. They just don’t got the balls to admit it.”

She melted into him, letting his body heat wrap around her like a blanket. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Damn right I am.” He spun her around and lifted her up onto the counter with ease, pulling her between his legs. “Now quit talkin’ and kiss your husband. That lunch box was cute and all, but I’m hungry for dessert.”

If someone had told Sheriff Beau Arlen that his life would one day be color-coded in soft pinks and glitter, he would’ve chuckled, tipped his hat, and said “Yeah, not a chance.”

And yet here he was, sitting in his kitchen in a gray Henley and flannel pajama pants, sipping dark roast from a pink glitter cup that said “World’s Hottest Husband 💗” in bold, bubbly letters. There was even a tiny pink heart-shaped silicone ice cube floating in it, even though it was hot coffee.

He didn’t question it anymore.

“You made the eggs into flowers again,” he noted, eyeing his plate as she set it in front of him.

“I did,” she said proudly, adjusting the fuzzy pink headband keeping her hair out of her face. “I saw a new mold at the store and couldn’t help myself.”

Beau took a bite, chewed thoughtfully, and gave her a nod. “Tastes like love.”

Her whole aesthetic was soft, ultra-feminine, and adorable—pink everything, from measuring spoons to dish towels. She didn’t work a nine-to-five; she didn’t have to. Beau paid the bills, no questions asked. What she gave in return was a fully-stocked kitchen, a spotless house, warm meals every night, and a sense of peace he hadn’t felt since Texas.

She ran their home like it was her personal kingdom. He never missed socks, had to refill toilet paper, or drank bad coffee. And yeah, his thermos was pink. So were the containers in his lunch bag. So was the smiley-face sticky note she left on his dashboard every morning.

And he liked it that way.

“Yo… what is this?”

Deputy Poppernak blinked at the pink bento box sitting on the breakroom counter next to Beau’s sheriff badge and hat. It was covered in sparkly fruit stickers and little smiley stars. Next to it was a hot pink thermos with glitter swirls and the words “Sheriff Stud ☕️💞” in chunky lettering.

Jenny walked in behind him, smirking. “That’s Arlen’s. Don’t touch it unless you wanna lose a hand.”

“He eats outta that?” Poppernak blinked.

“You’d eat out of it too if you saw what was inside,” Cassie said, passing by with a fresh coffee.

He opened it anyway.

Heart-shaped turkey sandwiches. Tiny pickles wrapped in parchment. Strawberries sliced into roses. There was even a pink macaron sealed in a zip-lock bag labeled “Sweet like you 💘” in gel pen.

“Damn,” he muttered.

Jenny snatched the handwritten note and read: “‘If you forget to eat, I’m calling the precinct and telling them to send you home. Love you. PS: you better be using that cute cup, it was $19.99 on sale.’ ...She’s got him trained.”

“Trained?” Beau’s voice came from the doorway, deadpan and amused.

Everyone turned to see him walking in, badge clipped to his belt and his glittery thermos already in hand.

“She’s not training me,” he said, setting his keys down. “She’s feeding me. Keeping me sane. If you’re lucky, one day someone’ll love you enough to cut your sandwich into hearts.”

Poppernak blinked. “You’re not even a little embarrassed?”

Beau smirked, then took a loud, exaggerated sip from his glitter thermos. “Embarrassed? Brother, I’m the envy of every man in this town.”

Back at home, she was unloading groceries—pink reusable bags, of course—humming to herself while she put things away by category.

“Babe?” Beau called as he kicked off his boots at the door.

“Kitchen!”

He stepped in, still holding the empty lunchbox. “They saw it today. All of it. Even the cup.”

She turned, slightly panicked. “Did they say anything mean?”

“They tried,” he said with a lazy smile. “Didn’t last long.”

She laughed, relieved. “You’re really not embarrassed?”

“Hell no.” He dropped the lunchbox on the counter and wrapped his arms around her from behind. “You take care of me better than I deserve. You think I care what anyone else says? I’m proud of everything you do for me. Even the glitter cup.”

Her shoulders relaxed as she leaned back into him. “I just like spoiling you. You work so hard…”

“And you keep our home runnin’ like a damn machine. I like being spoiled.” He turned her around and lifted her onto the counter with a wink. “And I really liked that little macaron.”

“Oh yeah?” she giggled, looping her arms around his neck.

“Mm-hm,” he said, kissing the side of her mouth. “But now I want something sweeter.”

The kitchen in the Men of Letters bunker used to be… functional. Stainless steel. Government-issue. A little cold. Kind of depressing.

Now?

Now it looked like Barbie got her hands on a military budget.

Pink spatulas hung neatly from gold hooks. A floral runner covered the counter. There were pastel labels on every jar—sugar 💕, coffee ☕️, love (cinnamon)—and heart-shaped measuring cups stacked beside the rose-gold toaster. The once-drab lighting now had a gentle warm glow, and a ceramic cookie jar in the shape of a pink bear sat by the sink, permanently full.

Dean Winchester, hunter of monsters, bringer of judgment, was sitting at the table in flannel pajama pants and a black Henley, sipping coffee from a baby-pink mug that said “Best Husband in the Bunker 💗” in curly letters. His breakfast plate was a pastel pink heart, filled with perfectly cooked eggs shaped like stars, pancakes shaped like smiley faces, and heart-shaped bacon curled just so.

His wife floated around in fuzzy pink slippers, humming as she flipped another pancake with her sparkly pink spatula. She didn’t have a job. She didn’t need one. Dean handled the monsters; she handled literally everything else—cooking, cleaning, keeping their laundry folded and the bunker feeling like a home instead of a damn cave.

She didn’t ask for much. Just his loyalty, his appetite, and his total silence every time she added a new cute pink gadget to the kitchen arsenal.

He gave her all three.

“Dude.”

Dean didn’t have to look up to know it was Sam. His brother’s voice was already laced with judgment and amusement.

“What?” Dean grunted, mouth full of smiley-face pancake.

Sam stepped further into the kitchen and blinked around. “Did Barbie and Betty Crocker have a war in here?”

Dean just kept chewing. “You’re jealous.”

“I’m concerned,” Sam said, walking past the cupcake-shaped salt and pepper shakers. “This used to be a tactical kitchen. Like, for actual food prep. Not… whatever this is.”

She turned from the stove and smiled sweetly. “Good morning, Sammy. Sit down, I’m making you breakfast.”

Sam hesitated. “I’m good, really—”

“Sit.” Her tone was still sweet. Still calm. But firm.

Sam sat.

Dean smirked over his coffee cup. “Told ya.”

A moment later, a matching pink plate was set in front of Sam. Same setup: eggs shaped like flowers, bacon curled into little hearts, and toast with a perfectly punched-out center shaped like a star. A pink fork rested on the side, nestled in a lacy pink napkin.

Sam stared at the plate. “Is this… is this strawberry butter?”

“Whipped fresh this morning,” she said proudly, pouring him coffee into a mug that read “Sunshine, Sass, & Salt 👑”.

Dean was openly grinning now. “Go on, Sammy. Eat your little flowers.”

“You’re loving this, aren’t you?” Sam muttered, stabbing the toast.

“Oh yeah,” Dean said, popping a strawberry in his mouth. “You make fun of me, but who else gets breakfast served on pink porcelain with a side of unconditional love?”

Sam paused, then took a bite of egg.

“…Damn. Okay. This is actually really good.”

“Told ya.”

Later, as Dean leaned back in his chair, full and content, he watched her dance around the kitchen with her pink spatula, singing softly under her breath. His bunker, once cold and hollow, felt like home now. Lived-in. Loved.

And yeah, the pink was a lot. But it was her. And she was his.

He nudged Sam under the table and nodded toward the wall.

There, hanging on the pantry door, was a framed print she’d put up last week. Soft script over a rose background that read:

“A man who slays monsters deserves a kitchen full of love.”

Sam huffed a breath but didn’t argue.

Dean just smiled.

Pink never looked so badass.

Mark Meachum had been in a lot of kitchens in his life.

Some were silent, sterile compounds with steel countertops and tactical maps pinned to the walls. Others were enemy strongholds, bloodstained and full of smoke, half-burned rations on a cracked stove. Some, he never left alive.

But never—never—had he stepped into a kitchen that looked like this.

Light pink walls. A floral runner down the center of the counter. Matching containers labeled Sugar 🍓, Coffee ☕, Sanity 💗. There were pastel utensils hanging from gold hooks, rhinestone measuring cups, and a sparkling pink timer shaped like a cupcake ticking on the stove.

He should’ve hated it.

But he didn’t.

Because it was hers.

And if she was gonna live in his house—and live off his money—then she could do whatever the hell she wanted, as long as it stayed out of his office. And besides, he hadn’t eaten this well in years.

“Your eggs are smiling again,” he muttered, settling into the chair she made him sit in every morning like some civilian husband with a mortgage and a carpool.

“That’s because I like to start your day with something good,” she said sweetly, setting his plate down in front of him. Smiley-face eggs, star-shaped toast, and bacon twisted into perfect little hearts. “Even if your face never smiles back.”

Mark raised an unimpressed eyebrow, slicing into the egg. “I smile.”

“You smirk. That doesn’t count.”

He grunted but didn’t argue. Because the food was good. Because she was happy. And because deep down—buried under the walls he’d built since his first mission—there was a part of him that liked that she did this. That she made his house feel lived-in, warm, even if it smelled like vanilla candles and strawberry jam half the time.

She didn’t have a job. Didn’t need one. He funded her entire life. The cards, the house, the wardrobe. But in exchange? He never had to think about groceries, meals, laundry, or a single mundane thing that could take his mind off the job. She had it handled—efficiently, beautifully, and always in pink.

It wasn’t long before the others on the task force noticed.

“You… got sparkles on your fork, sir,” Lucas Finau said quietly, peeking at the delicate pink container Mark pulled from his gear bag.

Mark didn’t flinch. He opened the container, unwrapped his sandwich (cut into a perfect circle), and pulled out a handwritten note that read:

“Don’t forget to eat. You’re still human under the armor. Love, your annoying housewife 💘.”

He crumpled the note and shoved it in his pocket without a word.

Amber Oliveras blinked. “Wait… is that a heart-shaped cookie?”

Keyonte Bell leaned over to see. “Bro. It’s got edible glitter on it.”

Mark slowly raised his head. “You got a problem?”

“…Nope. No problem at all, sir.”

Later that night, she was wiping down the glittery pink countertops when he walked in, still in black tactical gear, bruised and tired.

She turned, smiled. “You ate the cookie?”

“Yeah.”

She leaned her hip against the counter. “Did anyone say anything?”

“They stared,” Mark said flatly. “Finau looked scared. Bell pretended not to be impressed.”

She giggled. “And you didn’t care?”

Mark walked toward her, stepping into her space, fingers brushing the pink ribbon tied around her waist like it didn’t belong anywhere else.

“I kill people for a living,” he murmured, eyes locked on hers. “If someone wants to laugh at my glittery sandwich, they can say it to my face.”

She grinned, hooking a finger in the front of his vest. “You like it. You like that I take care of you.”

He didn’t deny it.

Just pulled her close, kissed the side of her head, and muttered, “Next time, add two cookies.”

Taglist: @globetrotter28 @adrienneleclerc @multiversefanfics @smoothdogsgirl @deansbbyx @star-yawnznn @eagerlycyberchaos @artemys-ackles @mar-munteanu06

[radioactivatedspider]

Better Late Than Never

Main Masterlist Dark Angel Masterlist

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Pairings; Alec McDowell x Reader

Genre; Romance, angst, drama

Warnings; Emotional hurt, missed plans, feelings of abandonment, mild language, brief tension

Summary: Alec misses an important date with you again due to a mission with Max, leaving you hurt and scared it won’t be the last time. When he finally comes home and finds you dressed up and waiting, he realizes the depth of his mistake and vows to make things right.

822 words

The apartment was quiet.

Too quiet.

Alec stepped in, boots leaving wet prints on the hardwood, shoulders still tense from the mission that ran way longer than anyone expected. Max had been all business—ruthless and focused—and Alec was right there beside her, barely stopping to think, let alone check the time. Sector checkpoints, a break-in, a narrow escape.

And then, as he pushed open the door to your apartment, the smell hit him. Perfume.

Your perfume.

His stomach twisted.

The living room lights were off, but the bedroom door stood open, casting a soft golden glow. He saw the heel first—a single, strappy black stiletto, abandoned on the floor like it’d been kicked off carelessly.

Then the second.

And then you.

Standing at the edge of the bed, makeup smudged under your eyes, dress tight enough to have knocked the breath out of him on any normal day, heels discarded, arms wrapped around your waist like you were holding yourself together.

You didn’t look surprised to see him.

That made it worse.

“Shit,” Alec breathed. “Tonight.”

You didn’t move.

“I forgot,” he said, voice softer this time, laced with something dangerously close to regret.

“Yeah,” you said. Not angry. Not yelling. Just… flat. Defeated. “I figured that out about an hour ago.”

His heart thudded against his ribs like it was trying to make up for the time his brain had lost. He stepped closer, slow, cautious, as if the air around you was glass and he was afraid of shattering it.

“I didn’t mean to—”

“I got dressed,” you interrupted, eyes flicking down to the little black dress you wore—the one he loved. “Put on makeup. Did my hair. Waited.”

You finally looked at him, eyes glassy but dry.

“You didn’t even call.”

Alec winced like you’d physically struck him.

“I couldn’t. Max’s comm went dead, and things got crazy, and I—”

You raised a hand.

“I’m not asking for the play-by-play, Alec. I’m just trying to understand something.”

He nodded slowly.

“How many more times?” you asked quietly. “How many more times am I gonna get ready for you… and end the night alone?”

That question was a bullet, and it hit dead center. Alec opened his mouth. Closed it. For once, his usual charm, his quick wit—none of it would help him here.

He walked forward until he was standing right in front of you. He reached out like he might touch your face, then thought better of it.

You didn’t stop him.

His fingertips brushed your cheek, gentle, reverent. “I remembered… the second I saw you,” he murmured, like it meant something. “You in that dress? Hell, I should’ve been here an hour early.”

You let out a bitter laugh. “Don’t flirt your way out of this.”

“I’m not.” He cupped your cheek fully now, thumb brushing a bit of mascara beneath your eye. “I’m trying to make sure you know… I see you. I do.”

“Not when it counts.”

That one hit deep too, and he swallowed hard.

“I’ve been good at surviving my whole life,” Alec said. “Not so great at showing up. Not until I met you.”

You stared at him. You hated that your body still leaned into his touch. Hated that his voice still softened your spine.

He stepped in, his hand now splayed on your waist, holding you close but loose enough for you to push him away.

“I missed our date. That’s on me. But I’m not missing this.”

He bent his head down slowly, giving you every second to stop him. When your lips met, it wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t the usual desperation he carried from near-death missions and adrenaline-fueled nights.

It was slow.

Sincere.

Apologetic.

You kissed him back with the kind of frustration that only came from loving someone reckless. From being let down and still wanting them anyway.

When he pulled back, his forehead pressed against yours, breath shallow.

“I can’t promise Max won’t call,” he said quietly. “I can’t promise I won’t get dragged into chaos. But I can promise I won’t forget you again. I won’t make you feel like second choice.”

You blinked. Then finally, you stepped back, arms still crossed, but your voice was softer. “Then show me.”

His brows raised.

You gestured to your dress. “I didn’t get all dressed up for no reason.”

A smirk tugged at his lips.

“No missions. No interruptions. You and me. Right here. Now,” you said. “You think you can manage that, soldier boy?”

Alec chuckled lowly, already peeling off his jacket. “Babe… I can more than manage it.”

You didn’t smile. Not fully. But the corner of your lips twitched.

It was enough.

This time, when he kissed you, there were no excuses waiting behind his teeth. No guilt. Just hands on your waist, his mouth on yours, and the silent vow that maybe—just maybe—this would be the last time he made you feel forgotten.

Taglist: @globetrotter28 @adrienneleclerc @multiversefanfics @star-yawnznn @artemys-ackles

[radioactivatedspider]

Sunrise Slow Burn

Main Masterlist Big Sky Masterlist

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Pairings; beau arlen x wife!Reader

Genre; Romance, Erotic, Slow Burn, Contemporary, Slice of Life

Warnings; Explicit sexual content, mature themes, graphic language, consensual sex, strong language, adult situations

Summary: Beau and his wife share a slow, intimate morning in their cozy trailer, where sleepy desire turns into a tender, passionate connection that starts their day wrapped in love and heat.

777 words

The trailer was quiet—just the hum of the fridge in the next room and the soft rustling of wind through cotton curtains. The morning sun hadn’t fully crested the horizon yet, but a faint orange glow was already leaking through the blinds, warming the bedroom in streaks of gold.

Beau stirred behind you, his breath hot against your shoulder. You’d felt him hard before you even opened your eyes—thick, heavy against your backside, pressed right between the curve of your ass cheeks through his boxers. His arm was draped around your waist, holding you there like he didn’t ever plan to let go.

You shifted just slightly, rubbing back into him with the laziest roll of your hips.

That got a soft groan from him. “Mmm… you do that on purpose, darlin’?”

His voice was thick, gravelly with sleep. Deep and sinful.

You smiled, still half-asleep. “You started it.”

Beau pressed his hips forward, slow and firm, grinding against your ass until you felt the heat of him through both your underwear. “You know I wake up hard when I’ve been dreamin’ about you.”

“What were you dreaming about?” you asked, voice a soft tease.

He leaned in and kissed the back of your neck. “You. Ridin’ me in this bed… just like the first week we got the place.”

You let out a quiet whimper as he slipped his hand beneath the hem of your sleep shirt, fingers splaying wide across your bare stomach.

“Still want me?” you whispered.

Beau’s reply was a low growl. “I never don’t want you.”

He tugged your panties down just enough to expose you, letting them stay bunched at your thighs. Then he pulled his boxers down just far enough to free himself. You reached back to guide him, fingertips curling around the base of his cock—hot and solid in your hand.

“Jesus,” he breathed as you stroked him once, twice, slow. “You’re gonna kill me, baby.”

“You’re already inside my head,” you said with a sleepy smirk. “Might as well be inside me too.”

He slid the head of his cock through your folds, collecting your slick—already warm and ready for him. Then, with a slow push of his hips, he sank in. Deep. Inch by thick inch.

You gasped softly, grabbing the pillow in front of you. “F—uck, Beau…”

“I got you,” he murmured against your skin, holding still, just letting you adjust to the stretch. “You feel so damn good. Always so tight for me in the morning.”

He began to move. Slow, languid thrusts. Deep and dragging. His cock filled you completely, the tip brushing that perfect spot with every stroke. He rocked into you like he had all the time in the world—lazy, sleepy, possessive.

You moaned, arching your back into him. “God, I love how you fuck me when you’re half-asleep…”

He chuckled darkly in your ear. “It’s the best kind of fuckin’. No thinkin’. Just feelin’ you wrapped around me, takin’ every inch.”

The rhythm stayed slow, deliciously deep. His hand came up to cup your breast, thumb brushing over your nipple, sending shocks through your chest. He was touching you like he was memorizing you—like he already knew every inch of your body, but still couldn’t get enough.

“Look at you,” he murmured, voice rough with desire. “So fuckin’ pretty like this… whimperin’ into the pillow, squeezin’ my cock like your pussy doesn’t wanna let me go.”

You moaned louder, unable to stop your body from meeting his thrusts. “Beau, please—”

“You close already?” he teased, nibbling your earlobe. “That sweet little cunt’s twitchin’ all over me.”

“Don’t stop,” you begged. “Just like that. Don’t stop.”

He held you tighter, hips rolling in deeper, grinding into you at the end of every thrust. His name fell from your lips like a prayer as your orgasm hit—slow and full-bodied, making your thighs tremble and your body clamp down on him so tight he cursed into your neck.

“Shit—baby, I’m gonna—”

You pushed back into him, coaxing him to let go. “Give it to me, Sheriff.”

He groaned loud as he buried himself deep and came—hot and pulsing inside you, filling you until you could feel it dripping as he stayed buried, kissing your shoulder and panting against your skin.

You both lay there, tangled and slick and spent, the scent of sex still thick in the air.

Beau kissed your cheek from behind. “That was the best wake-up call I’ve ever had.”

You turned just enough to smile at him over your shoulder. “Don’t get used to it.”

“Oh, I will,” he murmured, already reaching to pull you closer. “I damn sure will.”

Taglist: @globetrotter28 @adrienneleclerc @multiversefanfics @smoothdogsgirl @deansbbyx @star-yawnznn @eagerlycyberchaos

[radioactivatedspider]

Gut Reaction

Main Masterlist Mark Meachum Masterlist

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Pairings; Mark Meachum x daughter!reader

Genre; Action, Drama, Psychological, Family Angst, Teen Heroine, One-Shot

Warnings; Gun violence, murder (five fatalities), blood, trauma, implied PTSD, underage use of a firearm, morally gray decisions, parental tension, law enforcement involvement, mild language

Summary: Sixteen-year-old Y/N shoots five robbers at her job, relying on instinct alone. Hailed a hero but facing legal trouble, she must face the consequences and her hidden past.

706 words

The air in the grocery store smelled like disinfectant, overripe bananas, and freezer burn. It was boring, quiet. Mind-numbingly safe.

Exactly the kind of place Y/N Meachum could hide.

She didn’t mind stocking shelves. It gave her time to think, to be nobody. No one at "Millie's Mart" knew her dad was Mark Meachum — military vet turned intelligence ghost turned something that didn’t exist on paper anymore. She didn’t mention him. Didn’t talk about guns. Didn’t say how many she’d seen stripped and rebuilt on their kitchen table while she was doing homework.

Didn’t say she could name every part of a Glock before she could spell “geometry.”

And she definitely didn’t say she knew how to fire one.

Which wasn’t exactly true.

She didn’t know how to fire one.

But she’d watched.

Hundreds of times.

And sometimes? That stuck.

It was a Tuesday afternoon when everything shattered.

Five guys. Ski masks. Automatic weapons. Screaming. Firing one shot into the air. Everyone dropped. Her coworker sobbed behind the produce cart. Customers hit the floor.

Y/N froze in aisle 9, a can of peas still in her hand.

One of them spotted her. “Hey! You! Get up!”

She didn’t move.

He stormed over, face hidden, gun drawn. "I SAID GET UP!"

The metal of the barrel jabbed into her chest.

She shook.

“Please,” she whispered, voice cracking. “Don’t—don’t hurt me—”

He cocked the hammer.

She moved on instinct.

No plan. No training.

She grabbed the gun, shoved it up, finger on the trigger, and fired.

The shot exploded. His head snapped back, blood spraying over the frozen food door behind him.

Everything slowed.

Another man shouted. She turned. Fired again. Missed the first shot. Hit the second. He dropped.

Someone screamed. A third guy took aim—she ducked, rolled, fired. His leg buckled. She stood, hit him again in the chest.

Now there were only two.

They hesitated. She didn’t.

One shot in the throat. The last tried to run.

She didn't think. Just pulled the trigger.

Click.

Out.

She blinked. Heart pounding. Hands shaking.

Then—

SIRENS.

She sat in the back of a squad car, blanket wrapped around her, skin pale, ears still ringing.

“Did she have training?” a cop whispered to another. “Jesus, she took down all five.”

“She’s sixteen,” another said. “Where the hell did she even get the gun?”

“She took it off the first guy,” the first responded.

“Yeah, but… damn.”

They looked at her like she was something else now. Something dangerous. Not a victim. Not just a kid.

A door slammed. Heavy boots approached. She didn’t even need to look up.

Mark Meachum had arrived.

“Where is she?” he barked.

“She’s fine,” one of the officers said. “We just—sir, she fired a weapon—”

“She saved everyone in that building,” Mark snapped.

“She’s underage. No gun license. Multiple kills—”

“She’s sixteen,” Mark growled. “She was attacked.”

The officer hesitated. “It’s not up to me. DA might press charges. It’s complicated when minors—”

Mark cut him off, storming over to the cruiser.

He looked at her.

His face wasn’t angry.

It was stunned.

“You told me you never touched a gun.”

“I didn’t,” she whispered. “I just… I saw you use one enough. I guessed.”

“You guessed and took out five armed men?”

Her hands clenched the blanket. “I didn’t mean to kill anyone.”

“You saved people, Y/N.”

“I didn’t even think.”

Mark stared at her, and for the first time in her life, he looked scared. Not of her. But of what this meant.

He turned back to the cops. “She’s not going to jail.”

“She might,” one replied, carefully. “There’s going to be an investigation. Paperwork. Ballistics. Age matters.”

Mark’s voice dropped. Dangerous. Cold.

“Then I suggest you lose the paperwork.”

They didn’t charge her.

Too many witnesses. Too much media praise. The “Teen Heroine” headlines exploded overnight. Security footage showed her using the robber’s own weapon. Pure survival. Clear self-defense.

The DA couldn’t touch her.

But the silence at home was worse than any courtroom.

Mark didn’t say much after that. He just cleaned his guns slower. Watched her closer.

And she started to wonder...

Was it really dumb luck?

Or had it always been in her?

Like him.

Taglist: @globetrotter28 @adrienneleclerc @multiversefanfics @smoothdogsgirl @deansbbyx @star-yawnznn @eagerlycyberchaos @artemys-ackles @mar-munteanu06

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The Words Will Come

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Pairings; Jensen Ackles x wife!reader

Genre; Fluff, Comfort, Domestic, Slice of Life

Warnings; Mild language, Writer's block frustration, Late-night exhaustion, Very soft husband Jensen moments

Summary: When Y/N struggles with late-night writer's block, Jensen finds her still at her laptop and reminds her that she doesn’t have to be perfect—just human. With soft words and warm arms, he helps her find comfort, and maybe even a little inspiration.

738 words

It was past midnight, and the glow of your laptop was the only light left in the house. The once-steaming mug of tea beside you had long gone cold, and the blinking cursor mocked you, flashing on a blank page like it knew you were losing the fight. You rubbed your temples and groaned softly, leaning back in the chair with an exhausted sigh.

You’d been stuck for hours.

Jensen had gone to bed two hours ago after kissing your forehead and telling you, “Don’t stay up too late, baby.” You’d promised you wouldn’t.

That was a lie.

The house was quiet. Too quiet. The silence was deafening in a way that only made the mental block feel heavier. You stared at the screen, then at your notebook filled with crossed-out plot points and half-formed character arcs.

You were ready to scream.

Footsteps creaked softly down the hall, then into the kitchen. A beat later, your husband appeared in the doorway, rubbing his eyes, hair adorably tousled from sleep.

“Thought I told you not to stay up too late,” he said, his voice a rough drawl, still laced with sleep.

You shot him a guilty look. “I know… I just— I thought I had something.”

Jensen padded toward you barefoot in sweatpants and an old Zeppelin t-shirt. “Still stuck?”

You didn’t answer. Just leaned forward and buried your face in your hands. “I hate this. Every word sounds like crap. I’ve rewritten the same scene five times and it still doesn’t feel right.”

You felt his hands gently wrap around your shoulders. “You’ve been pushing all day, babe. Maybe your brain needs a break.”

You let out a low groan. “I can’t afford a break. I’m on a deadline. If I don’t get this done by next week—”

“Hey.” His voice dropped to that soft, firm tone he saved just for you. He knelt beside you, tilting his head so he could meet your tired eyes. “You’re not a machine. You’re a human being who’s allowed to hit a wall sometimes.”

You blinked fast, throat tight. “I feel like I’m letting everyone down.”

“You’re not letting anyone down. Least of all me.”

He reached up, brushed his fingers along your cheek, thumb stroking just beneath your eye.

“You want to know what I think?” he asked.

“I’m afraid to,” you half-joked.

“I think you’re the most badass woman I know. I think the way your mind works is magic. And I think maybe you just need someone to remind you how damn talented you are.”

You felt a burn in your eyes. You hated crying, especially over something as frustratingly intangible as writer’s block, but Jensen always had a way of breaking your walls down just enough to let the light in.

“You’re biased,” you mumbled.

“Damn right I am.” He grinned. “But I also know what it’s like to get stuck in your own head. You remember when I couldn’t nail that monologue last season and I nearly threw my script across the room?”

You laughed softly. “You did throw your script.”

“Exactly. And it didn’t mean I sucked. It just meant I needed a reset.”

He stood, took your hand, and gently tugged you up from the chair. “Come lie down with me for a bit. Just twenty minutes. I’ll rub your back, we won’t talk about writing, and I’ll tell you that weird story Jared told me last week about the goat on set.”

You raised a brow. “There was a goat?”

“Oh, just you wait,” he smirked.

Despite yourself, you let him guide you down the hallway and into the bedroom. He pulled the blankets back and climbed in first, opening his arms like an invitation you couldn’t refuse. You curled against his chest, feeling the warmth of him seep into your bones.

His fingers drifted lazily up and down your spine. “You don’t have to be brilliant every day, you know. Some days it’s enough just to show up.”

You closed your eyes, the weight of his words melting into you as easily as his touch.

“I love you,” you whispered.

“I love you more,” he murmured against your hair. “And I’ll be right here when the words come back. Because they will come back.”

You smiled, and for the first time all day, your heart felt light.

And maybe, just maybe, when you woke up, the page wouldn’t seem so empty anymore.

Taglist: @globetrotter28 @adrienneleclerc @multiversefanfics @smoothdogsgirl @deansbbyx @star-yawnznn @eagerlycyberchaos @artemys-ackles @mar-munteanu06

[radioactivatedspider]

Fast Lanes and Silk Sheets

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Pairings; Sugar daddy!Jensen Ackles x sugar baby!reader

Genre; Smut, Romance, Sugar Daddy AU, Celebrity AU, Established Relationship, PWP (Plot What Plot)

Warnings; Explicit sexual content, dominant Jensen, praise kink, slight choking, rough sex, exhibitionism (sex against a window), possessiveness, jealousy, language, oral (f receiving & m receiving), mention of alcohol, age gap implied

Summary: Draped in white silk and temptation, you join your sugar daddy Jensen Ackles at the Monaco Grand Prix, turning heads and teasing glances from every direction. But Jensen’s not one to share — and after a day of flaunting your curves and pushing his limits, he reminds you exactly who you belong to in the most lavish, punishing way possible… against the glass of a penthouse suite overlooking Monte Carlo.

Request: Hello again! So i had another idea for a sugar daddy! Jensen Ackles fic and what if him and Y/N go to an F1 Grand Prix? Not just any Grand Prix, THE MONACO GRAND PRIX! I went to Monte Carlo yesterday and that city called me “broke” in ALL the languages, it is beautiful, I have always wanted to go, and I’m a formula 1 fan so it would be great for them to go to one. THANK YOU! Take your time ☺️

1100 words

You were wearing white silk and walking sin.

The dress was barely a dress — custom, backless, with a slit that made even Jensen raise his brows when you stepped out of the dressing room in L.A. weeks ago. Now, under the sharp Monaco sun, you were a walking, talking “do not disturb” sign with a VIP paddock pass around your neck and your sugar daddy’s name on everyone’s lips.

Jensen Ackles was not a quiet man in any country, but in Monte Carlo? He was a king. He didn’t just rent a hotel — he bought out the penthouse at Hôtel de Paris. He didn’t just get race access — he had you both sipping Dom Pérignon on the pit lane.

And the way he looked at you?

Like you were the headline event.

“You keep struttin’ like that,” Jensen muttered low as his hand slid to your waist, “and I swear to God I’m gonna forget there's a race today.”

You grinned at him over your shoulder. “Isn’t that the point, Daddy?”

Oh, that voice. That teasing tone. You knew exactly what you were doing.

“Don’t test me, sweetheart. Not in Monaco.” His voice was gravel and velvet, fingers flexing like he was debating whether to ruin your makeup right there against a yacht railing.

But he didn’t. Not yet.

He just tightened his grip on your waist, guiding you through the exclusive paddock hospitality where champagne flowed and F1 drivers brushed past like rockstars. You caught Charles Leclerc’s eye at one point — a lingering glance, nothing more.

Jensen didn’t miss it.

He didn’t say a word. Just leaned in while a commentator spoke Italian into a mic, and growled, “You flash that smile at one more driver and I’ll have you riding me instead of that fancy little boat tonight.”

Your knees went weak.

The suite Jensen booked had a panoramic view of the circuit. Floor-to-ceiling windows, chilled rosé, rose petals, silk sheets. Classic Jensen: elegant, private, and so sinfully rich.

After the race — which he watched while seated behind you, one hand gripping your thigh the entire time — he didn’t take you to the afterparty.

No. He poured you a glass of champagne, kissed your shoulder, and murmured, “You wanna party? I’ll give you a damn party.”

You barely made it inside before he had you against the balcony door.

“Do you know what you do to me, baby?” he rasped, lips trailing down your neck. “Walkin’ around here like the goddamn Grand Prix is about you. Like every man here ain’t thinking about you in that dress. Like I wouldn’t burn this whole city down if someone touched you.”

Your fingers curled in his shirt. “Maybe I wanted their attention.”

His jaw twitched.

“Get on your knees.”

The command hit harder than the champagne.

Your lips were already parted as you sank to your knees, the cool marble beneath you no match for the heat radiating between your thighs. Jensen looked down at you like a man starved — not just for sex, but for you. The way you looked in silk. The way you teased every man in that paddock. The way you acted like you didn’t belong to anyone but yourself.

But you did. You belonged to him.

"All yours, Daddy," you whispered again, dragging your nails along his thigh as you kissed the line of his lower stomach.

He groaned, low and dangerous, undoing his belt and jeans in one practiced movement. His cock was already thick, heavy in his hand, flushed at the tip — and the second he guided it to your lips, you opened for him, warm and wet and hungry.

“That’s it, baby,” he rasped, hand slipping into your hair. “That mouth was made for me.”

You sucked him slow at first, letting your tongue swirl as you looked up through your lashes — that look that always broke him. His grip tightened. He rolled his hips once, twice, until he was deep in your throat and groaning your name like a warning.

“You wanted to act like a brat all day?” he muttered, thrusting a little harder, eyes locked on the way your lips wrapped around him. “Smiling at drivers, wearin’ that little dress, beggin’ for attention? Well, now you got mine.”

You moaned around him, and it made his whole body jolt.

After a minute he pulled you off with a wet pop and lifted you like nothing — your legs wrapped around his waist, your back against the suite wall, your dress bunched up to your hips.

“No foreplay,” he growled, pushing your panties aside. “You were drippin’ for me all day.”

And he was right.

He sank into you in one slow, stretching thrust, and you nearly screamed — from relief, from how full he made you feel, from how filthy it was to be fucked like this, pressed against glass while Monte Carlo glittered behind you.

“Fuck, Jensen,” you gasped, clutching his shoulders. “I can’t—”

“You will,” he growled, pounding into you. “Gonna come on my cock just like this. All those men lookin’ at you today — they didn’t get this. They don’t get to see how wrecked you are when I’m inside you.”

The rhythm was brutal, punishing, perfect. Your heels dug into his back as he fucked you into the glass, his hand sliding up to grip your throat — not tight, just enough to make you feel how completely he owned you.

“I take care of you,” he whispered, panting, sweat slicking his chest. “Spoil you, dress you up, fly you across the world — and this is how you thank me? With that dirty little mouth and those fuck-me eyes?”

You clenched around him and he swore.

“Say it again,” he demanded. “Say who you belong to.”

“You, Daddy—shit—only you—”

And that was it. He gripped your hips and fucked you through your orgasm, deep and fast, until you were sobbing his name. He chased his own release seconds later, growling into your neck as he spilled inside you, grinding his hips through it until you were both shaking.

Silence settled — except your soft whimper as he kissed your collarbone, easing you down to the floor with him, both of you slick and sweaty and panting.

Jensen brushed your hair off your face and smiled, crooked and smug.

“Next year, we’re watching from the yacht,” he murmured.

You huffed a laugh and kissed his jaw. “Next year, I’m wearing something even shorter.”

He narrowed his eyes.

“Then next year, we’re not leaving the suite.”

Taglist: @globetrotter28 @adrienneleclerc @multiversefanfics @smoothdogsgirl @deansbbyx @star-yawnznn @eagerlycyberchaos @artemys-ackles @mar-munteanu06

[radioactivatedspider]

Hello again! So i had another idea for a sugar daddy! Jensen Ackles fic and what if him and Y/N go to an F1 Grand Prix? Not just any Grand Prix, THE MONACO GRAND PRIX! I went to Monte Carlo yesterday and that city called me “broke” in ALL the languages, it is beautiful, I have always wanted to go, and I’m a formula 1 fan so it would be great for them to go to one. THANK YOU! Take your time ☺️

Yes!! I can do this for you<3

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Sorry to everyone who's been requesting!!! I haven't been writing a lot the last couple of days if you could see, I've been answering so many of your requests that I have no idea what to write in my own time. I want to be able to give everybody what they want but I needed s couple of days of me time to try and get back into writing again so I didnt disappoint anybody! But I will start back to writing tomorrow because I've got a couple ideas of my own and I'll be posting some requests !!! Thank you for being patient with me.🥹🫶🏻

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COUNTDOWN (2025-) JENSEN ACKLES as MARK MEACHUM 1x05 Blurred Edges

[radioactivatedspider]

Still Breathing

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Pairings; Dean Winchester x sister!reader, Sam Winchester x sister!reader

Genre; Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Family Bond

Warnings; Injury, near-death experience, protective brothers, mild language

Summary: A hunt gone wrong nearly takes their little sister from them. Now, Dean and Sam are struggling to cope—and trying (and failing) to hide how often they check to make sure she's still breathing.

Requested: Could you please do a Dean and Sam x sister reader (but she’s closer to dean) where she’s around 16 or 17 and a hunt goes wrong and she almost dies but in the weeks after she starts to realize the boys are always like making sure she’s breathing and checking her pulse just to reassure themselves she’s still alive but they’ll do it thinking they’re sneaky but she notices

582 words

You don’t remember much after the impact—just cold ground, the weight of rubble, and Dean’s voice breaking.

The medics said it was a miracle. A few inches to the right, and the concrete beam that crushed you would’ve snapped your spine. Instead, you walked away with broken ribs, a concussion, and a fractured arm. You were lucky.

Dean hasn’t said the word lucky once.

Neither has Sam.

At first, you thought you were imagining things.

The way Sam lingered longer in the doorway than usual, even after he’d brought you water or checked your bandages. Or how Dean, who always made a show of hating hospital visits, refused to leave your side for three days straight—sleeping in a chair with his boot propped up, watching your heart monitor like it owed him answers.

Then it followed you home.

At the bunker, the energy was… off. Smothering.

You’d wake up and find Dean already sitting in the chair beside your bed. He’d play it cool—say he was just up early, couldn’t sleep. But sometimes, you’d feel the tips of his fingers brush your wrist before he pulled away like he’d touched a hot stove. And every time you coughed or winced, Sam would appear from around the corner, trying way too hard to act casual, like he wasn’t already halfway through a panic spiral.

You weren’t supposed to notice. That was the point.

But you did.

Two weeks later, you’re on the couch with a blanket over your legs and your arm in a sling, flipping through a book, when it happens again.

Dean walks past you with a bowl of popcorn—“Movie night?” he offers—and as he hands it over, you feel the barely-there tap of two fingers against the inside of your wrist.

Pulse check.

You look up at him. His face doesn’t flinch. He even smirks a little.

But it’s fake.

“I’m not gonna die,” you mutter.

Dean stiffens slightly, popcorn bowl in hand. “Didn’t say you were.”

“You checked my pulse, like, five minutes ago.”

He doesn’t deny it.

From the hallway, Sam walks in and freezes mid-step. He’s holding a water bottle and a book and wearing the same guilty older brother caught eavesdropping face he’s worn all week.

“Is this… about the wrist thing?” Sam asks.

Dean sighs.

You glance between them and say, softer this time, “You both keep doing it. Thinking I’m asleep. Or distracted. I know you mean well, but… I’m okay now.”

Dean rubs a hand down his face. “Yeah, well. You weren’t okay. And we’ve seen a lot of people go down, kid. We just… can’t unsee that.”

You see it now—underneath the smirks and soft jokes and lame action movies: fear. The kind that lingers, haunts.

Sam sits on the arm of the couch and gently sets the water beside you. “I didn’t sleep the night it happened. Neither did Dean. We just kept… listening. Making sure you were breathing.”

“I’m not trying to be annoying,” Dean says quietly. “It’s just… sometimes I need to know, okay? Just need to feel it. That you’re still here.”

You reach out with your uninjured arm and wrap your fingers around Dean’s hand.

“I’m here,” you whisper. “I promise.”

He squeezes your hand, eyes glassy. Sam leans over and kisses the top of your head like he used to when you were ten and scared of ghosts under the bed.

For the first time in weeks, no one checks your pulse.

They just hold on.

Taglist: @globetrotter28 @adrienneleclerc @multiversefanfics @smoothdogsgirl @deansbbyx @star-yawnznn @eagerlycyberchaos

[radioactivatedspider]

Could you please do a Dean and Sam x sister reader (but she’s closer to dean) where she’s around 16 or 17 and a hunt goes wrong and she almost dies but in the weeks after she starts to realize the boys are always like making sure she’s breathing and checking her pulse just to reassure themselves she’s still alive but they’ll do it thinking they’re sneaky but she notices

Yes I can !! Tomorrow...

Also..why are my requests always so aggressive with anonymous people😭😭🤣🤣 like I'll write the stuff but....why..? Who hurt you anon 😞

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After the Storm

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Back to...Part 1

Pairings; Mark Meachum x daughter!reader

Genre; Drama, Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Family

Warnings; Aftermath of domestic abuse, emotional distress, mention of bruises, legal and custody discussions, protective parent, implied threat of violence, trauma recovery

Summary: The morning after discovering his daughter’s bruise, Mark Meachum keeps his promise—no more going back. As he quietly sets legal plans into motion, he battles the urge for revenge while focusing on protecting and comforting his daughter. In the quiet aftermath, father and daughter begin to rebuild safety and trust—one step at a time.

request: This is so good!! Do you think you could do a part two with the aftermath? No pressure🩷 (from my comments lol)

529 words

Mark barely slept that night.

He sat in the living room chair, half in shadow, a glass of untouched whiskey on the table beside him. His daughter had finally fallen asleep curled on the couch, blanket tucked tight around her, tear tracks still drying on her cheeks. He’d stayed close, watching, guarding — like if he let his guard down for even a second, the bastard who did this would somehow walk through the door.

His fists still itched. His mind still raced.

He wanted to kill Rick. Wanted to make him feel what she felt. Every bruise, every moment of fear. But the words she’d said earlier haunted him now:

“Because you’d kill him. And then I wouldn’t have you either.”

That stopped him cold. It kept him in that chair.

She didn’t need a monster. She needed her dad.

So, the next morning, he made coffee. Quietly. Thoughtfully. He moved around the kitchen like he was trying not to break anything — not the mugs, not the silence, not the fragile grip he had on himself.

She padded into the kitchen eventually, sweatshirt sleeves pulled down over her hands, eyes puffy but awake.

“Hey, kiddo,” Mark said gently, nodding toward a seat. “I made pancakes.”

She blinked. “You don’t make pancakes.”

“I do now.”

A small, almost invisible smile tugged at her mouth. She sat. “Thanks.”

Mark sat across from her, sipping coffee, watching her carefully. After a beat, he spoke again.

“I called a friend of mine. She’s a lawyer — works family law, off the books sometimes. She’s gonna help me file for emergency custody.”

She looked up fast. “Wait, what?”

“You’re not going back to that house. I’m not letting your mother sweep this under the rug. I’ve got evidence now. The bruise. Your statement — if you’ll give it.”

She was quiet for a second. Then nodded. “I’ll do it.”

Mark’s jaw clenched, but this time, it wasn’t rage. It was pride. Sad, heavy pride. “Good. We’ll make it official. And I’ll keep it clean. No jail for me, alright?”

She reached for his hand across the table. “You’re already doing more than enough.”

He swallowed hard.

“Does it still hurt?” he asked, nodding to her arm.

“A little.”

Mark exhaled, long and low, like he needed to let something out before it burned a hole in his chest.

“I should’ve known,” he said quietly. “I should have seen it sooner.”

“You did,” she said, squeezing his hand. “Just not the way you wanted to.”

He didn’t say anything for a minute. Just looked at her like she was the only thing anchoring him to the earth.

Finally, he stood and walked around the table. She leaned into him automatically when he wrapped his arms around her.

“You’re safe now,” he murmured into her hair. “You hear me? I’m gonna fix this.”

And maybe he couldn’t erase the past.

Maybe he couldn’t punish Rick the way he wanted to — not yet.

But as long as his daughter was under his roof, Mark Meachum would be her shield.

And Rick? Rick was already a dead man walking. He just didn’t know it yet.

Taglist: @globetrotter28 @adrienneleclerc @multiversefanfics @smoothdogsgirl @star-yawnznn @deansbbyx

[radioactivatedspider]

Still Right Here

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Back to.. Part 1

Pairings; Jensen Ackles x daughter!reader

Genre; Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Family Bonding

Warnings; Car accident, injury, blood, hospital setting, nightmares, panic attack, emotional distress, child hurt, protective parent

Summary: After surviving a traumatic car accident, Y/N wakes up from a nightmare and seeks comfort from her dad, Jensen, who reassures her that she’s safe and not alone.

Request: Could you do a follow up to your Hold On, Kiddo post where the reader has a nightmare about the accident and gets scared and wakes up her dad?

527 words

The hospital room was quiet, bathed in the pale glow of a nightlight tucked near the far wall. Machines beeped softly, steady and slow, a mechanical reassurance that everything was fine now. That you were safe.

But your brain didn’t believe it.

You twitched in your sleep, brow furrowing, breathing uneven. Your legs kicked lightly beneath the covers as images from the crash surged in your dreams like waves—blinding headlights, Jared shouting your name, the metal crunching like bones, that terrible weight pressing into your side.

Then the pain.

And blood.

And silence.

You jolted upright with a strangled gasp, breath coming in shallow, rapid bursts. Your hand flew to your stomach even though the wound had been bandaged and stitched days ago. It still ached, but what hurt worse was the panic clawing at your chest.

You were crying before you even realized it.

“Dad…” you croaked, voice too small, shaking.

Jensen stirred immediately. He was in the reclining chair just beside your bed, legs awkwardly curled, one arm folded over his chest. He'd fallen asleep keeping watch again, the same way he had every night since the accident. The second he heard your voice — your scared, broken voice — he was up.

“Hey, hey, kiddo?” he murmured, blinking the sleep away as he leaned in, hand gently cradling the side of your face. “What’s wrong? Are you in pain?”

You shook your head hard, lip trembling. “No, I just… I dreamed it happened again. I couldn’t get out. Jared—he wasn’t moving—and there was so much blood. I thought…”

Your voice broke.

Jensen pulled you into his arms without hesitation, wrapping you up like you were still his little girl with scraped knees and a bad day. “It’s alright. I’ve got you,” he whispered against your hair. “Just a nightmare, sweetheart. I know it felt real, but it’s over now. You’re safe. You hear me?”

Your fingers gripped the back of his shirt like a lifeline. “I couldn’t breathe. I—I thought I was gonna die.”

Jensen pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes misty now too. “I know, baby. I know. But you didn’t. You fought through it. And I’m right here. Still here. Not going anywhere, remember?”

You nodded into his chest, heart still racing, tears soaking his shirt.

He reached over with one arm and carefully adjusted your IV and blankets, then sat on the edge of the bed and gently gathered you into his lap like he used to when you were younger. “How ‘bout I stay right here tonight?” he offered softly. “Sit with you till you fall back asleep.”

“You’ll stay?” you whispered.

“Always,” he said, pressing a kiss to your temple. “You scared the hell outta me, kiddo. You think I’m letting you out of my sight again anytime soon?”

You let out a weak laugh that melted into another sob, but this time it didn’t hurt as much. This time, you felt the warmth of your dad’s arms around you and the steady rhythm of his heartbeat as you leaned into his chest.

Sleep came slowly, but it came. And Jensen never once let go.

Taglist: @globetrotter28 @adrienneleclerc @multiversefanfics @smoothdogsgirl @deansbbyx @star-yawnznn

[radioactivatedspider]

Could you do a follow up to your Hold On, Kiddo post where the reader has a nightmare about the accident and gets scared and wakes up her dad?

absolutely !!!

[radioactivatedspider]

dude i have sooo many fics I need to stop for a minute LOL

[radioactivatedspider]

Call Me If You Ever Need Me

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Pairings; Jensen Ackles x daughter!reader

Genre; angst, hurt/comfort, drama, protective father-figure

Warnings; trauma, emotional abuse, assault (implied, not graphic), PTSD trigger, protective/father figure Jensen, safe ending, comfort, mild language

Summary: After years in foster care, you're used to handling things alone. But when the boy you trusted crosses a line, you make the hardest call of your life — and Jensen Ackles shows up like the father you've always needed.

Request: Can you do a Jensen Ackles x Teen Reader? The reader plays Dean's daughter in Supernatural, and they're like father and daughter in their personal lives. The reader grew up in foster care and now lives in her own home. One night, her boyfriend comes home drunk and wants to touch her, but the reader isn't ready for sex with him. She tells him to leave, but he gets violent and sexually assaults her. The reader runs to her room and, terrified, calls Jensen for help. Jensen arrives and saves her.

575 words

You’d never been good at asking for help.

Growing up in foster homes, help came with strings. Kindness was rare. And safety was earned — or at least, you thought it had to be. But tonight, curled up on the floor of your locked bedroom, knees pulled to your chest, phone trembling in your hands, you broke that unspoken rule.

You called Jensen.

Your screen glowed with his name. Dad (Jensen) — your custom contact name, something he'd chuckled at once and never told you to change.

It rang once.

Twice.

Then—

“Hey, sweetheart. You okay?”

You didn’t answer at first. Just sobbed — soft and panicked, your breath hiccuping against your lips.

“Y/N? Talk to me. What’s going on?”

You forced the words out like shattered glass. “He—he came home drunk. I told him to stop. I told him no, but he wouldn’t listen. He—he grabbed me and I—I ran. I locked the door but I don’t know if—if it’ll hold, and I’m scared, Jensen. I’m scared.”

There was a silence on the line — not the kind where someone doesn’t know what to say. No, this one buzzed with quiet rage and protectiveness.

"I’m on my way. You don’t open that door for anyone but me, you hear me? I’m coming, kiddo.”

You barely remember the minutes that followed. Sirens weren’t loud enough for how loud your heart was beating. Every creak of the floor outside your room made you flinch. But the banging stopped. At some point, maybe he passed out. Maybe he left. You didn’t dare check.

When the knock came, it was three times — slow and firm.

“Y/N. It’s me. It’s Jensen.”

Your legs barely held you up, but you rushed to unlock the door anyway.

And the moment you did, there he was — soaking wet from the rain, face hard with fury, eyes soft the second they landed on you.

He didn’t hesitate.

He pulled you into his chest, one arm wrapping around your shoulders, the other hand cradling your head like you were made of glass. You broke again, burying your face in his jacket as his voice murmured into your hair.

“I’ve got you. You’re safe now. I promise, honey I got you.”

He stayed.

Not just the night — but for everything that followed.

The police. The report. The ambulance that checked your bruises.

He was your advocate. Your protector. He didn’t let go of your hand once, except when he had to, and even then, he didn’t let you out of his sight.

Later, wrapped in a blanket on your couch, you looked up at him. “Why’d you come?” you asked. “You didn’t have to.”

Jensen looked at you like you were the most important thing in the world.

“You called me, didn’t you?” His voice was steady, but there was emotion in his throat. “You’re my kid. On the show, sure — but off-screen too. You’ve got a real home now, Y/N. It’s not a set, and it’s not just a script. I’m here. Always.”

You choked back another tear.

“You mean that?”

He gave you that familiar half-smile — the Dean Winchester one, the one that always made you feel safe even when the monsters were closing in.

“Yeah, I mean that. You don’t ever have to face something like that alone again. Not as long as I’m breathing.”

And for the first time in a long time, you believed it.

Taglist: @globetrotter28 @adrienneleclerc @multiversefanfics @smoothdogsgirl @deansbbyx @star-yawnznn

[radioactivatedspider]

Not Ready to Let Go

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Pairings; Mark Meachum x daughter!reader

Genre; Family drama, emotional hurt/comfort, light angst

Warnings; Overprotective parent, emotional tension, brief nightmare mention, father-daughter conflict, implied trauma

Summary: Mark has a nightmare that shakes him, leading to a clingy stretch of overprotection. But when his daughter wants to go to a party, their bond is tested in a heated argument neither of them saw coming.

request: Marc Meachum, could you please write a story where the daughter is overprotective of the reader? One night, Mark has a nightmare about his daughter. He wakes up and goes to the reader's room to check on her. While the daughter is sleeping, he lies down next to her and pulls her close. The reader stirs in her sleep, clings to her father, and they fall asleep again. Over the next few days, Mark calls the reader frequently throughout the day, and the reader begins to get bored. One day, she asks permission to go to his girlfriend's birthday party, but Mark refuses, and they fight.

480 words

The nightmare hit hard.

It always started the same: flashing red lights, blood on concrete, the sound of his daughter crying out for him—but this time, he didn’t make it in time. He woke up gasping.

Mark sat up, running a shaky hand down his face, sweat sticking to the back of his neck. It took all of five seconds before he was on his feet, out of bed, and down the hall.

The door to your room creaked open quietly.

There you were—bundled up in your oversized hoodie, one arm hugging your pillow, chest rising and falling in peace.

He crossed the room in silence, just watching for a second.

Then—without thinking—he slid under the covers next to you.

You stirred slightly. When his arm wrapped around you, pulling you close, your sleepy form instinctively turned toward the warmth. “Daddy…?”

“Yeah, baby. Just go back to sleep.”

You clung to him like a lifeline. He exhaled, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “I’m right here.”

The days that followed were weird.

Mark started calling you all the time.

“Did you eat?” “Where are you?” “Did you get to school okay?” “Are you around any boys I need to beat up?”

At first, it was kind of sweet. Protective dad mode was your normal.

But by the fifth check-in before noon, you were about ready to chuck your phone out the window.

On the fourth day, you sighed as he texted again, this time: Mark Meachum: Let me know when you get home. No headphones while crossing streets.

You replied with a thumbs-up and threw your phone on the bed.

That night, you approached him carefully.

“Hey, Dad? Can I go to Jessie’s birthday party on Friday? It's just at her house, a few girls, nothing crazy.”

Mark didn’t even pause. “No.”

You blinked. “What?”

“I said no. That’s final.”

“Are you serious right now?”

He didn’t even look up from his file. “You can see her another time.”

Your voice rose. “Dad, I’ve barely done anything all week! You’re treating me like I’m five—”

“I treat you like I love you,” he snapped, louder than he meant to.

You stared at him, hurt. “No. You’re treating me like I’m breakable.”

He stood up, jaw tight. “I had a dream you were dead, alright? I found you—God, it felt real. And I woke up and couldn’t breathe.”

You went quiet.

He looked at you, softer now. “So yeah, I’ve been holding on a little too tight. But I’m scared. That doesn’t go away just because you’re older.”

Your eyes shimmered, and for a second, you hated that you understood.

“I love you, Dad,” you whispered.

“I love you more,” he said, pulling you into a hug. “Which is exactly the problem.”

You mumbled into his shirt, “You’re still not letting me go, are you?”

“Not a chance.”

Taglist: @globetrotter28 @adrienneleclerc @multiversefanfics @smoothdogsgirl @deansbbyx @star-yawnznn